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The old blind fiddler seated next the door,
The frothy tankard passing to and fro,
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show;
The Sergeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes,
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums—
And now he gives a bumper to his Wench—
God save the King, and then—God damn the French.
Then tells the story of his last campaign,
How many wounded and how many slain,
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,
The English marching on, the French retreating.—
"Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye,
"March on to riches, happiness and glory!"
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Then cried—"'tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"
"Aye Humphrey!" says the Sergeant—"that's your name?
"'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!
"March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains
"And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.
The frothy tankard passing to and fro,
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show;
The Sergeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes,
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums—
And now he gives a bumper to his Wench—
God save the King, and then—God damn the French.
Then tells the story of his last campaign,
How many wounded and how many slain,
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,
The English marching on, the French retreating.—
"Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye,
"March on to riches, happiness and glory!"
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Then cried—"'tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"
"Aye Humphrey!" says the Sergeant—"that's your name?
"'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!
"March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains
"And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.
