Pressing here my mossy pillow,
Forms that moulder ‘neath the willow,
Forms that sleep beneath the billow,
Flit and frolic round me now;

Banishing all thought of mourning,
All my dreams with joy adorning,
May they tarry till the morning
Ere they breathe their “Hough!”

“Hough!” boys, “Hough!”–“Hough!” boys, “Hough!”
Let the soldier’s toast be ever “Hough!”

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *