JEFFERY, OR, THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS

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 habits 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!