English poem
BALLAD. (Why don't you know me by my…)
by Anonymous
Why don't you know me by my scars? I'm soldier Dick come from the wars; Where many a head without a hat Crowds honour's bed—but what of that?
Beat drums, play fifes, 'tis glory calls, What argufies who stands or falls; Lord what should one be sorry for? Life's but the fortune of the war: Then rich or poor, or well or sick, Still laugh and sing shall soldier Dick.
I used to look two ways at once, A bullet hit me on the sconce, And dowsh'd my eye d'ye think I'd wince? Why lord I've never squinted since.
Beat drums, &c.
Some distant keep from war's alarms, For fear of wooden legs and arms, While others die safe in their beds Who all their lives had wooden heads.
Beat drums, &c.
Thus gout or fever, sword or shot, Or something sends us all to pot: That we're to die then do not grieve, But let's be merry while we live.
Beat drums, &c.
More by Anonymous
- BALLAD. (When last from the straits we had…)
- BALLAD. (When last in the Dreadful your honour…)
- BALLAD. (When Yanko dear fight far away)
- BALLAD. (While up the shrouds the sailor goes)
- BALLAD. (Why good people all, at what do…)
- BALLAD. (Why I be squire Ned of Gobble-hall)
- BALLAD. (Would you hear a sad story of…)
- BALLAD. (Wounds, here's such a coil! I am…)