A SOLDIER's SONG

How stands the glass around, For shame ye take no care, my boys, Let mirth and wine abound; The trumpets sound; The colours they are flying, boys, To fight, kill, or wound, May we still be found, Content with our hard fate, my boys, On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why, Shou'd we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why,— Whose bus'ness 'tis to die! What—sighing, fie! Damn fear, drink on, be jolly, boys, 'Tis he, you or I!— Cold, hot, wet or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly.

'Tis but in vain,— I mean not to upbraid ye, boys, 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain; Shou'd next campaign Send us to him who made us, boys, We're free from pain, But if we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cure all again.