Hark! where th’ inveytin’ drum o’ Mars
Athwart the far land rattles,
It minds me aye o’ wounds an’ scars,
O’ bruolliments an’ battles.
But Sargin’ Keyte wad fain persuade
It’s but the call of honour,
Where certain fortune shall be made,
By those who wait upon her,
Off han’ this day.
* * * * * *