Of all this tragic year, Gladdy, the maddest, wickedest day,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war they say.
The Russians come and go, Gladdy, and seize upon each pass,
And with the savage Turcomans they drain the social glass;
The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war, they say.
All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call,
As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall;
The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll,
And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper’s soul.