Page:Six favourite songs (1).pdf/5

 At last the fatal wound,

Which spread dismay around,

The hero’s breast received;

Heaven fights on our side,

The day’s our own, he cried,

Now long enough I’ve lived.

In honour’s cause my life was past,

In honour’s cause I fall at last,

For England, home, and beauty;

Thus ending life as he began,

England confess’d that every man

That day had done his duty.

Be honours which to kings we give,

To doctors also paid;

We’re the king’s subjects while we live,

The doctor’s when we’re dead.

Though when in health and thoughtless mood

We treat them oft with scoffing,

Yet they, returning ill with good,

Relieve us from our coughing. (coffin)

At times they kill us, to be sure,

In cases rather tickle;

But when they’ve killed, they still can cure

Their patients—in a pickle.