The Soldier That Has Seen Service

From Calpe's rock, with loss of leg,
Reduced from port to port to beg,
See the conquering hero comes:
An ass's panniers bear his all,
Two sickly brats that fret and bawl,
And suck, for want of food, their thumbs.

The drooping mother follows near,
Now heaves a sigh, now drops a tear,
And casts the fond, maternal gaze;
Mars bluntly strives to cheat his dame,
Reminds her of his stock of fame,
And bids her hope for better days.

‘Alas,’ she cries, ‘and what is fame?
An empty sound, not worth a name.
Doth fame the needful loaf supply?
I'd give up all the fame you boast
For one fair joint of boiled or roast,
Or griskin fat or mutton-pie.

‘Was it for this we left our home
About the troubled world to roam,
To conquer Spain and want a meal?
Ah! had we never bled for those
Who see our still increasing woes,
And comfort's cup refuse to deal!’

Mars owns 'tis true, and cries, ‘Too late
'Tis now for us to carp at fate,
Or call the moment back that's flown.
Let shame at length the state o'erwhelm,
That knows he fought to save the realm,
And lets the wounded soldier moan.’

‘Amen,’ she cries; Mars wipes her tear,
Prepares some better theme to cheer,
Of battles, songs or pleasures gone;
From knapsack takes his little store,
Hoping that time will make it more;
Then parts his crust and hobbles on.
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