Bristol threw down a flyspecked ten, “Theah,” he said, in the soft, sweet drawl That could turn as hard as a Minie-ball, “This heah day is my lucky day, And Shepley nevah could play piquet.” He stretched his arms in a giant yawn, “Gentlemen, when are we movin’ on? I have no desire for a soldier’s end, While I still have winnin’s that I can spend And they’s certain appointments with certain ladies Which I’d miss right smart if I went to Hades, Especially one little black-eyed charmer Whose virtue, one hopes, is her only armor. So if Sergeant Wingate’s mended his saddle I suggest that we all of us now skedaddle, To employ a term that the Yankees favor⁠—” He tasted his words, for he liked the flavor. “And yet, one dreads to be back,” said he, “One knows how tippled one well may be If one meets with the oppor-tun-ity. And even the charmers can likewise raise Unpleasant doubts that may last for days⁠—