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No waving plume or feather flashed its crimson in the
light, He belongs to the light infantry, and came to the war to
fight.
Oh, he 's nothing but a soldier, his trust is in his sword, To carve his way to glory through the servile Yankee
horde; No pompous pageant heralds him, no sycophants attend ; In his belt you see his body guard, his tried and trusty
friend.
Oh, he 's nothing but a soldier, yet his eyes are very fine, And I sometimes think, when passing, they 're peeping into
mine; Though he 's nothing but a soldier—come, let me be discreet— Yet really for a soldier, his toilet's very neat.
He has been again to see us, the gentleman in gray, He's called to see us often, our house is on his way; Ofttimes he sadly seeks the shade of yonder grove of trees, I watched him once—this soldier—I saw him on his knees.
Oh, he 's nothing but a soldier, but this I know full well, He has a heart of softness, where tender virtues dwell ; For once when we were talking, and no one else was near, I saw him very plainly try to hide a starting tear.
Ah! he 's nothing but a soldier; but then its very queer, Whenever he is absent I 'd much rather have him near ; He's gone to meet the foeman, to stay his bloody track, O Heaven ! shield the soldier; 0 God! let him come back. |
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