Just before the day starts, Mother,
I am thinking most of you,
While upon the coming day we're gazing
With the daily grind in view.
Comrades brave are 'round me lying,
Telling tales of girls and beer
For well they know that by the morrow,
They will lucky just to leer.

Farewell, mother, you may never
Press me to your breast again;
Tho' I'd be among the cowards, Mother;
You'll never find me 'mongst the slain.

                --Wyrkyn De Roots, Songs Of Home And Yard
                (Don, Idaho: Phi Theta Alpha, 1865)