It is a good feeling, lad,
With coin in your pocket,
Vittles in your stomach,
And all for a two-month's war.
Aye, two months it were, lad,
Two months of eating dirt, grit and toad,
Standing on the battlefield there,
Were times when I wished to desert,
To leave it all, slink away,
But I had hired out my blade,
Honor bade me stay,
Ah! The life of a mercenary,
'Tis a rare thing, good and bad,
For a bagful of golden coins
And a few hot meals,
I sold my blade,
For a two-month's war,
Left and right, my comrades died,
Slain by the valiant foebeast's paw,
I admire them, but I kill them,
For it is the money I took, lad,
That made me go through with it.
Through a score, nay, twoscore wars,
In these I have fought, lad,
And as I sit here old and toothless,
I have but some advice for you,
Never become a mercenary,
For the way of a soldier of fortune is hard
As the steel they carry.