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[Page 208]

sad and doleful, it sings of suffering immense and inhuman.

O evening of morning mourning, O evening of death, in thy sigh, any thing of greatness, sweetness & wise, we support our trouble.

The above is more or less literal as you will see, a poem of another tongue when translated loses most of its charm & meaning.

Today it is cold. I am orderly officer, this involves no duties worth mentioning except to be on the 9 am parade at moore Park, it used to mean getting up at 6 am, fortunately a lot of bunkum disappears when one gets in the field.

In a couple of days we move back about 3 miles we are sorry to

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