Steal to the well-known booth to tipple ale.
Within each tent of flimsy canvas made,
Where knapsacks rise in many a scatter’d heap,
Twelve men on narrow beds, till morning laid,
Refresh their senses with the dews of sleep.
The cannon’s roar that through the vale resounds,
The reveillée’s harsh echoing in their ears,
The sergeant’s voice that ever rudely sounds,
Again shall wake them to their humble cares.
For them again the kitchen fires shall burn,