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him as his cheek grew pale,

He that once was strong and hale;

The red had faded all away,

And left it ashen, dull and gray.

One Monday night he came to me,

Rested his head upon my knee:

“O Mac, me feel so sick,” he said,

“I t’ink me poor boy soon wi’ dead.”

I did my best to calm his fears,

He opened up his breast in tears;

I’ll ne’er forget the sight I saw,

His body strewn with bumps—all raw.

That night we listened to his moans,

The hot fever was in his bones;

He tossed and tossed about until,

All his strength spent, he lay down still.

Many a weary weary day

In the hospital he lay,

Till one morn torture turned to peace,

For death had brought him his release.