We scarce refrain from tears, O:
Shrill shrieks the fife, rough roars the drum,—
March, Yorkshire Volunteers, O!
Fal lal lal la ral.
Yet ere we part, my comrades say,
Come, Stockhore[74], you’re the poet,
If e’er you pen’d a grateful lay,
’Tis now the time to show it.
Such usage fair in this good town,
We’ve met from age and youth, sirs,