My song and feast to end I'm fain,
So every one your glasses drain,—
Let not a drop remain!
FORTUNE OF WAR.
Nought more accursed in war I know
Than getting off scot-free;
Inured to danger, on we go
In constant victory;
We first unpack, then pack again,
With only this reward,
That when we're marching, we complain,
And when in camp are bored.
The time for billeting comes next,—
The peasant curses it;
Each nobleman is sorely vexed,
'Tis hated by the cit.
Be civil, bad though be thy food,
The clowns politely treat;
If to our hosts we're ever rude,
Jail-bread we're forced to eat.
And when the cannon growl around,
And small arms rattle clear,
And trumpet, trot, and drums resound,
We merry all appear;
And as it in the fight may chance,
We yield, then charge amain,
And now retire, and now advance,
And yet a cross ne'er gain.
At length there comes a musket-ball,
And hits the leg, please heaven;
