When eager crowds beheld them go,
Their youthful faces all a-glow,
My Punch.
And now all twisted by the cramps,
Which wrung them ’mid the noxious damps
Of fenny bivouacks and camps,
My Punch.
Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim,
Lithe was each crutch-supported limb,
Merry were once those spectres grim,