WAR SONG OF THE LUMBER TROOP.
Blow forth the clarion's pealing sound,
Your voices raise on high,
And send the bottle quickly round,
To drink to victory;
The campaign to the champagne yields.
The festive board invites,
Extinguish every thought of care—
Blow out your very lights!
But glory is a kin' o' thing I shan't pursue no furder.—
BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.
Our march in glory's bright career,
All other troops surpasses;
For, whilst they charge their fellow men,
We only charge our glasses;
No tears our conquests e'er await,
Nor bier, with trappings sable,
They—leave their dead men on the field,
We—ours, beneath the table!
At Waterloo, a fearful game
The trumpet call began,
At three card loo we win our trick,
And trump it—when we can:
The verdant bays the chaplet form,
For which the warrior prays—
A different game we strive to win,
Not for, but on, green baize.
The ranks that join in our piquette,
By deep old files are form'd;
We keep no watches but our own—
Our posts are never storm'd;
Our own reviews, in brilliancy,
The "Quarterly" outshine;
Our only challenge is to take
A glass of generous wine.
And should we ever take the field,
Our troops would be found fast;
The first might trust to our support,
For sticking to the last;
And ever, upon equal terms,
Our enemies we'd meet,
For, did they treat us with a ball,
We would, in turn, retreat.