_Ah! non, non, non!_ _Pauvre Madelon_ _Should never quit her rover:_ _Ah! non, non, non!_ _Pauvre Madelon_ _Should go with me all the world over._ Both. _Then let the world jog as it will,_ _Let hollow friends forsake us,_ _We both shall be as happy still_ _As war and love can make us._ _Ah! non, non, non!_ _Pauvre Madelon_ _Shall never quit her rover:_ _Ah! non, non, non,!_ _Pauvre Madelon_ _Shall go with {you/me} all the world over._ _La Gloire._ By the mass, Madelon, such a wife as thou wilt be, would make a man, after another campaign,--for another I must have, to satisfy the cravings of my appetite,--go nigh to forswear the wars. _Madelon._ Ah, La Gloire! would it were so! but the sound of a trumpet will ever lead thee after it. _La Gloire._ Tut--a trumpet!--thy voice, Madelon, will drown it. _Madelon._ Ah, La Gloire! [_Shaking her Head._ _La Gloire._ Nay, then, I am the veriest poltroon, if I think the sound of a trumpet would move me any more than--[_A Parley is sounded from the Walls._]--Eh!--gad--oh!--ecod there's a bustle! a parley from the walls; which may end in a skirmish, or a battle--or a--I'll be with you again in the chopping off of a head. _Madelon._ Nay, now, La Gloire, I thought the sound of a trumpet---- _La Gloire._ A trumpet--simpleton!--that was a--gad I--wasn't it a drum?--Adieu, Madelon! I'll be back again ere--[_Parley._]----March! --Charge!--Huzza! [_Draws his Sword, and exit._ _Madelon._ Well-a-day! a soldier's wife must have a fearful time on't. Yet do I love La Gloire; he is so kind, so tender!--and he has, simply, the best leg in the army. Heigho!--It must feel very odd to sleep in a tent:--a camp must be ever in alarms, and soldiers always ready for surprise.--Dame Toinette, who married a corporal, ere I was born, told me, that, for one whole campaign, her husband went to bed in his boots. SONG.--MADELON. _Little thinks the townsman's wife,_ _While at home she tarries,_ _What must be the lass's life,_ _Who a soldier marries._ _Now with weary marching spent,_ _Dancing now before the tent,_ _Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_ _With her jolly soldier._ _In the camp, at night, she lies,_ _Wind and weather scorning,_ _Only grieved her love must rise,_ _And quit her in the morning;_ _But the doubtful skirmish done,_ _Blithe she sings at set of sun;_ _Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_ _With her jolly soldier._