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 R. CLINTON, whose worth we shall know when we’ve lost him, Is delightfully free of his gifts, if they cost him
 * But little or nothing, like smiles and brevets;

With what wonderful tact he appreciates merit In bestowing on all our grown lads of high spirit
 * His parchment commissions and gold epaulettes!

’Tis amusing to see these young nurslings of fame, With their sashes of crimson and collars of flame; Their cocked hats enchanting—their buttons divine, And even the cloth of their coats superfine! Displaying, around us, their new tinsel riches, As proud as a boy in his first pair of breeches.

Ah! who does not envy their steps of delight,
 * Through the streets to their battle-drums prancing,

While scared at their “chimney-sweep” badges so bright, Cartmen, pigs, and old women, seek safety in flight,
 * As, in exquisite order, their lines are advancing!

Long live the Militia! from sergeant to drummer
 * They’ve the true soldier-aspect, chivalric and wild,