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But now in my breast, like a demon, revengefulest hate shall abide;
Death came not to me when I sought it, where bullets fell thicker than rain--
But you've torn from my eyes her sweet image; could death wring my soul with more pain?
Alas! no more in our quarters can I steal away from the boys,
Leaving song, and jest, and laughter, and all their roistering noise,
To sit me down in quiet, and taking that from my breast,
Look, love, and kiss the sweet image-so long and so fondly caressed.
No more on my lonely picket — starting quick at each little sound--
Knowing well, to give me “my ticket,” their scouts are prowling around--
Can I pause, and glance at her features by the pale moon's fitful gleam,
And kiss the place in the darkness, as I wait for an-other beam.
Well, I'll back to my snug old quarters, and show the boys I'm safe,
Or, some rambling rebel party may think me a pretty waif;
But here on my gun I'll fix it-this little, uninjured part--
And sight o'er my broken locket more true to each rebel heart.
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