The soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay;
His fivepence will prove but a farthing a day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.
When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot.
If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff,
And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf,
Then, dog, rogue, and rascal, and so kick and cuff.
Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The butcher and soldier must be mortal foes,
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose.
The butcher is stout, and he values no swagger;
A cleaver 's a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger.
The, beggars themselves will be broke in a trice,
When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price;
When nothing is left, they must live on their lice.
The squire possessed of twelve thousand a year,
O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear!
Should he take them, he would not have houseroom, I fear.
