"THE SOLDIER'S DREAM."
(After T. Camp-bell. By A. Camp-beau.)
We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured,
And the sentinels' throats were the only things dry;
And under their tents Chobham's heroes had cowered,
The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.
While dozing that night in my camp-bed so small,
With a Mackintosh over to keep out the rain—
After one glass of grog, cold without—that was all—
I'd a dream, which I hope I shall ne'er have again.
Methought from damp Chobham's mock battle-array,
I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;
'Twas the season, and wax-lights illumined the way
To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.
I flew to the dancing-rooms, whirled through so oft
With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,
I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft,
And heard the shrill notes Weippert's orchestra flung.
She was there—I would "pop"—and a guardsman no more,
From my sweet little partner for life ne'er would part,
When sudden I saw—just conceive what a bore—
A civilian—by Jove—laying siege to her heart!
"Out of sight, out of mind!" It was not to be borne—
To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away—
When sudden the twang of that vile bugle-horn
Scared my visions, arousing the Camp for the day.