The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

Serjeant.
LET the drum's inviting sound
Call the brave, gallant youth around,
From the wood-side and the vale,
And shaded hamlet in the dale:
Let them listen to my story,
Of War's renown—of Death and Glory.
By me, your noble King commands
His loyal people's hearts and hands.
Hear, my fine Lads, th'inspiring word;
And change your sickles for the sword.
Let coward spirits meanly toil,
To sow the seed or plough the soil:
Let others reap the ripen'd grain;
Harvests of honour he'll obtain,

Who seeks the pointed spear to wield,
And gather Fame in tented Field.
Let the drum's enliv'ning sound
Inspire the village heroes round.”

“I'm tir'd,” said Tom, “of this same home,
And oft have long'd abroad to roam.
I like the rattle of the drum;
And, Serjeant, to enlist I'm come.
Nay, while its noise the women fright,
Egad, it makes me long to fight;
And all, within the hundred, know,
That I can give a sturdy blow.
Ay, and, at cudgel-playing, I
Have often gain'd the victory.
O let me to the wars be led!—
I long to break a Frenchman's head.
So Master Serjeant, thus I say;
I'll follow where you lead the way.
I to the battle wish to go,
To serve my King and fight the foe.

Such is my word; so here's my hand;
And I'll obey as you command.”

“Take not my Son,” the Father cried;
The Mother wept, the Sister sigh'd:
“And Thomas, is it thus you prove,”
Molly exclaim'd “your plighted love.”
“Let not,” he said, “your sorrows flow,
I'm listed, Girl, and I must go,
Whether it pleases you, or no.
But, Molly, when you see me come,
From foreign lands, victorious home,
It then will be my honest pride,
To make my Love a Soldier's bride.”

“Dry up your tears,” the Serjeant said,
“He now pursues a nobler trade.
How will your warm affections burn,
To see your lover soon return;
The white plume nodding on his crest;
The stamp of honour on his breast;

Strutting along in martial pride,
The sabre dangling by his side.
He'll then be worthy of your charms,
A Hero then will fill your arms.”

“If I were sure he would again,”
Says Molly, “view his native plain;
I'd smile and, through the ling'ring year,
His absence would with patience bear.
But much I fear some fatal blow
Will lay my much-lov'd Thomas low.
The Sexton says he knows you well,
And 'tis an idle tale you tell:
That your recruits are always slain,
And never see their homes again.
Such are the fears that fill my breast,
That ne'er will leave my heart at rest:
Such the sad burthen of my story.”—
—“Then 'twill, sweet Girl, be Death and Glory!”