In the prison cell I sit,
  Thinking, mother dear, of you,
And our bright and happy home so far away,
  And the tears they fill my eyes,
Spite of all that I can do,
  Tho’ I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.

Trump, tramp, tramp, the boys are...

Poet: Anonymous

“now unto yonder wood-pile go,
  Where toil till I return;
And feel how proud a thing it is
  A livelihood to earn.”
A saddened look came o’er the tramp;
  He seemed like one bereft.
He stowed away the victuals cold,
  He—saw the wood, and...

Poet: Anonymous