Observe the chimney-sweepers, there! On gate-post, how they laugh and stare; Those bones, and emblematic skull, Have no effect to make them dull; Pleas'd they adorn the death-like head With spectacles of gingerbread. When _London_ city's bold train-band[F] March, to preserve their track of land, Each val'rous heart the _French_ defying, While drums are beating, colours flying, How many accidents resound From _Tower-hill_ to th' _Artillery-ground!_ Perhaps some hog, in frisky pranks, Unluckily breaks through their ranks, And makes the captain storm and swear, To _form_ their soldiers, _as they were_: Or else the wadding, which they ram, Pop into some one's ear they jam; Or not alert at gun and sword, When their commander gives the word To fire, amidst the dust and clamour, Forget to draw their desperate rammer; And one or two brave comrades hit, As cooks fix larks upon a spit. That Monkey's sure not of the reg'ment, Yet still his arms should have abridgement; The little, aukward, martial figure, Will wriggle till he pulls the trigger: 'Tis done--and see the bullet fly!-- Pop down, you rogue! or else you'll die. Survey, as merry as a grig, The Fiddler dancing to his jig! No goat, by good St. _David_ rear'd, Could ever boast more length of beard: 'Tis his to wait on Master _Bruin_, And tune away to all he's doing; You think this strange, but 'tis no more, Than _Orpheus_ did in days of yore; With modern fiddlers so it fares; They often scratch to dancing-bears. He took to scraping in his prime, And plays in tune, as well as time; Elections cheer his merry heart; Sure always then to _play_ his _part_: In toping healths as great a soaker As executing _Ally Croaker_. Tho' some Musicians scarce can touch The strings, if drunk a glass too much; Yet he'll tope ale, or stout _October_, And scrape as well when drunk, as sober. Lo, on yon stone which shows the way. That travellers mayn't go astray; And tells how many miles they lag on, From _London_, in the drawling waggon, A Soldier sits, in naked buff! In troth, Sir, this is odd enough! His head bound up, his sword-blade broken, And flesh with many a bloody token, Declare he fought extremely well; But which had best on't, who can tell? If he were victor, 'tis confest, To be so maul'd makes bad the best: What though he smart, he likes the jobb; 'Tis _great_ to head a party-mob. But what reward for all he did?-- Oh, Sir, he'll never want a--_quid_.