The topers to the mess-room march with glee;
To bed the sober shape their quiet way,
And leave the lines to pensiveness and me.
Now scarce a candle glimmers on the sight,
And o’er the camp at length soft stillness reigns;
Save where the dice are dash’d with desp’rate might,
Or braying asses wake the distant plains.
Save that from yonder show’r-sheltering box,
The sentry’s rough voice does the ear assail
Of such who, trusting to the gloom of Nox