And burn you must, if, slow to act, You wait to see your cities sack'd, Yourselves enslav'd, and all things lose That labor earns or wealth bestows; If slow to send your heated balls, Indignant, through their wooden walls. O may you see their squadrons yield Their legions sink on every field; And new Burgoynes, to slaughter bred, Burgoynes, once more, in fetters led. And may you see all foreign power Forever banish'd from your shore, And see disheartened tyrants mourn, And Britain to her hell return. THE SUTTLER AND THE SOLDIER. "Who would refuse this cheering draught?" The suttler said, and saying, laugh'd The soldier, then, the liquor quaff'd, And felt right bold. The suttler soon foresaw the rest, And thus the son of Mars address'd, "This brandy is the very best Of all I've sold. "The journey you are bound to go, In former times, I travell'd too, When Arnold march'd, with lord knows who, To seize Quebec. "And if he fail'd in that assault, It was not, sure, the brandy's fault; The best, at times, may make a halt, Ay, break his neck. "Now hear a dotard of your trade:-- Of old I lived by flint and blade, But, disregarded, and decay'd, I'm nothing now. "This leaky shed is not my own, And here I stay, unheard, unknown, Poor Darby, and without a Joan, Nor horse, nor cow. "But mend your draught--I have more to say:-- You now are young, and under pay; Be warn'd by me, whose hairs are grey; The time will come "When you may find this trade of arms, The march, that now your bosom warms, Has little but illusive charms, Mere beat of drum: "But yet, in such a cause as this I deem your ardor not amiss-- I know you are no hireling swiss; Your country calls: "And when she calls, you must obey; For wages not--fig for the pay-- Tis honor calls you out this day To face the balls. "You have to go where George Provost Has many a soldier made a ghost, Where indians many a prisoner roast Or seize their scalps. "And what of that?--mere fate of war-- God grant you may have better fare-- Go, fight beneath a kinder star, And scourge the whelps. "They scarce are men--mere flesh and blood-- Mere ouran-outangs of the wood, Forever on the scent of blood, And deers at heart. "When men, like you, approach them nigh, They make a yell, retreat, and fly: On equal ground, they never try The warrior's art. "Then dare their strength--at honor's call Explore the road to Montreal, To dine, perchance, in Drummond's hall, Perhaps in jail.