Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows,
And aspects terrific proud Frenchmen still show,
Do you think, O my Colin! to join our brave fellows
I e’er would forbid you? O no, my love, no.
At the dawn of the day, my bed cheerly forsaking,
I’d scamper thro’ bogs, or where prickly whins grow;
On a view of your martial manœuvres partaking,
I vow ne’er to leave you: O no, my love, no.
Array’d in full splendour, your arms brightly shining,
On guard or on picquet, when proudly you go,