And we felt not a bit of sorrow,
But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead
And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow.
The useless shroud we tore from his breast
And then in regimentals bound him,
And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest,
With his lobster togs around him.
We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed,
Our snatching trick now no look sees;
But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled,