SOME talk of ALEXANDER,
And some of HERCULES,
And many a great commander
As glorious as these;
But if you want a hero
Of genuine pluck and pith.
It's perfectly clear there's none comes near
To full British PRIVATE SMITH.
Its easy to fight with glory
At hand to gild your name,
And stick it up in story,
Among the sons of fame.
But SMITH, full British private,
Is expected to be brave,
With the cold "cold shade" above his head,
At his feet a nameless grave.
For Generals there's the peerage,
With grant of public tin;
There's regiments for Colonels,
For Captains steps to win.
But for PRIVATE SMITH the utmost
(If he avoided beer)
Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth
Some fifteen pounds a year.
Till now the stars and garters,
Were for birth's or fortune's son,
And as oft in snug home-quarters,
As in fields of fight were won.
But at length a star arises,
Which as glorious will shine
Of SMITH's red serge vest as upon the breast
Of SMITH's scarlet superfine.
Though carpet-knights may grumble,
Routine turn up its nose,
Though CARDIGANS and LUCANS,
And AIREYS may oppose,
Yet shall the star of valour
Defy their scoff's and jeers —
As its bronze rays shine on plain SMITH of the Line,
And plain SMITH of the Grenadiers.
Too long mere food for powder
We've deem'd our rank and file,
Now higher hopes and prouder,
Upon the soldier smile.
And if no Marshal's baton
PRIVATE SMITH in his knapsack bears,
At least in the War, the chance of the star
With his General he shares.
[PB: Note its anti-cavalry, anti-aristocracy, common man etc]