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7
THE TRUMPET SOUNDS.
How stands the glass around,
For shame you take no care, my boys,
How stands the glass around,
Let mirth and wine abound.
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,
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,
Are always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.
’Tis but in vain,
I mean not to upbraid ye, boys,
’Tis but in vain,
Were soldiers to complain
Should next campaign
Send us to him who made us boys
Were free from pain;
But if we remain
A bottle and kind landlady
Cure all again.
