Classic Poem

Lured by some corporal's smooth address,
His scarlet coat and roguish face,
One half a joe on drum head laid,
A tavern treat — and reckoning paid;
See yonder simple lad consigned
To slavery of the meanest kind.

With only skill to drive a plough
A musquet he must handle now;
Must twirl it here and twirl it there,
Now on the ground, now in the air:
Its every motion by some rule
Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,
Must be directed — nicely true —
Or he be beaten black — and blue.

A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes,
May now this country lad abuse: —
On meagre fare grown poor and lean,
He treats him like a mere machine,
Directs his look, directs his step,
And kicks him into decent shape,
From aukward habit frees the clown,
Erects his head — or knocks him down.

Last Friday week to Battery-Green
The sergeant came with this MACHINE —
One motion of the firelock missed — —
The TUTOR thumped him with his fist:
I saw him lift his hickory cane,
I heard poor Jeffery's head complain! — —
Yet this — — and more — — he's forced to bear:
And thus goes on from year to year,
'Till desperate grown, at such a lot,
He drinks — deserts — and so is shot!