Dibdin's Museum, &c, SONG

Why Molly, my girl, do you whimper and sob, And sigh, all your heart's like to burst? What tho' a rude bullet should strike off my nob, Mine surely would not be the first; And death we all know in the purple stain'd field, Regards neither rank nor degree; For when the grim tyrant fate's weapon doth yield, He'd as lieve strike a general as me; Then cheer up, dear Molly, no longer thus sigh, But banish your sorrow afar; Ther's a just God of battle stands sentry on high, To reward me with trophies of war.

What tho' it be wrote in the roll-book of fate, That 'midst the dread battle's alarm; Poor Ned shall receive a hard rap on the pate, Or be dock'd of a leg or an arm; Shall I skulk from my duty, when glory doth call, To repel the encroachments of Spain? Tho' the turf be my pillow, my breakfast a ball, Why, damme, I'll never complain: So it signifies nothing my charmer, to cry, Let hope then to grief be a bar; There's a just God of battle stands sentry on high, To reward me with trophies of war.

Midst dangers undaunted each Briton should roam, Who possesses the soul of a man; While coxcombs and fribbles may loiter at home, Whose life's a mere flash in the pan: But if that I'm destin'd to die in my bed, And not in a battle be slain; Besike it may happen with laurels o'erspread, I'll come to my Molly again; Then truce to your whining, nor Molly don't sigh, Don't you know, when I'm fighting afar; There's a just God of battle stands sentry on high, To reward me with trophies of war.

Believe me, dear Moll, I most steady shall prove, Desertion shall ne'er be my fault; Tho' far off I march, I'll remember my love, Her soldier till death bids me halt; But should his keen arrow encounter my breast, Why then there's an end to poor Ned; I gloriously fall, but along with the rest, Streched bravely on honour's wide bed: Then weep not my charmer, altho' I should die, Laid low by a shot or a scar: There's a just God of battle stands sentry on high, To reward me with trophies of war.