Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck, Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec; Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail, Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail; And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough: Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff. Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance, To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance. Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will try At their capital to give them another black eye. Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,-- Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff. With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose, Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose; And the Indians will come: but the light infantry Will soon oblige _them_ to betake to a tree. From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff? Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff! When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore, While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar, Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's--I know the lappels." "You lie," says Ned Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'! Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff; So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff." EDWARD BOTWOOD. About the end of August a place was found where the heights might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?" HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? [September 12, 1759] How stands the glass around? For shame ye take no care, my boys, How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound, The trumpets sound, The colors they are flying, boys, To fight, kill, or wound, May we still be found Content with our hard fate, my boys, On the cold ground. Why, soldiers, why, Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why? Whose business 'tis to die! What, sighing? fie! Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys! 'Tis he, you or I! Cold, hot, wet or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly! 'Tis but in vain,-- I mean not to upbraid you, boys,-- 'Tis but in vain, For soldiers to complain: Should next campaign Send us to him who made us, boys, We're free from pain! But if we remain, A bottle and a kind landlady Cure all again. JAMES WOLFE.