_Fifer._ A sad head-breaking, I fancy. Plaguy troublesome times, brother! Buffetted, by the opposite party, out of one place, and now waiting till they come to buffet us out of another. Whenever they do come, let me tell you, a man will scarce have time to get up from his straw bed, before he's laid down again by a long shot of the enemy. We shall be popp'd at like a parcel of partridges, rising from stubble. _Drum._ Pshaw! plague, what signifies taking matters to heart? Luck's all. War's a chance, you know. If one day's bad, another's better. What matters an odd drubbing, or so? A soldier should never grumble. _Fifer._ Why, zouns! flesh and blood, nor any thing that belongs to a camp, can't help it. Do, now, only give your drum a good beating, and mind what a damn'd noise it will make.--Not grumble, when we take so many hard knocks? _Drum._ No, to be sure; else how should we be able to return them? _Fifer._ Ay, there stands the case; we never can return them. Others can have a blow, and give a blow; but as for me, and yourself, and Kit Crackcheeks, the trumpeter; 'sbud, they may thump us from morning to night, and all the revenge we have, is--Toot-a-too, rub-a-dub, and tantararara. _Drum._ O fie! learn to know our consequence better, brother, I beseech you. My word for it, we are the heros that do all the execution. Who but we keep up the vigour of an engagement, and the courage of the soldiers? Fear, brother, is, for all the world, like your bite of a tarantula; there's no conquering its effects without music. We are of as much consequence to an army, as wind to a windmill: the wings can't be put in motion without us. _Fifer._ Marry, that's true: and if two armies ever meet without coming to blows, nothing but our absence can be the occasion of it. The only way to restore harmony is, to take away our music. _Enter a CORPORAL and SOLDIERS._ _Soldier._ Come along, my boys; now for the news! _Corp._ Silence! _Soldiers._ Ay, ay--Silence. _Corp._ Hold your peace, there, and listen to what I'm going to inform you--Hem!--Who am I? _All Soldiers._ Our corporal! Alick Puff;--our corporal. _Corp._ O ho! am I so?--then obey orders, you riotous rascals, and keep your tongues between the few teeth the civil war has been civil enough to leave you. What! is it for a parcel of pitiful privates to gabble before their superior officer! know yourselves for a set of ignorant boobies, as you are--and do not forget that I am at the head of you. _Drum._ But, pr'ythee, good Master Corporal, what news? _Corp._ Ay, there it is; good Master Corporal, and sweet Master Corporal, the news? who is to tell you, but I? and what do I ever get by it? _Fifer._ Come, come, you shall have our thanks with all our hearts;--we promise you that. _Soldier._ Ay, ay, that you shall--now for it! _Corp._ Then!--You remember your promise? _All Soldiers._ Yes, yes, we do. _Corp._ Why, then, you'll all have your throats cut before to-morrow morning. _All._ How!