See the pier throng’d with gazers! The War is begun! The soldiers are coming――“Let’s see them!” “Run, run!” A thousand loud voices resound far and near, With the hearty “huzza” and the soul-stirring “cheer.” While with mien like a hero――erecting his crest, Proud and pleas’d――with true courage inflaming his breast, With the prospect of glory, his ardour increas’d, The High Mettled Guardsman embarks for the East. From the ship now turned out his way he must push, Through mud and through marshes, through rain, cold, and slush. They leave him to struggle as well as he may From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay. Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field, He is sure to come through, for he never will yield; And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet, The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet. Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud, Still ready to shed for his country his blood; While knowing officials――the precedents trace, Of what are the ancient traditions of place. What appointments were made――in what heads will reside The patronage Government has to divide. Thus the High Mettled Guardsman, ’tis easily seen, The victim becomes of official routine. At length ill and weak, working early and late, Bowed down by disease to a pitiful state; Expos’d to the wet――a continual drench, He feebly turns over the mud in the trench. And now, cold and lifeless, he silently lies On the soil where he hoped to win victory’s prize: Whilst official _routine_ on contentedly jogs, And the High Mettled Guardsman has gone to the dogs. _Punch._ January, 1855. A parody, entitled _The Village-Born Beauty_, appeared in “The Universal Songster,” vol. 1, p. 356, and was also printed as a halfpenny ballad, by Taylor, of Brick Lane, Bethnal Green. This song described the adventures of the Village-born Beauty, (who had strayed from the paths of virtue) in language somewhat too free to be admitted in this collection. ――――:o:―――― THE BOATSWAIN CALLS. My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough, I’ve seen a little service, Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I’ve sail’d with gallant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jervis, And in valiant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out yo, heave ho! Yet more ye shall be knowing, I was coxon to Boscawen, And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe. Then put round the grog, So we’ve that and our prog, We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing yo heave ho! * * * * *