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“O Patty Head, O Patty Head,
You ’re come to my last kissing ; Before I'm set in the Gazette
As wounded, dead, and missing !
“ Alas! a splinter of a shell
Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well
With stomachs as French bricks.
“ This very night a merry dance
At Brussels was to be ; — Instead of opening a ball,
A ball has opened me.
“Its billet every bullet has,
And well it does fulfil it; I wish mine hadn't come so straight,
But been a crooked billet.'
“ And then there came a cuirassier
And cut me on the chest ;He had no pity in his heart,
For he had steeled his breast.
“ Next thing a lancer, with his lance,
Began to thrust away ;
It was not Quarter-day.
“He ran his spear right through my arm,
Just here above the joint:O Patty dear, it was no joke,
Although it had a point.
“ With loss of blood I fainted off,
As dead as women do — . But soon by charging over me,
The Coldstream brought me to.
“ With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows,
I throb and ache all over;
Is not a field of clover !
“O why did I a soldier turn
For any royal Guelph ?
In business for myself !
“O why did I the bounty take
(And here he gasped for breath) My shillingsworth of list is nailed
Upon the door of death!
“ Without a coffin I shall lie
And sleep my sleep eternal : Not ev'n a shell — my only chance
Of being made a Kernel !
“O Patty dear, our wedding bells
Will never ring at Chester !
That isn't worth a tester!
“ Farewell, my regimental mates,
With whom I used to dress !
In quite another mess.
“ Farewell, my Patty dear, I have
No dying consolations,
And see th' Illuminations."
“ The charge is prepared.” – MACHEATH.
If I shoot any more I'll be shot,
I have marched the whole day
With a gun, — for no pay — Zounds, I 'd better have been in the army!
What matters Sir Christopher's leave;
With confidence fraught,
My two pointers I brought,
And that gamekeeper too, with advice !
Not far, were his words,
I could go without birds : If my legs could cry out, they'd cry “Walker !”
Not Hawker could find out a flaw,—
And I've brought my own man,
To mark down all he can,
The partridges,— where can they lie?
As the least I could do ;
But without even two
To the pheasants — how well they ’re preserved ! My sport's not a jot more beholden,
As the birds are so shy,
For my friends I must buy,
I have tried ev'ry form for a hare,
With toil unrelaxed,
Till my patience is taxed,
I've been roaming for hours in three flats
But still vainly I court
The percussioning sport,
A woodcock,— this month is the time,-
With well-loaded double,
But spite of my trouble,
A rabbit I should not despise,
This day's the eleventh,
It is not the seventh,
For a mallard I've waded the marsh,
Mine is not the luck,
To obtain thee, O Duck,