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'Tis but in vain,I mean not to upbraid you, boys)'Tis but in vainFor soldiers to complain:Should next campaignSend us to him who made us, boys,We're free from pain;But if we remain,A bottle and kind landladyCure all again.
ROSY MORN.
When the rosy morn appearing,Paints with gold the verdant lawn,Bees, on banks of thyme disporting,Sip the sweets and hail the dawn.
Warbling birds the day proclaiming,Carol sweet the lively strain;They forsake their leafy dwelling,To procure the golden grain.
See, content, the humble gleaner,Takes the scatter'd ears that fall:Nature, all her children viewing,Kindly bounteous, cares for all.
FINIS.