Classic Poem

Our hearts are heavy, if the gazette is true;
sorrowful, sorrowful are we;
our hearts are heavy, if the gazette is true.

Sad are the tidings we received
in Peterhead early on Monday.
Our hearts are heavy, if the gazette is true, &c.

'Tis mournful to be leaving George
since he has increased the pay.

'Tis woeful if we are disbanded,
when 'tis our wish to be as we are.

If we go to farm labour,
our shoulders will be bent with delving.

Much better to be gentlemen,
lining up in the battalion.

'Tis gladsome to be in the king's camp,
stoutly defending the kingdom,

and keeping the Frenchmen in terror,
while the mob has a leader.

Though many a task we have performed,
'tis soldiering stood us in good stead.

Sweet to my ears I find the drum,
when the reveille is sounded.

A cheering sight is the standard,
and the stalwarts ensuring its safety.

Handsome are our steel-grey guns
and our colourful, red coats.

We do not ask for peace, not we,
until we subjugate our foe.