Soldier's Song.
Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl, That there ''s wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack, And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor, Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!
Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye;Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker, Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!
Our vicar thus preaches,--and why should he not?
For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.
Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, Sweet Marjorie 's the word and a fig for the vicar!
