“Bless you, sir, I know every corner about the north pole.”
“In which of the expeditions, may I ask, were you engaged?” inquired Moriarty.
“In none of them, sir. We knocked up a little amateur party, I and a few curious friends, and certainly we witnessed wonders. You talk here of a sharp wind; but the wind is so sharp there that it cut off our beard and whiskers. Boreas is a great barber, sir, with his north pole for a sign. Then as for frost!—I could tell you such incredible things of its intensity; our butter, for instance, was as hard as a rock; we were obliged to knock it off with a chisel and hammer, like a mason at a piece of granite, and it was necessary to be careful of your eyes at breakfast, the splinters used to fly about so; indeed, one of the party did lose the use of his eye from a butter-splinter. But the oddest thing of all was to watch two men talking to each other: you could observe the words, as they came out of their mouths, suddenly frozen and dropping down in little pellets of ice at their feet, so that, after a long conversation, you might see a man standing up to his knees in his own eloquence.”
They all roared with laughter at this last touch of the marvellous, but Loftus preserved his gravity.
“I don't wonder, gentlemen, at your not receiving that as truth—I told you it was incredible—in short, that is the reason I have resisted all temptations to publish. Murray, Longmans, Colburn, Bentley, ALL the publishers have offered me unlimited terms, but I have always refused—not that I am a rich man, which makes the temptation of the thousands I might realise the harder to withstand; 't is not that the gold is not precious to me, but there is something dearer to me than gold—it is my character for veracity! and therefore, as I am convinced the public would not believe the wonders I have witnessed, I confine the recital of my adventures to the social circle. But what profession affords such scope for varied incident as that of the soldier? Change of clime, danger, vicissitude, love, war, privation one day, profusion the next, darkling dangers, and sparkling joys! Zounds! there's nothing like the life of a soldier! and, by the powers! I'll give you a song in its praise.”
The proposition was received with cheers, and Tom rattled away these ringing rhymes—
THE BOWLD SOJER BOY
“Oh there's not a trade that's going
Worth showing,
Or knowing,
Like that from glory growing,
For a bowld sojer boy;
Where right or left we go,
Sure you know,
Friend or foe
Will have the hand or toe
From a bowld sojer boy!
There's not a town we march thro',
But the ladies, looking arch thro'
The window-panes, will search thro'
The ranks to find their joy;
While up the street,
Each girl you meet,
Will look so sly,
Will cry
'My eye!
Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy!'
II
“But when we get the route,
How they pout
And they shout
While to the right about
Goes the bowld sojer boy.
Oh, 'tis then that ladies fair
In despair
Tear their hair,
But 'the divil-a-one I care,'
Says the bowld sojer boy.
For the world is all before us,
Where the landladies adore us,
And ne'er refuse to score us,
But chalk us up with joy;
We taste her tap,
We tear her cap'—
'Oh, that's the chap
For me!'
Says she;
'Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy.'