Are we down-hearted

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!