To scamper thro’ bogs, or where prickly whins grow,
When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking,
Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no.
Array’d in full splendour, their arms brightly shining,
On guard or on picquet, when proudly they go,
(For the pleasures of permanent duty repining)
Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no.
Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder,
What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe,
I’ve determin’d to serve under Mr Recorder,