BALLAD. (This this my lad's a soldier's life)

This this my lad's a soldier's life, He marches to the sprightly fife, And in each town, to some new wife, Swears he'll be ever true:

He's here—he's there—where is he not? Variety's his envied lot, He eats, drinks, sleeps, and pays no shot, And follows the loud tattoo.

Call'd out to face his country's foes, The tears of fond domestic woes He kisses off, and boldly goes To earn of fame his due.

Religion, liberty, and laws, Both his are, and his country's cause— For these, through danger, without pause, He follows the loud tattoo.

And if at last, in honour's wars, He earn his share of danger's scars, Still he feels bold, and thanks his stars He's no worse fate to rue:

At Chelsea, free from toil and pain, He wields his crutch, points out the slain, And in fond fancy once again Follows the loud tattoo.