Сэмюэл Лавер (Samuel Lover)

The Bowld Sojer Boy

 Othere's not a thrade that's going
 Worth showing,
 Or knowing,
 Like that from glory growing,
   For a Bowld Sojer Boy!
 When right or left we go,
 Shure you know,
 Friend or foe,
 Will have the hand or toe
   From the Bowld Sojer Boy!
 There's not a town we march thro'
 But ladies, looking arch thro'
 The window-panes, will sarch thro'
   The ranks to find their joy.
 While up the street
 Each girl you meet,
 With look so sly
 Will cry, "My eye!
Oh, isn't he a darling, the Bowld Sojer Boy!"

 But when we get the route,
 How they pout,
 And they shout,
 While to the right-about
   Goes the Bowld Sojer Boy.
 'Tis then that ladies fair,
 In despair,
 Tear their hair;
 But the div'l a one I care,
   Says the Bowld Sojer Boy!
 For the world is all before us,
 Where the landladies adore us,
 And ne'er refuse to score us,
   But chalk us up with joy.
 We taste her tap,
 We tear her cap,
 "Oh, that's the chap
 For me!" says she,
"Oh, isn't he a darling, the Bowld Sojer Boy!"

 But now the Volunteers
 Greet our ears
 With their cheers,
 And men of sober years
   Turn to Bowld Sojer Boys.
 The schoolboy scorns his play,
 And will pray
 For the day
 When, old enough, he may
   Join the Bowld Sojer Boys!
 And girls, in every parish,
 When now they're ask'd in marriage,
 Disdaining clownish carriage,
   The hope of louts destroy:—
 They say, "Go drill
 And march, until
 With martial step
 You learn to leap
Into a woman's heart, like a Bowld Sojer Boy!"

 'Tis fine, when, on parade,
 By some maid
 Of high grade,
 A handsome present's made
   To the Bowld Sojer Boys.
 Some silver trump, whose sound
 Ringing round
 Guarded ground,
 Makes the gallant spirit bound
   Of the Bowld Sojer Boys!
 And when, at target-practice,
 The levell'd rifle crack'd is,
 Of triumph then no lack 'tis
   For marksmen in their joys:—
 'Tis not Bull's-eyes
 Alone they prize,
 But blue ones bright,
 That shed their light
Upon the rifle-prizemen of the Bowld Sojer Boys!

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