Blow forth the clarion's pealing sound,
Your voices raise on high,
And send the bottle quickly round,
To drink to victory;
The campaign to the champagne yields.
The festive board invites,
Extinguish every thought of care—
Blow out your very lights!
[Illustration:
But glory is a kin' o' thing I shan't pursue no furder.—
__BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.__
]
Our march in glory's bright career,
All other troops surpasses;
For, whilst they _charge their fellow men_,
We only _charge our glasses_;
No tears our conquests e'er await,
Nor bier, with trappings sable,
They—leave _their_ dead men on the field,
We—_ours_, beneath the table!
At _Waterloo_, a fearful game
The _trumpet_ call began,
At _three card loo_ we win our trick,
And _trump it_—when we can:
The _verdant bays_ the chaplet form,
For which the warrior prays—
A different game we strive to win,
Not for, but on, _green baize_.
The ranks that join in our _piquette_,
By deep old _files_ are form'd;
We keep no _watches_ but our own—
Our posts are never storm'd;
Our own _reviews_, in brilliancy,
The "Quarterly" outshine;
Our only _challenge_ is to take
A glass of generous wine.
And should we ever take the field,
Our troops would be found _fast_;
The _first_ might trust to our support,
For sticking to the _last_;
And ever, upon equal terms,
Our enemies we'd meet,
For, did they treat us with a ball,
We would, in turn, retreat.