And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp,
A chap that never kept the step—
No more did “Surly Hugh;”
Bob Harrington, and “Fighting Jim”—
We often had to halt for him,
To let him tie his shoe.
“Quarrelsome Scott,” and Martin Dick,
That kill’d the bantam cock, to stick
The plumes within his hat;
Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout
That got so thump’d for calling out
“Eyes right!” to “Squinting Matt.”
Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd,
Was always in the awkward squad,
And those two greedy Blakes,
That took our money to the fair
To buy the corps a trumpet there,
And laid it out in cakes.
Where are they now?—an open war
With open mouth declaring for?—
Or fall’n in bloody fray?
Compell’d to tell the truth I am,
Their fights all ended with the sham,—
Their soldiership in play.
Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks,
And Martin sells the cock he plucks,
And Jepp now deals in wine;
Harrington bears a lawyer’s bag,
And warlike Lamb retains his flag,
But on a tavern sign.
They tell me Cocky Hawes’s sword
Is seen upon a broker’s board:
And as for “Fighting Jim,”
In Bishopgate, last Whitsuntide,
His unresisting cheek I spied
Beneath a quaker brim!
Quarrelsome Scott is in the church,
For Ryder now your eye must search
The marts of silk and lace—
Bird’s drums are filled with figs, and mute,
And I—I’ve got a substitute
To Soldier in my place!
“NAPOLEON’S MIDNIGHT REVIEW.”
A NEW VERSION.
