Classic Poem

The mincing step, the woman's air,
The tender sigh, the softened note,
Poor Adeline must now forswear,
Nor think upon the petticoat.

Since love has led me to the field.
The soldier's phrase I'll learn by rote;
I'll talk of drums, of sword, and shield,
And quite forget my petticoat.

When the loud cannon's roar I hear
And trumpets bray with brazen throat,
With blustering then I'll hide my fear,
Lest I betray my petticoat.

But ah! how slight the terrors past,
If he on whom I fondly doat
Is to my arms restored at last;
Then give me back my petticoat!