our bugles sang truce for the night cloud had lowerd
and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky
and thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered
the weary to sleep and the wounded to die ...
We're hiking along at a two-forty pace
We 're making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash.
We 're out for the money, the greenbacks and gold,
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