‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud:
Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly;
‘Here, master sergeant,’ said I, from the crowd,
‘Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.’
My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade,
Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid:
He’d march, fight—left, right,
Front flank—centre rank,
Storm the trenches—court the wenches,
Loved the rattle of a battle,
Died with glory—lives in story!
And, like him, I found a soldier’s life, if taken smooth and rough,
A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
‘Hold up your head,’ said the sergeant at drill:
Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly;
‘Turn out your toes, sir!’ Says I, ‘Sir, I will,’
For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly.
My father died when corporal, but I ne’er turned my back,
Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack.
In sword and sash cut a dash,
Spurr’d and booted, next recruited
Hob and Clod—awkward squad,
Then began my rattan,
When boys unwilling came to drilling;
Till, made the colonel’s orderly, then who but I so bluff,
Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
‘Homeward, my lads!’ cried the general.—‘Huzza!’
Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer’ly,
To quick time we footed, and sung all the way
‘Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!’
My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and strife,
And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife
Soon as miss blushes ‘y-i-s!’
Rings, gloves, dears, loves,
Bells ringing, comrades singing,
Honeymoon finished soon,
Scolding, sighing, children crying!
Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough,
A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
Thomas Dibdin.
SOUTHEY
XLIV
THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS
Steep is the soldier’s path; nor are the heights
Of glory to be won without long toil
And arduous efforts of enduring hope;
Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand,
And cutting short the work of years, at once
Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence.
Such fate was mine.—The standard of the Buffs
I bore at Albuera, on that day
When, covered by a shower, and fatally
For friends misdeem’d, the Polish lancers fell
Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim’d
My precious charge.—‘Not but with life!’ I cried,
And life was given for immortality.
The flag which to my heart I held, when wet
With that heart’s blood, was soon victoriously
Regain’d on that great day. In former times,
Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies;
For Brunswick and for liberty it waved
Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen
The lilies on the Caribbean shores
Abased before it. Then too in the front
Of battle did it flap exultingly,
When Douro, with its wide stream interposed,
Saved not the French invaders from attack,
Discomfiture, and ignominious rout.
My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I
Transmitted it. He who in days to come
May bear the honour’d banner to the field,
Will think of Albuera, and of me.
Robert Southey.