A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose;
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy.
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.
Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good—poor child, you'll never bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air,
And if—God bless me—you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill;
So John did drink—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!
