Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,—
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save hats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy!
The British Grenadiers.
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,
Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these;
But of all the world's brave heroes, there's none that can compare,
With a tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British grenadier.
Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon-ball,
Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,
Sing tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British grenadiers.
Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car,
And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres,
Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.
Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,
Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades;
We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman's ears,
With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers.
And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,
The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,—
Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears.
Then sing tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers.
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the looped clothes.
May they and their commanders live happy all their years,
With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British grenadiers!
