Mirth and Metre consisting of Poems, Serious, Humorous, and Satirical; Songs, Sonnets, Ballads & Bagatelles. Written by C. Dibdin, Jun |
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FEMALE VOLUNTEER. |
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 | Mirth and Metre |  |
FEMALE VOLUNTEER.
In danger's hour, when our haughty foes
Our British standard dare oppose,
When our gallant lads are oblig'd to roam,
Why should women idly stay at home?
I'm volunteer turn'd, and, indeed, what's more,
A smart drill scrjeant of the corps;
And whenever our old England's claims require,
Can soon “make ready! present, and fire!”
Our British standard dare oppose,
When our gallant lads are oblig'd to roam,
Why should women idly stay at home?
I'm volunteer turn'd, and, indeed, what's more,
A smart drill scrjeant of the corps;
And whenever our old England's claims require,
Can soon “make ready! present, and fire!”
I'm a merry little wag in a scarlet frock,
And my heart's as stout as my musket stock.
The rat-tat-too I love to hear,
Like a merry little British Volunteer.
And my heart's as stout as my musket stock.
The rat-tat-too I love to hear,
Like a merry little British Volunteer.
With Britain's foes what can't we do,
When, Sirs, you must own we can conquer you?
See us marshall'd out, and the fight begun,
The words “Charge Bayonet!” away they run,
While we pink the cowards as they fly,
Till loudly all for quarter cry;
And as mercy's the pride of the British throne,
The word's “Ground arms!” and the day's our own.
When, Sirs, you must own we can conquer you?
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The words “Charge Bayonet!” away they run,
While we pink the cowards as they fly,
Till loudly all for quarter cry;
And as mercy's the pride of the British throne,
The word's “Ground arms!” and the day's our own.
I'm a merry, &c.
Their arms all grounded to our view,
To “take up arms,” is of course our cue;
And having boldly gain'd the day,
'Tis “Shoulder-arms!” and we march away;
Then, soldier-like, each jovial soul
Crouds gaily round the flowing bowl,
And toasts, with voice and heart, with three,
Britannia! George! and Liberty!
To “take up arms,” is of course our cue;
And having boldly gain'd the day,
'Tis “Shoulder-arms!” and we march away;
Then, soldier-like, each jovial soul
Crouds gaily round the flowing bowl,
And toasts, with voice and heart, with three,
Britannia! George! and Liberty!
I'm a merry, &c.
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