Since by cutting of trotes all our glories encreafe

Since by cutting of trotes all our glories encreafe,
Of war let us sing, becase why it brings peace:
Of hacking and hewing, in front and in rear,
Of some kilt by the sword, and some dying through fear.
Death alive! what sweet slaught'ring, and cutting, and scars!
Is it honour you'd seek, won't you go to the wars?
Where death his long scythe bathes in gore to the hilt,
And whips heads from shoulders so clever,
And where should you have the good luck to be kilt,
By my soul you'll be living for ever!

The army's drawn out, the confusion's begun,
While our arms shine so bright that they dazzle the sun,
Oh the glorious sight! but the best of the joke,
The devil a soul are we seeing but smoak.
Death alive, &c.

Like a Will o' th' Wisp, while our bosoms it fires,
See glory lead on over bushes and briars;
Pass begone, hiccius doxius, just like cup and ball,
Now 'tis here, and now there, and now no where at all.
Death Alive! &c.

That war is delightful then who can deny,
To be living for ever, ah who whould not die?
Your fame's up from the moment it puts you to bed,
And you grow a great man by the loss of your head!
Death Alive! &c.