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MILITARY SONGS.

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

tear.

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THE SOLDIER KNOWS THAT EVERY BALL.

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.

THE DASHING WHITE SERJEANT.

IF I had a beau

For a soldier who'd go,

Do you 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!

If an army of Amazons e'er came in play,

As a dashing white serjeant I'd march away!
March away, &c.

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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.

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A SOLDIER'S GRATITUDE.

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's 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 rove life's sunny banks,
By sweetest flow'rets strew'd,

Still

may you claim a soldier's thanks, A soldier's gratitude.

THE ONSET.

SOUND an alarm! the foe is come!

I hear the tramp,-the neigh,—the hum,
The cry, and the blow of his daring drum-
Huzzah!

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! Huzzah!-Huzzah!

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

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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,

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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,

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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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