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!