This is the text (in stanza form) of the original broadside ballad of the early nineteenth century which seems to be the ancestor of "Muddley Barracks". I can't find any indication of a tune for it. One copy of the ballad in the Bodleian catalogue ends with the "fol de rol" chorus to which "Muddley Barracks" is sung.
The first four stanzas show the new recruit complaining of his fate, before going on to express his patriotic fervour. The sentiments expressed in these later verses have not survived in the modern versions of the song, and no doubt the actual verses sung by soldiers at the time used the more earthy language found in "Muddley Barracks" and "Bungay Roger".

THE AWKWARD RECRUIT

Behold poor Will, just come from drill,
    Not long ago I listed,
I sold my cart to pay my smart,
    But money they resisted.
I don't know what will be my lot,
    But think it mighty odd, sir,
That they should pop a lad like I
    Into the awkward squad, sir.

I wish I was at home again,
    And got my working clothes on,
My greasy hat that easy sat,
    And Sunday's woolen hose on,
But at command I'm forced to stand,
    As stiff as any poker,
In this plight, it's wheel to the right,
    Or my head it would be broke, sir.

I walk'd and run with Corporal Fun,
    Till I wore three pair of shoes out,
And get such knocks, as tho' in the stocks,
    To make me turn my toes out:
I'm sure they can mean me no good,
    To run me out of breath, sir,
And then this thing under my chin,
    It throttles me to death, sir.

Here like a mawkin I must stand,
    With fingers below my breeches,
And dare not even move my hand,
    To scratch my head where it itches.
And the soap and flour too,
    Is plaister'd on my head, sir,
Then for my King and country,
    I'll fight until I'm dead, sir.

If Sergeant White informs me right,
    I cuts a pretty figure,
Then why mayn't I in battle try,
    Sure I can pull a trigger:
If it's my will the French to kill,
    I'll do't with all my heart, sir,
Perhaps a recruit may chance to kill,
    Great General Bonaparte, sir.

If I could kill this great Frenchman,
    My country's befriended,
'T would be a thunderbolt to France,
    And make the war be ended;
No doubt, I should a Captain be,
    Lord, that's a pretty thing, sir,
I'll tear my throat from morn to night,
    Shouting God save our King, sir.

Zounds now my blood begins to rise,
    It shows that I'm a Briton,
And if the French should dare to land,
    Huzza my boys we'll split 'em.
Each man must to his musket stand,
    And that you know's a Lion,
If Englishmen go heart and hand,
    Depend on't we'll defy 'em.