HOW stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys, How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound. The trumpets sound! The colours flying are, my boys, To fight, kill, or wound: May we still be found Content with our hard fare, my boys, On the cold ground. Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys, Why, soldiers, why? Whose business 'tis to die? What! sighing? fie! Damn fear, drink on, be jolly, boys, 'Tis he, you or I: Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We're always bound to follow boys And scorn to fly. 'Tis but in vain, (I mean not to upbraid you, boys) 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain: Should next campaign Send us to Him that made you, boys, We're free from pain; But should we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cures all again! |