Home, and child, and wife;
Tentless they are lying,
While the fires burn low,--
Lying in their blankets,
Midst December's snow!

Come, Sophy, my blossom! I've something to say
Will chase for a moment your gambols away:
To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o'er,
I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps;
"How comes it,"--I asked,--"you look careful and bold,
How comes it you're marching, unshod, through the cold?"

"Ah, sir! I'm a poor, lonely orphan, you see;
No mother, no friends that are caring for me;
If I'm wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war,
'Twill matter to nobody, Colonel Dunbar."

Now, Sophy!--your needles, dear!--Knit him some socks,
And send the poor fellow a pair in my box;
Then he'll know,--and his heart with the thought will be filled,--
There is _one_ little maiden will care if he's killed.

The fire burns dimly, and scattered around,
The men lie asleep on the snow-covered ground;
But ere in my blanket I wrap me to rest,
I hold you, my darling, close,--close, to my breast:
God love you! God grant you His comforting light!
I kiss you a thousand times over!--Good night!