Chapter 39 THE DESERTER

If sadly thinking,

With spirits sinking,

Could more than drinking

My cares compose,

A cure for sorrow

From sighs I'd borrow,

And hope to-morrow

Would end my woes.

But as in wailing

There's nought availing,

And Death unfailing

Will strike the blow,

Then for that reason,

And for a season,

Let us be merry

B