Merry Month of May


H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 54 Chatham Street, New-York

Merry Month of May.

’Twas in the merry month of May,
When bees from flower to flower did hum:
Soldiers, through the town, march’d gay,
And all resolved to follow the drum.
From windows, lasses looked a score,
And neighbors met at every door;
The Soldier-lads charm’d ev’ry sight:
For, eyes beam’d with pleasure, hearts danc’d light;

Young Roger swore he’d leave his plough,
His team and tillage, and all, by gum!
Of a country-life he’d had enough, (enow)
He’d leave them all, and follow the drum!
He’d leave his thrashing in the barn;
To thrash his foes right soon he’d larn;
With sword in hand, he wouldn’t parley,
But thrash his foes instead of the barley.

The Cobbler he threw by his awl;
When all were glad, he’d ne’er be glum,
But quick attend to Glory’s call
And, like a man, would follow the drum:
No more at home he’d be a slave,
But take his seat amid the brave;
In Battle’s plains none should be prouder,
’Stead of balls of wax, he’d have balls of powder.

The Tailor he got off his knees,
And to the ranks did boldly come;
He said: no more he’d sit at his ease,
But, like the lads, would follow the drum.
How he’d lather his foes, Good Lord!
When for a bodkin he’d a sword!
The foe would find he didn’t wheedle,
When he’d a spear instead of a needle.

Three old women: the first was lame,
The second was blind, the third night dumb..
To stay behind’s a burning shame,
So, like the lads, we’ll follow the drum.
Our wills are good, but, lack-a-day!
To catch the lads we’ll have a try for ‘t;
For, where there’s a will, there’s always a way;
So, we’ll walk a mile or two, if we die for ‘t.

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