Come—Grief is dry—

  You to your dinner—to my story I.

  To you my friend who happier days have known

  And each calm comfort of a home your own,

  This is bad living: I have spent my life

  In hardest toil and unavailing strife,

  And here (from forest ambush safe at least)

  To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.

  I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes

  And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.

  Each evening at return a meal I found

  And, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.

  One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest

  Like a great bumkin in my Sunday's best;

  A primrose posey in my hat I stuck

  And to the revel went to try my luck.

  From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,

  See stare and wonder all the live-long day.

  A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came

  Skill'd in man-catching to beat up for game;

  Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;—

  Methinks even now the very scene I see!

  The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store,

  The old blind fiddler seated next the door,

  The frothy tankard passing to and fro

  And the rude rabble round the puppet-show;

  The Serjeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes,

  And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums—

  And now he gives a bumper to his Wench—

  God save the King, and then—God damn the French.

  Then tells the story of his last campaign.

  How many wounded and how many slain,

  Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,

  The English marching on, the French retreating,—

  "Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye,

  "March on to riches, happiness and glory!"

  At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,

  Then cried—"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"

  "Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant—"that's your name?

  "'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!

  "March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains

  "And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.

  "Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit!

  "Rise to a halbert—as I did—by merit!

  "Would'st thou believe it? even I was once

  "As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;

  "But Courage rais'd me to my rank. How now boy!

  "Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy?

  "A proper shaped young fellow! tall and straight!

  "Why thou wert made for glory! five feet eight!

  "The road to riches is the field of fight,—

  "Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?

  "Why regimentals Numps would give thee grace,

  "A hat and feather would become that face;

  "The girls would crowd around thee to be kist—

  "Dost love a girl?" "Od Zounds!" I cried "I'll list!"

  So past the night: anon the morning came,

  And off I set a volunteer for fame.

  "Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,

  "Stand easy!" so I did—till almost dead.

  Oh how I long'd to tend the plough again

  Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain,

  When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throng

  Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,

  And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,

  Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier!

  In town I found the hours more gayly pass

  And Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;

  The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair,

  They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care,

  The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,

  And he almost transferred me to the Devil.

  'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story

  Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory.

  At last discharg'd, to England's shores I came

  Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame,

  Found my fair friends and plunder'd as they bade me,

  They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me and betray'd me.

  Tried and condemn'd his Majesty transports me,

  And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me,

  So ends my dismal and heroic story

  And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.