"And if he fail'd in that assault,
It was not, sure, the brandy's fault;
The best, at times, may make a halt,
Ay, break his neck.
"Now hear a dotard of your trade:—
Of old I lived by flint and blade,
But, disregarded, and decay'd,
I'm nothing now.
"This leaky shed is not my own,
And here I stay, unheard, unknown,
Poor Darby, and without a Joan,
Nor horse, nor cow.
"But mend your draught—I have more to say:—
You now are young, and under pay;
Be warn'd by me, whose hairs are grey;
The time will come
"When you may find this trade of arms,
The march, that now your bosom warms,
Has little but illusive charms,
Mere beat of drum:
"But yet, in such a cause as this
I deem your ardor not amiss—
I know you are no hireling swiss;
Your country calls:
"And when she calls, you must obey;
For wages not—fig for the pay—
Tis honor calls you out this day
To face the balls.
"You have to go where George Provost
Has many a soldier made a ghost,
Where indians many a prisoner roast
Or seize their scalps.
"And what of that?—mere fate of war—
God grant you may have better fare—
Go, fight beneath a kinder star,
And scourge the whelps.
"They scarce are men—mere flesh and blood—
Mere ouran-outangs of the wood,
Forever on the scent of blood,
And deers at heart.