Wife of my bosom, while lonely I tramp;
’Tis not that I falter, or fear the red morrow,
When true men give battle to rebels forsworn,
But the heart of each soldier may have its own sorrow,
And ’tis thinking of thee, love, makes mine so forlorn.
Wife of my bosom, the night-hours are lonely,
And lonesome my heart, as I tread my dark round;
But through all the dim watches I’ve thought of thee only,
Wife of my bosom, with yearning profound.
Now the day breaks, and the drums call to battle,