What a Charming Thing's a Battle.
[Song by I. Bickerstaffe]

What a charming thing's a battle;
Trumpets sounding, drums a beating;
Crack, crick, crack, the cannons rattle;
Every heart with joy elating!
With what pleasure are we spying
From the front and from the rear,
Round us, in the smokey air,
Heads, and limbs, and bullets flying;
Then, the groans of soldiers dying,
Just like sparrows as it were,
At each pop
Hundreds drop,
While the muskets prittle-prattle;
Killed and wounded
Lie confounded;
What a charming thing's a battle!

But the pleasant joke of all,
Is when to close attack we fall,
Like mad bulls each other butting,
Shooting, stabbing, maiming, cutting,
Horse and foot,
All go to't;
Kill's the word, both men and cattle;
Then to plunder,
Blood and thunder,
What a charming thing's a battle!