Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier; he’s coming here to-night,
For I saw him pass this morning, with his uniform so bright;
He was coming in from picket, whilst he sang a sweet refrain,
And he kissed his hand at some one, peeping through the window pane.

Ah! he rode no dashing charger, with black and flowing mane,
But his bayonet glistened brightly, as the sun lit up the plain;
No waving plume or feather flashed its crimson in the light,
He belongs to the light infantry, and came to the war to fight.

Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier, his trust is in his sword,
To carve his way to glory through the servile Yankee horde;
No pompous pageant heralds him, no sycophants attend;
In his belt you see his body guard, his tried and trusty friend.

Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier, yet his eyes are very fine,
And I sometimes think, when passing, they’re peeping into mine;
Though he’s nothing but a soldier—come, let me be discreet—
Yet really for a soldier, his toilet’s very neat.

He has been again to see us, the gentleman in gray,
He’s called to see us often, our house is on his way;
Ofttimes he sadly seeks the shade of yonder grove of trees,
I watched him once—this soldier—I saw him on his knees.

Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier, but this I know full well.
He has a heart of softness, where tender virtues dwell;
For once when we were talking, and no one else was near,
I saw him very plainly try to hide a starting tear.

Ah! he’s nothing but a soldier; but then its very queer.
Whenever he is absent I’d much rather have him near;
He’s gone to meet the foeman, to stay his bloody track,
O Heaven! shield the soldier; O God! let him come back.