A poem in the voice of a fed-up soldier far from home
I long for old Cheapside, the tavern, the ale,
And the merry, late-night revels,
Away from the wet and the ghostly wail
Of the wind on the Somerset levels.
Who’d be a Roundhead, chilled to the core,
With frozen, water-logged feet
Stuck in the sludge and the slime on a moor
In a world of withies and peat?
And where are the Royalists? Nobody knows,
Nobody here in the mire;
They’re probably sheltering, toasting their toes
In front of a blazing fire.
Oh give me a tavern, a tankard, a song,
A meal and a maid and a romp!
Cheapside in London is where I belong,
Not here on this desolate swamp!
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