The soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay;
His fivepence will prove but a farthing a day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.
Which, &c.
When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot.
Which, &c.
If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff,
And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf,
Then, dog, rogue, and rascal, and so kick and cuff.
Which, &c.
Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The butcher and soldier must be mortal foes,
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose.
Which, &c.
The butcher is stout, and he values no swagger;
A cleaver 's a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger.
Which, &c.
The, beggars themselves will be broke in a trice,
When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price;
When nothing is left, they must live on their lice.
Which, &c.
The squire possessed of twelve thousand a year,
O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear!
Should he take them, he would not have houseroom, I fear.
Which, &c.
Though
