Inglis Collection of printed music > Printed music > Composite music volumes containing different issues of Thomson's octavo collection of the songs of Burns and Sir Walter Scott > Volumes 1-2 > Select melodies of Scotland, interspersed with those of Ireland and Wales

21
A SOLDIER AM I, &c.
WRITTEN BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ.
AND HERE PUBLISHED BY HIS PERMISSION, IN 1822, WITH
THE AIR—" LUJIPS O' PUDDING."
A soldier am I, all the world o'er I range,
And would not my lot with a monarch exchange ;
How welcome a soldier wherever he roves,
Attended, like Venus, by Mars and the Loves ;
How dull is the ball, and how cheerless the fair,
What's a feast, or a frolic, if we are not there ;
Kind, hearty, and gallant, and joyous we come,
And the world looks alive at the sound of the drum.
" The soldiers are coming," the villagers cry,
All trades are suspended to see us pass by ;
Quick flies the glad sound to the maiden up stairs,
In a moment dismiss'd are her broom and her cares ;
Outstretch'd is her neck, till the soldiers she sees,
From her cap the red ribbon plays light on the breeze,
But lighter her heart plays, as nearer we come,
And redder her cheek at the sound of the drum.
The veteran, half-dozing, awakes at the news,
Hobbles out, and our column with triumph reviews ;
Near his knee his young grandson with ecstasy hears,
Of majors, and generals, and fierce brigadiers ;
Of the marches he took, and the hardships he knew,
Of the battles he fought, and the foes that he slew ;
To his heart spirits new in wild revelry come,
And make one rally more at the sound of the drum.
Who loves not a soldier — the generous, the brave,
The heart that can feel, and the arm that can save ;
In peace the gay friend, with the manners that charm.
The thought ever liberal, the soul ever warm ?
In his mind nothing selfish or pitiful known,
'Tis a temple which honour can enter alone ;
No titles I boast, yet wherever I come,
I can always feel proud at the sound of the drum.
SONG FOR THE SAME AIR.
WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK
BY BURNS.
Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp as they're creeping alang,
Wi' a cog o' gude ale, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought,
But man is a soldier, and life is a faught :
My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' gude fellowship southers it a' ;
When at the blithe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way ;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ;
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is " Welcome, and welcome again !"