Why don't you know me by my scars?

Why don't you know me by my scars?
I'm soldier Dick come from the wars;
Where many a head without a hat
Crowds honour's bed—but what of that?
Beat drums, play fifes, 'tis glory calls,
What argufies who stands or falls;
Lord what should one be sorry for?
Life's but the fortune of the war:
Then rich or poor, or well or sick,
Still laugh and sing shall soldier Dick.

I used to look two ways at once,
A bullet hit me on the sconce,
And dowsh'd my eye d'ye think I'd wince?
Why lord I've never squinted since.
Beat drums, &c.

Some distant keep from war's alarms,
For fear of wooden legs and arms,
While others die safe in their beds
Who all their lives had wooden heads.
Beat drums, &c.

Thus gout or fever, sword or shot,
Or something sends us all to pot:
That we're to die then do not grieve,
But let's be merry while we live.
Beat drums, &c.