THE BOLD IRISH SOLDIER.
A raw recruit, och, shure is me,
I enlisted in Philadelphy;
Field Marshall I soon came to be,
Tip top of the Union army.
Oh, what pleasure, and, oh, what joys
"Twill be to gain promotion,
I've a taste for fighting anyhow, boys.
An' a better one for the lotion.
Spoken-Arrah, an' ain't I, sure, fond of the lotion. Look at
the bloom on the top of me nose. Ain't it beautiful? But the
worst of it is, it is always runnin', an' the divil a bit can I stop it,
and that's not military, is it, lads? It wants a rum puncheon
(punching). I should think that would do it. But enough. I'll
lave me nose alone an' go on wid me tale. Well, afther I took the
bounty, I enlisted, and got drunk to the tune of
Wid spirits gay I'll march away,
All danger to be scorning;
I could fight all night till the break of day,
An' come home quite fresh in the morning.
Now I an another, an' a good man more,
Had to strip an' show our figger.
An' be well examined by Dr. O'Moore
Afore we could pull a trigger.
The doctor patted us on the backs,
Says he, none can be prouder,
Yez can give and take some thunderin' whacks,
And' yer rattlin' stuff for powder.
Spoken-Well, and afther we were all squinted at, the sargent
comes up, and says: "Fall in. Quick march, an' don't fall out,"
an' thin we all marched in a straight line down crooked lanes till
we came to the Pig in the Pound, kept by a mighty civil landlord,
who lost his appetite directly afther we entered, an' I belave has
not regained it since. However, he put us six in a bed, an' all of
us dramed about ould Ireland, the first Jim of the say, bless the
veins of her heart. An' somehow or another we all dramed we
were fightin' the enemy, for in the middle of the night we all rolled
on to the floor, an' I got a murtherous kick on the iaw from Mick
Casey's iron-tipped boot, who let daylight into Kelly's skull, who
holler'd blue murther, which woke the divil of a sargent up, who
soon got knocked down, but up came the picket, and we were
marched off to be drilled to the tune of
See these ribbons gayly living,
I mane fightin' for the flat,
I mane fightin' for the flag.
For that I don't mind dyin'.
Since to ould Ireland good it's been,
I'll serve it with right good will,
And help to cure or kill
Any cruel despot's band,
Should they e'er attempt to land;
For we're made of fightin' stuff,
And they'll get handled rather rough.
Then three cheers for our Union flag,
Three cheers for our Union flag.
Spoken-Well, I shan't say anything more about myself or any
other man to-night, lads, but drop in to-morrow if your poor feet
will let you, an' hear me sing to the tune of-Chorus.