IT4 , MILITARY SON?, Give the word and I'll march whet, you command, Noble aerieant, with a shilling then strikz my hand. My captain when 'he takes his glass, May like to toy with a pretty lass, For such a one I've a roguish, eye, He'll never,want a girl when I am by. For a chicksbiddy, &e. Though & barber has never yet mowed my chin, With my great broad sword I long to begin; Cut, slash, ram, dam, oh! glorious fun; - For a gun pip-pop, change my little pop gun, The foes shohld run like geese in flocks; Even Turks should fly like Turkey cocks: Wherever quartered I shall be, Oh; wanda! how 1'11 kiss my landlady. I'm a chiekabiddy, &c. MONODY' ON THE DEATH OF SiR JOHN MOORE. NoT a drum was heard nor a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The turf with our bay'nets ttu'ning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And our lanterns dimly-burning. Few and short w?re the prayera w? said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead! And we bitterly thought on the morrow. No useless coffin contin'd his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. o,?,?,?o?Google %
�
