Weary of peace, and warm for war, Who first will mount the iron car? Who first appear, to shield the Stars, Who foremost, take the field of Mars?
For death and blood, with bold design, Who bids a hundred legions join? To see invasions in the air From France, the moon, or heaven knows where;
In freedom's mouth to fix the gag, And aid afford t’ a wither'd hag; This is the purpose of a few; But this we see will scarcely do.
Who bears the brunt, or pays the bill? The friends of war alone can tell: Observe, six thousand heroes stand With not three privates to command;
No matter for the nation's debt If some can wear the epaulette. If reason no attention finds, What magic shall unite all minds?
If war a patronage ensures That fifty thousand men procures, Is such a force to humble France? Will these against her arms advance?
To fight her legions, near the Rhine, Or England's force in Holland join? In dreams, that on the brain intrude, When nature takes her sleepy mood,
And when she frolics through the mind, By sovereign reason unconfined, When her main spring is all uncoil'd And fancy acts in whimsy wild —
I saw a chieftain, cap-a-pee, Arm'd for the battle,— who but he?— I saw him draw his rusty sword, A present from a London lord:
The point was blunt, the edge too dull I deem'd to cleave a dutchman's scull; And with this sword he made advance, And with this sword he struck at France —
This sword return'd without its sheath, Too weak to cause a single death; And there he found his work complete, And then he made a safe retreat,
Where folly finds the camp of rest And patience learns to do her best. What next, will policy contrive To bid the days of war arrive:
Is there no way to pick a quarrel, And deck the martial brow with laurel? Is there no way to coax a fight And gratify some men of might?
To some, who sit at helm of state, State-business is no killing weight, They sign their names, inquire the news, Look wise,— take care to get their dues;
At levees, note down who attends — And there the mighty business ends: To some that deal in state affairs The world comes easy, with its cares;
To some who wish for crown and king, A quarrel is a charming thing: They, seated at the fountain head Quaff bowls of nectar, and are fed
With all the danties of the land That cash, or market may command: But others doom'd to station low, Their choicest draughts are but — so, so.
Hard knocks are theirs, and blood, and wounds, Ten thousand thumps for twenty pounds: Their youth they sell for paltry pay For sixpence, and six kicks a day,
A pound of pork and rotten bread, A coat lapell'd, with badge of red; A life of din from year to year, And thus concludes the mad career.
Ye rising race, consider well What has been read, or what we tell. From wars all regal mischiefs flow, And kings make wars a raree-show,
A business to their post assign'd To torture, damn, enslave mankind. For this, of old, did priests anoint‘ em, Be ours the task to disappoint‘ em.
But when a foe your soil invades, A soldier is the first of trades; Then, every step a soldier takes, Reflection in his breast awakes,
That duty calls him to the field Till all invaders are expell'd; That honor sends him to the fight, That he is acting what is right,
To guard the soil, and all that's dear; From such as would be tyrants here.
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