’Tis hatred without an’ ’tis hatred within,
An’ I am so weary an’ sad;
For all t’rough de tempest o’ terrible strife
Dere’s not’in’ to make poor me glad.
Oh! where are de faces I loved in de past,
De frien’s dat I used to hold dear?
Oh say, have dey all turned away from me now
Becausen de red seam I wear?
I foolishly wandered away from dem all
To dis life of anguish an’ woe,
Where I mus’ be hard on me own kith an’ kin,
And even to frien’ mus’ prove foe.
Oh! what have I gained from my too too rash act
O’ joinin’ a hard Constab Force,
Save quenchin’ me thirst from a vinegar cup,
De vinegar cup o’ remorse?
I t’ought of a livin’ o’ pure honest toil,
To keep up dis slow-ebbin’ breath;
But no, de life surely is bendin’ me do’n,
Is bendin’ me do’n to de death.
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