Page:Bide ye yet (1).pdf/6

 They can’t inspire

The same desire,

As when their young and smugly.

Variety, &c.

‘Tis not the grand regalia,

‘Tis not the grand regalia,

Of eastern kings,

That poets sings,

But O the sweet seraglio.

Variety, &c. 



How stands the glass around?

For shame, ye take no care my boys.

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,

Shou'd we be melancholy, boys?

Why, soldiers, why?

Whose business ‘tis to die?