XLII
THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND
Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did say,
‘If ever I live upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!’
Says Freedom, ‘Why that’s my own island!’
O, it’s a snug little island!
A right little, tight little island,
Search the globe round, none can be found
So happy as this little island.
Julius CÆsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water,—he couldn’t come by land;
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on,
And all for the sake of our island.
O, what a snug little island!
They’d all have a touch at the island!
Some were shot dead, some of them fled,
And some staid to live on the island.
Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman,
Cried ‘D—n it, I never liked my land;
It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy,
And live on yon beautiful island.’
Says he, ‘’Tis a snug little island:
Sha’n’t us go visit the island?’
Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,
And he kick’d up a dust in the island.
But party-deceit help’d the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they managed to buy land,
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d,
Had they stuck to the King of their island.
Poor Harold, the King of the island!
He lost both his life and his island.
That’s very true; what more could he do?
Like a Briton he died for his island!
The Spanish Armada set out to invade-a,
Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land,
They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing in the island.
O, the poor Queen of the island!
The Dons came to plunder the island;
But, snug in the hive, the Queen was alive,
And buz was the word in the island.
Those proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes
Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land,
When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck
And stoop to the lads of the island.
Huzza for the lads of the island!
The good wooden walls of the island;
Devil or Don, let ’em come on;
But how would they come off at the island?
Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune,
In each saying, ‘This shall be my land’;
Should the ‘Army of England,’ or all they could bring, land,
We’d show ’em some play for the island.
We’ll fight for our right to the island;
We’ll give them enough of the island;
Invaders should just—bite at the dust,
But not a bit more of the island!
Thomas Dibdin. XLIII
THE MERRY SOLDIER
‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud:
Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly;
‘Here, master sergeant,’ said I, from the crowd,
‘Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.’
My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade,
Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid:
He’d march, fight—left, right,
Front flank—centre rank,
Storm the trenches—court the wenches,
Loved the rattle of a battle,
Died with glory—lives in story!
And, like him, I found a soldier’s life, if taken smooth and rough,
A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
‘Hold up your head,’ said the sergeant at drill:
Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly;
‘Turn out your toes, sir!’ Says I, ‘Sir, I will,’
For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly.
My father died when corporal, but I ne’er turned my back,
Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack.
In sword and sash cut a dash,
Spurr’d and booted, next recruited
Hob and Clod—awkward squad,
Then began my rattan,
When boys unwilling came to drilling;
Till, made the colonel’s orderly, then who but I so bluff,
Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
‘Homeward, my lads!’ cried the general.—‘Huzza!’
Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer’ly,
To quick time we footed, and sung all the way
‘Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!’
My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and strife,
And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife
Soon as miss blushes ‘y-i-s!’
Rings, gloves, dears, loves,
Bells ringing, comrades singing,
Honeymoon finished soon,
Scolding, sighing, children crying!
Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough,
A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.
Thomas Dibdin.
|
  |
