There's a little dumpy sergeant that calls me to the fray,
Arousing me from slumber at five o'clock each day.
At five o'clock precisely he hammers at my door,
And breaks in forty pieces my most delightful snore.
This little dumpy sergeant, so prompt and so precise,
He calls me once with vigor, but he never calls me twice.
If I choose not to hear him and shut my eyes again,
Why, I may wake myself up at—nine o'clock or ten.
There's another little sergeant, who hammers on my heart;
Who pommels me so briskly he makes me sting and smart.
While I lie down in darkness and shut my eyes to sin,
This little sergeant, Conscience, awakes me with his din.
But ah, this little sergeant, so prompt and so precise,
He also seldom calls me but once or twice or thrice.
"Wake up!" he cries, "arouse you, or sleep forevermore!"
Ah, heed the little sergeant while he is at the door!