This plenty to wear, and this plenty to eat,
When the soldiers who fight for us,--die for us,--lie,
With nothing around and above, but the sky;
When their clothes are so light, and the rations they deal,
Are only a morsel of bacon and meal:
And how can I fold my thick blankets around,
When I know that my father's asleep on the ground?
I'm ashamed to be happy, or merry, or free,
As if war and its trials were nothing to me:
Oh! I never can know any frolic or fun,--
Any real, mad romps,--till the battles are done!"
And the face of the boy, so heroic and fair,
Is touched with the singular shadow of care.
Sophy ceases her warbling, subdues her soft mirth,
And draws her low ottoman up to the hearth:

"But, brother, what good would it do to refuse
The comforts and blessings God gives us, or use
Them quite with indifference, as much as to say,
We care not how soon they are taken away!
I am sure I would give my last blanket, and spread
My pretty, blue cloak, at night, over my bed,--
(Mamma, you know, covers herself with her shawl,
Since we've sent all our blankets,)--but, then, it's too small!
Would Papa be less hungry or cold, do you think,
If _we_ had too little to eat or to drink?
So I mean to be busy,--I mean to be glad;
Mamma says there's time enough yet to be sad;
I'll work for the soldiers,--I'll pray, and I'll plan,
And just be as happy as ever I can;