The only moon I see, Biddy,
Is one shmall star, asthore,
And that's fornint the very cloud
It was behind before;
The watchfires glame along the hill
That's swellin' to the south,
And whin the sentry passes them
I see his oogly mouth.
It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
And dramein shwate I'd be,
If them ould rebels over there
Would only lave me free;
But when I lane against a shtump
And shtrive to get repose,
A musket ball he's comin' shtraight
To hit me spacious nose.
It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,
A shparkin' here wid me
And then, avourneen, hear ye say,
"Acushla—Pat—machree!"
"Och, Biddy darlint," then says I,
Says you, "get out of that;"
Says I, "me arrum mates your waist,"
Says you, "be daycent, Pat."
And how's the pigs and ducks, Biddy?
It's them I think of, shure,
That looked so innocent and shwate
Upon the parlor flure;
I'm shure ye're aisy with the pig
That's fat as he can be,
And fade him wid the best, because
I'm towld he looks like me.
Whin I come home again, Biddy,
A sargent tried and thrue,
It's joost a daycent house I'll build
And rint it chape to you.
We'll have a parlor, bedroom, hall,
A duck-pond nately done,
With kitchen, pig-pen, praty-patch,
And garret—all in one
But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,
That's crapin' round a tree,
And well I know the crature's there
To have a shot at me.
Now, Misther Rebel, say yere prayers,
And howld yer dirthy paw,
Here goes!—be jabers, Biddy dear,
I've broke his oogly jaw!
I was talking some moments ago with a Regimental Surgeon, who has more patients on a monument than Shakspere ever dreamed about, and says he: "In consequence of the great number of troops now about this city, all the oxygen in the atmosphere is exhausted, and we are very warm. Had all these troops been sent to McClellan two weeks ago," says he, using his lancet to pick a dead fly out of his tumbler, "we might be able to keep cool now. There is a terrible responsibility on somebody's shoulders."
That's very true, my boy, and it's very warm.