L’Ec. Go, count the leaves when winds are heard unruly,
In autumn that from mighty forests blow.
Ros. Did e’er a captain, worth a costly ransom,
Own you his conqueror in the deadly broil?
L’Ec. I’ve twigg’d field-marshals, pickings snug and handsome,
Twelve waggons now are loaded with my spoil.
Both. Oh! loudly, proudly, sound the soldier’s fame!
Oh! flashy, dashy, flaunt the soldier’s dame!
Ros. Tell, soldier, tell! and mark, you tell me truly,
Did foreign maids ne’er win your roving vow?