V.
SOLDIER’S SONG.
Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule[331]
Laid a swinging[332] long curse on the bonny brown bowl,
That there’s wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack,[333]
And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;[334]
Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,
Drink upsees out,[335] and a fig for the vicar!
Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip
The ripe ruddy dew of a woman’s dear lip,
Says, that Beelzebub[336] lurks in her kerchief so sly,
And Apollyon[337] shoots darts from her merry black eye;
Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!
Our vicar thus preaches—and why should he not?
For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;[338]
And ’tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch,
Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.
Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,
Sweet Marjorie’s the word, and a fig for the vicar!