The troopers laughed.
"Seen service!" repeated the corporal; "I have seen everything—the devil himself, I believe; but we have both smelt powder in Flanders, and hope to do so soon again. Another slice of the beef, my boy? No more, you say? At your age, I could have eaten a horse behind the saddle."
I begged to be excused; I had but little appetite.
"I hope you can drink, at all events," said Tom Kirkton, the private, pushing the jug of hot water and the whisky bottle towards me; "make your brewage and be jolly while you may."
Then while stirring his steaming punch, in a lull, deep, manly voice, he began to sing, while the corporal clanked his spurs and clinked his glass in tune to the favourite camp song of the day.
"How stands the glass around?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys!
How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound!
The trumpets sound,
And the colours flying are, my boys,
To fight, kill, or wound;
May we still be found,
Content with our hard fare, my boys,
On the cold ground!
"Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why,
Whose business 'tis to die?
What, sighing?—fie!
Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!
'Tis he, you, or I,
Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.
"'Tis but in vain
(I mean not to upbraid you, boys)
'Tis but in vain
For soldiers to complain;
Should next campaign,
Send us to HIM who made us, boys,
We're free from pain;
But should we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Cures all again."
As he concluded, Kirkton kissed the hostess, and ordered another bottle.
"When I was in the Dragoon Guards, at the siege of Maastricht," said the corporal, with something sad in his tone, "six of us sang that song one night in my tent; before the noon of next day, there was but one alive of all the six—myself—who could better have been spared."