Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, In each saying, ‘This shall be my land’; Should the ‘Army of England,’ or all they could bring, land, We’d show ’em some play for the island. We’ll fight for our right to the island; We’ll give them enough of the island; Invaders should just--bite at the dust, But not a bit more of the island! _Thomas Dibdin._ XLIII THE MERRY SOLDIER ‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud: Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly; ‘Here, master sergeant,’ said I, from the crowd, ‘Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.’ My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade, Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid: He’d march, fight--left, right, Front flank--centre rank, Storm the trenches--court the wenches, Loved the rattle of a battle, Died with glory--lives in story! And, like him, I found a soldier’s life, if taken smooth and rough, A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. ‘Hold up your head,’ said the sergeant at drill: Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly; ‘Turn out your toes, sir!’ Says I, ‘Sir, I will,’ For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly. My father died when corporal, but I ne’er turned my back, Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack. In sword and sash cut a dash, Spurr’d and booted, next recruited Hob and Clod--awkward squad, Then began my rattan, When boys unwilling came to drilling; Till, made the colonel’s orderly, then who but I so bluff, Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. ‘Homeward, my lads!’ cried the general.--‘Huzza!’ Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer’ly, To quick time we footed, and sung all the way ‘Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!’ My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and strife, And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife Soon as miss blushes ‘_y-i-s!_’ Rings, gloves, dears, loves, Bells ringing, comrades singing, Honeymoon finished soon, Scolding, sighing, children crying! Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough, A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. _Thomas Dibdin._ SOUTHEY XLIV THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS