And as they beat it inch by inch,
They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch;
Those wretched caitiffs standing by,
Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry.
Although to call them not by name,
From Fairfield county many came;
And were delighted with the rout,
To see the rebels kick'd about.
At night we travell'd in the rain,
All begg'd for shelter, but in vain,
Though almost naked to the skin;
A dismal pickle we were in.
Then to the half-way house we came,
The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name,
And there we found a soul's relief;
We almost miss'd our dreadful grief.
The people gen'rously behav'd,
Made a good fire, some brandy gave,
Of which we greatly stood in need,
As we were wet and cold indeed.
But ere the house we did attain,
We trembled so with cold and rain,
Our irons jingled—well they might—
We shiver'd so that stormy night.
In half an hour or thereabout,
The orders were, "Come, all turn out!
Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew,
To loiter thus will never do."
'Twas now about the break of day,
When all were forc'd to march away;
With what they order'd we complied,
Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried.
We made a halt one half mile short
Of what is term'd Brucklyn's fort;
Where all were hurried through the street:
Some overtook us, some we met.
We now traversing the parade,
The awful figure which we made,
Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment,
And some would curse us as we went.