_Serg._ Hope, your honour, is but a meagre mess for a regiment. Hope has almost shrunk them out of their doublets. Hope has made their legs so weary of the lease they had taken of their hose, that all their calves have slunk away from the premises. There isn't a stocking in the whole company that can boast of a tolerable tenant. The privates join in the public complaining; the drummers grow noisy; our poor corporal has no body left; and the trumpeter is blown up with wind. _Officer._ Do they grow mutinous? Look to them--check their muttering. _Serg._ Troth, sir, I do my best:--when they grumble for meat, I make them eat their own words; and give them some solid counsel, well seasoned with the pepper of correction. _Officer._ Well, well! look to them; keep a strict watch; and march the guards to their several posts. [_Exit OFFICER._ _Serg._ Now must I administer consolation, and give the rogues their daily meal of encouragement.--Hem! Countrymen, fellow soldiers, and Frenchmen!--be of good cheer, for famine is come upon you, and you are all in danger of starving. Is there any thing dearer to a Frenchman than his honour? Isn't honour the greater, the greater the danger? and has any body ever had the honour of being in greater danger than you?--Rejoice, then, for your peril is extreme! Be merry, for you have a glorious dismal prospect before you; and as pleasing a state of desperation as the noble heart of a soldier could wish! Come! one cheer for the glory of France.--St. Dennis, and our Grand Monarque, King Philip the Sixth! [_SOLDIERS huzza very feebly._ Oons! it sounds as hollow as a churchyard. The voice comes through their wizen mouths like wind from the crack of an old wainscot. Away, rogues, to your posts! Bristle up your courage, and wait the event of time! Remember ye are Frenchmen, and bid defiance to famine! Our mistresses are locked up with us in the town; we have frogs in the wells, and snuff at the merchants'. An Englishman, now, would hang himself upon this, which is enough to make a gay Frenchman happy. Allons, camarades! SONG.--SERGEANT. _My comrades so famish'd and queer,_ _Hear the drums, how they jollily beat!_ _They fill our French hearts with good cheer,_ _Although we have nothing to eat._ _Rub a dub._ All. _Nothing to eat: rub a dub,_ _Rub a dub--we have nothing to eat._ _Then, hark to the merry toned fife!_ _To hear it 'twill make a man younger:_ _I tell you, my lads, this is life_ _For any one dying with hunger._ _Toot a too._ All. _Dying with hunger: toot a too,_ _Toot a too--we are dying with hunger._