Song II. LAMENT OF A CONNAUGHT RANGER.
[_]
Air.—Lamentation over Sir Dan.
1
I wish to St. Patrick we had a new war,
I'd not care who 'twas with, nor what it was for:
With the French, or the Yankees—or, better again,
With the yellow Mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain!
2
My heart is half broke when I think of the fun
We had before Boney, poor fellow, was done;
Oh! 'twas I who was sore when I heard he was dead,
For I thought on the days when he got me good bread.
3
When he, who, God rest him! was never afraid,
Sir Thomas, commanded the Fighting Brigade;
And the Rangers of Connaught—to see them was life—
Made game of the Frenchmen, and gave them the knife.
4
When abroad and at home we had sport and content—
Who cared then a damn for tithe, taxes, or rent?
When each dashing fine fellow who wish'd to enlist,
Might be off to the wars with his gun in his fist.
5
Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft—
The soldier's discharged,—and the sailor adrift,—
Half-pays to our captains poor living afford,
And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord!
6
And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers,
Must dirty their fingers with plough, loom, or shears;
Or if, just out of fun, we would venture a snap
At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap.
7
So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace,
For it almost has ground the nose out of our face;
And I wish to St. Patrick we had a new war,
Och! no matter with whom, no, nor what it is for!
