And as we started, her little hand
Went to her curly head
In grave salute; ‘And who are you?’
At length the Sergeant said.
‘And where's your home?’ he growled again.
She lisped out, “Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane,
The pride of Battery B.
My home? Why, that was burned away,
And pa and ma are dead,
And so I ride the guns all day
Along with Sergeant Ned.
And I've a drum that's not a toy,
A cap with feathers too,
And I march beside the drummer-boy
On Sundays at review.
But now our bacca's all give out,
The men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross,—why, even Ned
Won't play with me and joke.
And the big Colonel said to-day—
I hate to hear him swear—
He'd give a leg for a good pipe
Like the Yanks have over there.
And so I thought, when beat the drum,
And the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come
Out here across the hill.
And beg, good Mister Yankee men,
You'd give me some Lone Jack.
Please do—when we get some again
I'll surely bring it back.
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