Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone, he sang ... the Song of the Sword. "Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand fathers die; Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand children cry! Fight--fight--fight! while mothers and wives lament; And fight--fight--fight! while millions of money are spent. "Fight--fight--fight! should the cause be foul or fair, Though all that's gained is an empty name, and a tax too great to bear; An empty name, and a paltry fame, and thousands lying dead; Whilst every glorious victory must raise the price of bread. War--war--war! fire, and famine, and sword; Desolate fields and desolate towns, and thousands scattered abroad, With never a home, and never a shed, whilst kingdoms perish and fall; And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, ... and all for nothing at all! "War--war--war! musket, and powder, and ball-- Ah! what do we fight so for? ah! why have we battles at all? 'Tis Justice must be done, they say, the nation's honour to keep; Alas! that Justice should be so dear, and human life so cheap! War--war--war! misery, murder, and crime; Are all the blessings I've seen in thee, from my youth to the present time. Misery, murder, and crime--crime, misery, murder, and woe; Ah! would I had known in my younger days half the horrors which now I know." Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, And thus with a sad and a terrible tone (oh! would that these truths were more perfectly known!) he sang the Song of the Sword. ANONYMOUS. * * * * * THE SONG OF A SOT. Words composed by Bro. J. B. Davies, P.M. (753). _Dedicated to George Cruikshank, Esq., by his kind permission._ With a visage pale and wan, With a vacant stare of eye; The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw, In a tavern standing by. Drink, drink, drink, Was the demon that urged him on; And yet still with a husky voice did he call For drink, till "his pence were gone." Drink, drink, drink, From morning until night! Drink, drink, drink, By the glare of bright gaslight. Oh! fearful sight to see, And a dreadful thought to think, That man, who should rule, a slave should be To that fearful demon, drink.