THE VOLUNTEER.

  “The clashing of my armor in my ears
  Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me
  In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
  To dig my grave.”

THE LOVER’S PROGRESS.

I.

’Twas in that memorable year
France threaten’d to put off in
Flat-bottom’d boats, intending each
To be a British coffin,
To make sad widows of our wives,
And every babe an orphan:—­

II.

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,
And heads were dredg’d with flour,
I listed in the Lawyer’s Corps,
Against the battle hour;
A perfect Volunteer—­for why? 
I brought my “will and pow’r.”

III.

One dreary day—­a day of dread,
Like Cato’s, over-cast—­
About the hour of six, (the morn
And I were breaking fast,)
There came a loud and sudden sound,
That struck me all aghast!

IV.

A dismal sort of morning roll,
That was not to be eaten;
Although it was no skin of mine,
But parchment that was beaten,
I felt tattooed through all my flesh,
Like any Otaheitan.

V.

My jaws with utter dread enclos’d
The morsel I was munching,
And terror lock’d them up so tight,
My very teeth went crunching
All through my bread and tongue at once,
Like sandwich made at lunching.

VI.

My hand that held the tea-pot fast,
Stiffen’d, but yet unsteady,
Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o’er
The cup in one long eddy,
Till both my hose were marked with tea,
As they were mark’d already.

VII.

I felt my visage turn from red
To white—­from cold to hot;
But it was nothing wonderful
My color changed, I wot,
For, like some variable silks,
I felt that I was shot.

VIII.

And looking forth with anxious eye,
From my snug upper story,
I saw our melancholy corps,
Going to beds all gory;
The pioneers seem’d very loth
To axe their way to glory.

IX.

The captain march’d as mourners march,
The ensign too seem’d lagging,
And many more, although they were
No ensigns, took to flagging—­
Like corpses in the Serpentine,
Methought they wanted dragging.

X.

But while I watch’d, the thought of death
Came like a chilly gust,
And lo!  I shut the window down,
With very little lust
To join so many marching men,
That soon might be March dust.