Dear Mother, I've Come Home to Eat.


H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 54 Chatham Street, New-York.

Dear Mother, Pve Come Home To Eat. By

Dear Mother, I remember well
The food we gut from Uncle Sam:
Hard tack, salt junk, and rusty pork,
sometimes a scanty piece of ham.
When I a furlough did receive,
I bade adieu to Brother Pete—
Oh! Mother, for a plate of hash..
Dear Mother, I’ve come home to eat!

When lying stretched out in my tent,
Wounded with a codfish-ball,
I often heard the bugle sound,
And thought it was the dinner-call;
Then visions of the past came back,
Of Boston-chowder and Pig’s-feet..
O Mother dear! don’t weep for me:
Dear Mother, I’ve come home to eat!

I’m now content, no more I’ll fight,
Except it is a beef-steak rare;
The army is no place for me..
And shoddy isn’t fit to wear..
Oh! for some Quail from Jersey’s woods,
And Partridges with fixins neat..
Dear Mother, that’s my bill-of-fare..
Dear Mother, I’ve come home to eat!

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