SONG.—MADELON.
Little thinks the townsman's wife,
While at home she tarries,
What must be the lass's life,
Who a soldier marries.
Now with weary marching spent,
Dancing now before the tent,
Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,
With her jolly soldier.
In the camp, at night, she lies,
Wind and weather scorning,
Only grieved her love must rise,
And quit her in the morning;
But the doubtful skirmish done,
Blithe she sings at set of sun;
Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,
With her jolly soldier.
Should the captain of her dear
Use his vain endeavour,
Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear,
Two fond hearts to sever,
At his passion she will scoff;
Laughing, thus, she'll put him off,—
Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,
For her jolly soldier.
[Exit.