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Rh More fragrant her breath, Than the flower-scented heath. At the dawing of day; The hawthorn in bloom, The lily’s perfume. Or the blossoms of May.

How stands the glass around? For shame, ye 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. Should we be melancholy, boys? Why solders, why, Whose business ’tis to die! What— sighing?— fie; Don’t 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.