The Drunken Soldier. a Parody

In a hovel forlorn, not a mile from his tent, Poor Trim sat distracted with care; He look'd at his bottle, and saw it half spent, And gave himself up to despair. The walls of his hut were bespatter'd around With the grog he had vomited up; And even the dirt, and the grass on the ground Were bedew'd with the dregs of his cup.

The housewife beheld through a hole in the wall Him weeping, his whiskey half done, She curs'd him, his liquor, his bottle and all, Thus warning the man of the gun, " O Trim, do forbear; not a grunt, not a swear " For your grog so deservedly lost; " Your bones shall be broke; I will put up my pray'r, " And the answer shall be to your cost.

" The boys of the barracks, those soldiers so bold, " Of gaming have finish'd their task, " And such is the news, it is currently told, " They are coming to drink out your flask: " A council was held ere your eyes were awake, " And this was the captain's decree, " That, when it is emptied, the bottle shall break, " And the charge is entrusted with me."

To the broomstick straitway, like a fury, she flew: But he with his bottle began, And said, "Shut the door, let me touch it once more, And then—they may drink, if they can."— With a circle of black she encompass'd his eyes; At last into slumbers he sunk, Then she laid him down snug, lest the sight of his jug Should tempt him again to get drunk.