A MEDLEY for the LIGHT-INFANTRY

Soldier whilst the flowing bowl Warms your heart and cheers your soul, Let me to your mind recall Scenes familiar to us all, In the gloomy forest's shade, Where your weary limbs you've laid, Or your parched mouth applied To the cool refreshing tide.

Think you see the nights again, When, amid the rattling rain, Some of Britain's light-arm'd troops Sit around their fires in groups; Some, in wigwams seeking rest, With the toiling march opprest, Sleep the stormy night away, Heedless of the coming day.

Listen to that swelling noise! 'Tis the bugle's warlike voice, Which, in accents loud and clear, Warns us that the foe is near: War to noble minds has charms; See the Light-Bobs spring to arms, Form and march without delay, Pleas'd the summons to obey.

Behold with what ardor to action they press, They dash into cover with glee; Insulted Britannia they wish to redress, And set sad America free: Thro' thickets and marshes they patiently go, Till darkness gives way to the morn;— Assail'd by a volley, to close with the foe They rush—at the sound of the horn.

The Rebels retire till no sheltering tree A culprit from vengeance corceals; 'Tis then that, unlike to Achilles, they see Their only defence is their heels: When over the plain, and across a ravine, On pinions of fear they are borne, Tho' boldest when safest, they hear with chagrine The death-boding sound of the horn.

The Britons o'er ev'ry obstruction pursue, And dauntlessly force the ravine; In turning the flanks of the fanatic crew Their disciplin'd courage is seen: Thro' sulphur'ous clouds and lead show'rs they proceed To charge!—Now dismay'd and forlorn, The traitors, transfix'd by the bayonet, bleed! Triumphant's the sound of the horn!

Mark von wretch submissive bending, In whose features shame and grief Mixt with terror seem contending; That was late a Rebel Chief:— "Give me quarter," hear him crying, "I beseech you on my knee! "I am not prepared for dying "Since my country's wrong'd by me."

"For your vows and treaties breaking "Tho' your forfeit life shou'd pay, "Rise—it is not worth my taking," (Hear the gen'rous victor say:) "Give this lesson due attention;— "If you wou'd be tru'ly free, "Help to quell this dire contention, "Take your country's part like me,

We've shewn them full oft' of what stuff we are made, As often unmerited mercy display'd; But shou'd they persist, we'll our pity restrain, And probe to the quick the approaching campaign. Then hence with all theadbare disputes for this night; To laugh there's a season, as well as to fight; And one at a time is enough by my soul, And so brother soldier—about with the bowl.