~On the Misery of Soldiers~

Yellow now is all the grass;
  All the days in marching pass.
  On the move is every man;
  Hard work, far and near, they plan.

Black is every plant become;
  Every man is torn from home.
  Kept on foot, our state is sad;—
  As if we no feelings had!

Not rhinoceroses we!
  Tigers do we care to be?
  Fields like these so desolate
  Are to us a hateful fate.

Long-tailed foxes pleased may hide
  ‘Mong the grass, where they abide.
  We, in box carts slowly borne,
  On the great roads plod and mourn.