Page:Pride of poor Britain or, The folly of man.pdf/7



Homas lov'd Harriet with a tender flame,

A lovelier laſs ne'er trode the hantlet round,

While ſhe his love return'd with love the ſame,

Until the vile diſcordant drum did found.

A recruiting ſerjeant, with each crafty wile,

With glitt'ring ſword and proud imperious air,

With fife and drum, the unwary to beguile,

Paraded round and round the village fair.

They talk'd of laurels, honours, glory, fame,

Tom ſaw his comrade take the gilded tait,

He, ſilly ſwain, like him muſt do the ſame,

But both repented when it was too late

O! an' I left, cries Harriet, to mourn,

Soon as the fatal tidings reach'd her ear!

Tom cry'd, With honour I ſhall ſoon return,

Then from her cheek he kiſs'd the falling tear.

Ah! Tom, what's honour but an empty name,

Perverted to the uſe of cruel wars,

Havock is glory, Generals gain the ſame,

While the poor private, wears the wounds and ſcars,

Says Tom, falſe honour did my heart betray,

The ſad remembrance baniſh from your view,

The drum now beats, ſweet girl, I muſt away,

So love, farewel, ſhe kiſs'd, and cry'd adieu.

Ah I now behold them drawn up in a line,

For death or conqueſt, on the ſanguine plain,

Poor Tom unnoted did his breath reſign,

All reak'd in wounds amid ſome thouſands ſlain.

When Harriet heard, her cheek, which wore abloom,

Which to the bluſhing roſes were allay'd,

Grew pale and wan, all in deſponding gloom,

She pin'd, ſhe ſicken'd, and with grief ſhe dy'd.