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Go watch the foremost ranks in danger's dark career, Be sure the hand most daring there, has wiped away a.



The soldier knows that every ball

A certain billet bears,
And whether doomed to rise or fall,

Dishonor's all he fears.
To serve his country is his plan,

Unawed or undismayed;
He fights her battles like a man,

And by her thanks he's paid.
To foreign climes he cheerly goes,

By duty only driven;
And if he fall, his country knows

For whom the blow was given.
Recorded on the front of day,

The warrior's deeds appear;
For him the poet breathes his lay,

The virgin sheds a tear.

IF I had a beau
For a soldier who'd go,

think I'd say no?
No, not I!
When his red coat I saw,
Not a sigh would it draw,

But give him he eclat for his bravery!
ff an army of Amazons e'er came in play,
As a dashing white serjeant I'd march away!

March away, &c.

When my soldier was gone,
D'ye think I'd take on;
Sit moping forlorn?
No, not I;
His fame my concern,
How my bosom would burn,
When I saw him return, crown'd with victory.

If an army, &c.

HOW HAPPY'S THE SOLDIER. How happy's the soldier that lives on his pay, And spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day; He fears neither justices', warrants, or bums, But rattles away with the roll of his drums,

With his row de dow, &c. He cares not a marvedi how the world goes: His country finds quarters, and money, and clothes; He laughs at all sorrow, whenever it comes, And rattles away with the roll of his drums.

With his row de dow, &c. The drum is his pleasure, his joy, and delight, It leads him to pleasure as well as to fight; There's never a girl, though ever so glum, But packs up her tatters and follows the drum.

With his row de dow, &c

THE OLD SOLDIER'S TEAR. They have donn'd their scarlet garb,

They have ta’en the soldier's vest;
Bright plumes wave o’er each head,

Bright stars are on each breast,
And the warrior's heart beats quick and high,

At the sound of the battle cheer;
But still as he looks on his gallant boys,
He wipes away a tear.

They are foremost on the breach,

They are first in danger's track,
There are no braver spirits there

To drive the foemen back;
They sink in glory's proud embrace,

But the voice of their dying cheer,
Comes forth with a shock on the soldier's heart,

And he wipes away a tear.
He has past his native hill,

He is on his native plain,
And the young who went with him away,

Are come not home again;
But the mother's whisper of her boys,

Will break upon his ear,
And the soldier sighs for his bravest now,

And wipes away a tear.

WHATE’ER my fate, where'er I roam,

By sorrow still oppress'd,
I'll ne'er forget the peaceful home,

That gave a wand’rer rest.
Then ever rove life’o sunny banks

By sweetest flow'rets strew'd,
Still may you claim a soldier's thanks,

A soldier's gratitude.
The tender sigh, the balmy tear,

That meek-ey'd pity gave,
My last expiring hour shall cheer,

And bless the wand'rer's grave.
Then ever røve life's sunny banks,

By sweetest flow'rets strew'd,
Still may you claim a soldier's thanks,

A soldier's gratitude.


SOUND an alarm! the foe is come!
I hear the tramp,—the neigh,—the hum,
The cry, and the blow of his daring drum-

Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone,
What! shall we shake at a foe unknown?

Huzzah!Huzzah! Have we not sinews as strong as they? Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way? Have we not God on our side to-day?

Huzzah! Look! They are staggered on yon black heath: Steady awhile and hold your breath! Now is your time, men,- Down like Death!


Stand by each other, and front your foes!
Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows!
Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose!

Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray!
Blow; till their brazen throats give way!
Sound to the battle! Sound I say!




GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,

A Troubadour, that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good morrow; “My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true-love's bower;

Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour.” And while he march’d, with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung;
As faithful to his favorite maid,

The minstrel's burden still he sung;
My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,

I come, a gallant Troubadour.?! E’en when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion's sweep,

And still was heard the warrior lay: • My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour." Alas! upon the bloody field,

He fell beneath the foeman’s glaive; But still reclining on his shield,

Expiring, sung the exulting stave; “ My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

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