But ale and brandy sooth a soldier’s cares.
For thee who by thy natal stars compell’d,
Dost touch with artless hand the warbling lyre,
If chance, by friendship’s soft regard impell’d,
Some kind companion shall thy fate inquire;
Haply some brother sub, shall smiling say:
“Oft in his tent retir’d the youth was seen,
“Scribbling with hasty hand a hum’rous lay,
“To fill a page in Urban’s magazine.
“There in that field, beside that holy pile,