There's an end of all troubles however at last!

  And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast,

  When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore

  And I thought of the friends I should never see more,

  No hand to relieve—scarce a morsel of bread—

  Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead!

  Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free,

  Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see!

  I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good,

  And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.

  When I think what I've suffer'd and where I am now

  I curse him who snared me away from the plough.