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The trumpets sound,
The colours they are flying, boys,
To fight, kill, or wound.
May we still be found,
Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground.
The colours they are flying, boys,
To fight, kill, or wound.
May we still be found,
Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground.
Why, Soldiers, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, Soldiers, why,
Whose business 'tis to die?
What, sighing! fie!
Damn fear, drink on, be jolly, boys,
'Tis he, you, or I:
Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, Soldiers, why,
Whose business 'tis to die?
What, sighing! fie!
Damn fear, drink on, be jolly, boys,
'Tis he, you, or I:
Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.
'Tis but in vain,
I mean not to upbraid you, boys,
'Tis but in vain
For Soldiers to complain:
Should next campaign
Send us to him who made us, boys,
We're free from pain:
But if we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Cure all again.
I mean not to upbraid you, boys,
'Tis but in vain
For Soldiers to complain:
Should next campaign
Send us to him who made us, boys,
We're free from pain:
But if we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Cure all again.
