Scripscrapologia or, Collins's Doggerel Dish Of All Sorts. Consisting of Songs Adapted to familiar Tunes, And which may be sung without the Chaunterpipe of an Italian Warbler, or the ravishing Accompaniments of Tweedle-Dum or Tweedle-Dee. Particularly those which have been most applauded in the author's once popular performance, call'd, The Brush. The Gallimaufry garnished with a variety of comic tales, quaint epigrams, whimsical epitaphs, &c. &c. [by John Collins] |
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THE SOLDIER LAD |
 | Scripscrapologia |  |
THE SOLDIER LAD
Of aw the Lads in Aberdeen,
The de'el a word but truth I tell,
That lightly tript it o'er the green,
Young Sondy bore awa the bell;
Young Sondy, wha, my mither dear,
His wife and helpless bairn to feed,
A soldier went, and without fear,
By sword or gun to smart or bleed.
The de'el a word but truth I tell,
That lightly tript it o'er the green,
Young Sondy bore awa the bell;
Young Sondy, wha, my mither dear,
His wife and helpless bairn to feed,
A soldier went, and without fear,
By sword or gun to smart or bleed.
For on the road he blythely sang,
We'll troop together aw, Sir,
And where's the dastard chiel that wad na
Wade through frast and snaw, Sir,
Where's the mon, in British lond,
That wad na stond or faw, Sir,
By all that's dear in life,—his wife,
His bonny bairns and aw, Sir.
We'll troop together aw, Sir,
And where's the dastard chiel that wad na
Wade through frast and snaw, Sir,
Where's the mon, in British lond,
That wad na stond or faw, Sir,
By all that's dear in life,—his wife,
His bonny bairns and aw, Sir.
48
But as the fate of war decreed,
He in the field of glory fell;
With laurels blooming on his head,
And bad us baith a lang farewel:
With grief my mither pin'd and dy'd,
Left me a soldier's life to lead:
But soon I got a bonny bride,
With bairns to keep up Sondy's breed.
He in the field of glory fell;
With laurels blooming on his head,
And bad us baith a lang farewel:
With grief my mither pin'd and dy'd,
Left me a soldier's life to lead:
But soon I got a bonny bride,
With bairns to keep up Sondy's breed.
And then to them I sang in turn,
We'll troop, &c.
We'll troop, &c.
We beat the march from toon to toon,
We sling the bairns apick apack;
And when on beds of straw laid doon,
At galling rubs we ne'er look back;
The warld's a camp, each hoose a tent,
The soldier sleeps in quarters free;
Gang here or there, he pays no rent,
And that's the life for Meg and me.
We sling the bairns apick apack;
And when on beds of straw laid doon,
At galling rubs we ne'er look back;
The warld's a camp, each hoose a tent,
The soldier sleeps in quarters free;
Gang here or there, he pays no rent,
And that's the life for Meg and me.
For still we beat the march and sing,
We'll troop, &c.
We'll troop, &c.
Our geer within a knapsack lies,
And as for pelf we need nae purse:
Our wants to-day the day supplies,
And let the morrow tak its course:
We meet our hardships with a smile,
And snap our thumbs at blade and ball:
Nor fear to face the funeral pile
That in a blaze might whelm us all!
And as for pelf we need nae purse:
Our wants to-day the day supplies,
And let the morrow tak its course:
We meet our hardships with a smile,
And snap our thumbs at blade and ball:
Nor fear to face the funeral pile
That in a blaze might whelm us all!
But while possess'd of life and limb,
We'll troop together aw, Sir,
And where's the dastard chiel that wad na
Wade through frast and snaw, Sir,
Where's the mon, in British lond,
That wad na stond or faw, Sir,
By aw that's dear in life,—his wife,
His bonny bairns and aw, Sir.
We'll troop together aw, Sir,
And where's the dastard chiel that wad na
Wade through frast and snaw, Sir,
Where's the mon, in British lond,
That wad na stond or faw, Sir,
By aw that's dear in life,—his wife,
His bonny bairns and aw, Sir.
| Scripscrapologia | |