Jeffery, or, the Soldier's Progress

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!