A collection of comic songs written, Compil'd, Etch'd and Engrav'd, by J. Robertson; and sung by him At the theatres Nottingham, Derby, Stamford, Halifax, Chesterfield, and Redford |
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Song—a Medley, John Bumpkin upon Drill.
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 | A collection of comic songs |  |
Song—a Medley, John Bumpkin upon Drill.
Enters to the tune of the Duke of York's March.To raise new recruits with the sound of the drum;
Then rouse, hearts of oak! an example see here,
John Bumpkin on drill for a tall granidier.
(Speaking).
I think they'll mak summat o'me, at last—they ha' gin me this
fine red coit and splatterdashes, and sarjeant has undertain to drill ma himsen.
“Eyes right!”—Dang it, that's left; I want my arms chalking.—“Attention!”
Ecod, I'll be a coptain in less nor a year;
Rumtum de rumtum, &c.
I thought I never in my life heard music sound so sweetly;
With martial air, to win the fair, I look'd I don't know how, sir,
They laugh'd & cry'd, & sigh'd & die'd, when first I join'd the row dow, sir.
(Speaking).
Ecod, it were enough to make a cat laugh, to see sarjeant drilling
me—“Heads up! higher! still higher!”—What, mun I look always up a
this'en?—“To be sure you must.”—Why, then, gi's your hand, sarjeant:
good bye; for I shall never see yow any more—
Or shou'd she swound upon the ground, the devil a word I say, sir;
When I enter'd first my father curs'd, and call'd me simple tony,
With pig'd-tail tied, cock'd-hat beside, I'm quite a maccaroni.
(Speaking).
I shall ha' sweethearts enough, now, mun; for wenches, like
turkey-cocks, gobble at red rags—Nobut I shou'd do better if I cou'd but
turn my toes out; and this stock, it throttles one dandnationly. Serjeant
has found out a new way to mak one hould up one's head; for he stick a
pitch-fork under one's chin, and if you bob down, prongs goes up to your
ears, and you look like a man in a pillory—
In vain for some victuals you'll call;
But war gives the soldiers, in battle,
A breakfast of powder and ball:
It fills a man's stomach at once,
And soon puts an end to his pain;
And if once you shou'd eat this provision,
You'll never be hungry again.
(Speaking).
Why, our sarjeant has tou'd me, as how he has fought up to the
breeches waistband in blood; and once a red hot ball were coming plump
in his face, but he up wi' his sword and split it in two—Hold, mester sarjeant,
says I,—I think that's a—“Silence, you scoundrel! eyes right! Attention!”—
Prithee, never slink now the French are coming;
What need there more be said—it is a fine diversion,
And if you are shot dead, why, you're only in the fashion.
(Speaing).
If you cou'd nobut hear our sarjeant making a speak—“Gentlemen,
now's your only time—if any 'prentice has a bad master—if any man has a
bad wife—let him apply to me, at the sign of the pig and tinder-box; or at
Corporal Breakbones, at the hen's teeth and cat's feathers; or of Drummer
Crackskull, at the devil and bag of nails, they shall meet encouragement.
'Tis better, say, then cudgel play, and wins you mortal glory;
Loyal Hearts, stand the test, and shew your resolution,
And may the gallows catch the rest that strive to breed confusion.
It is my will the french to kill—I'll do't wi' all my heart—
Who knows? a recruit, may chance to shute, great General Bonypart.
(Spoken).
And, ecod, if I shou'd, they'd mak more fuss about me then they
do about young Roscus—and mayhap they'd ha' me painted and hung up at
alehouse door for a sign—then I shou'd say, attention! look at me for an
object—
| A collection of comic songs | |