A favourite Song

Sing all ye Muses your lutes strike around, When a soldier's the story, what tongue can want sound; Who danger disdains, wounds, bruises and pains, When the honour of fighting is all that he gains.

Rich profit comes easy in cities of store. But the gold is earn'd hard when the cannons do roar; Yet see how they run at the storming a town, Thro' blood and thro fire to take the half moon.

They scale the high wall, Whence they see others fall: Their hearts precious Darling, Bright glory pursuing. Though death underfoot And the mine is just blowing,

It springs, up they fly, Yet more will supply, As bridegrooms to marry They hasten to die; Till fate claps her wings, And the glad tidings brings, Of the breach being enter'd And then they're all Kings.

Then happy's she whose face Can win a Soldier's grace; They range about in state, Like Gods disposing fate: No luxury in peace, or pleasure in excess Can parallel the joys, the martial hero crown, When flush'd with rage, and forc'd by want, He storms a wealthy town.