Jeffery, Or, The Soldier'S Progress[83]

Lured by some corporal's smooth address, His scarlet coat and roguish face, One Half A Joe on drum head laid, A tavern treat--and reckoning paid; See yonder simple lad consigned To slavery of the meanest kind.

With only skill to drive a plough A musquet he must handle now; Must twirl it here and twirl it there, Now on the ground, now in the air: Its every motion by some rule Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A] Must be directed--nicely true-- Or he be beaten black--and blue.

[A] The Prussian manual exercise.--Freneau's note.

A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes, May now this country lad abuse:-- On meagre fare grown poor and lean, He treats him like a mere machine, Directs his look, directs his step, And kicks him into decent shape, From aukward habits frees the clown, Erects his head--or knocks him down.

Last Friday week to Battery-green The sergeant came with this Machine-- One motion of the firelock missed-- The Tutor thumped him with his fist: I saw him lift his hickory cane, I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!-- Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear; And thus goes on from year to year, 'Till desperate grown at such a lot, He drinks--deserts--and so is shot!