Now the earth begins to roll its wheel toward the sun, The deep mud-gullies are drying. The sluggish armies That have slept the bear-months through in their winter-camps, Begin to stir and be restless. They’re tired enough Of leaky huts and the rain and punishment-drill. They haven’t forgotten what it was like last time, But next time we’ll lick ’em, next time it won’t be so bad, Somehow we won’t get killed, we won’t march so hard. “These huts looked pretty good when we first hit camp But they look sort of lousy now⁠—we might as well git⁠— Fight the Rebs⁠—and the Yanks⁠—and finish it up.” So they think in the bored, skin-itching months While the roads are drying. “We’re sick of this crummy place, We might as well git, it doesn’t much matter where.” But when they git, they are cross at leaving the huts, “We fixed up ours first rate. We had regular lamps. We knew the girls at the Depot. It wasn’t so bad. Why the hell do we have to git when we just got fixed? Oh, well, we might as well travel.”