by Christopher Fryer
Inspired by: Soldier, soldier, will you marry me? a tune from Colonial America.
*
Donna loathed the soldiers’ looks and the way they slurped their ale. They had no class, no self-respect, no courtesy, or care. With their muskets shouldered and bottomless bellies, they spent all day in the pub, a lazy lot, the worst. Often they refused to pay for all the pints they drank, claiming it was fuel for the protection of the State.
“The only state you know,” she’d say, “is the state of a drunken ape.”
“Soon the war will come this way,” they’d reply, “and you’ll be glad we’re here.”
“You’ll be too drunk, you sorry fools, to know the enemy from your rear.”
Her father owned the pub and so it was her duty to work, but each and every day she dreamed of a different fate. Nothing changed for many months. The war raged endlessly to the south. New soldiers came, they were all the same, and Donna grew calloused to their lewd glances and rude passes.
There came a rainy day when it seemed her only choice was to resign to this tiresome destiny, when to her ear floated such a song that brightness filled her heart. It drowned the roar of the soldiers’ laughs, poured into the pub like sunlight through the clouds, and in from the storm came a soldier so handsome and unique, Donna felt her knees go weak.
He approached the bar, not bothering with the boisterous crowd, carrying three instruments: a musket, fife, and drum. It was not until he’d sat before her that he ended his lovely melody.
She asked him, pouring him an ale, “How will you fight with a uniform like this, so obviously incomplete?”
He shrugged and replied, “I am unprepared, as you say. With no money, I have no choice; they’ve recruited me to fight. I am sent into battle with only musket, drum, and fife.”
“You play such lovely music, it is a shame to see it wasted.”
“Thank you, but in truth I’ve never heard of a war that waited.”
She liked his charm, his dashing good looks, the way he drank his ale. He did not slurp and unlike the others who looked upon her body, he did not simply stare. Her heart was filled with hope and joy, that he might be the one, and without a drop to drink she felt as drunk as those other bums. With reckless tongue she asked him, “Soldier, soldier, will you marry me? With you musket, fife, and drum?”
He sipped his ale and studied her, then replied, “Oh, how can I marry such a pretty girl as you, when I have no hat to put on?”
Donna felt that he might’ve been teasing her, but he gave her such a quizzical look that it seemed completely logical. The soldier needed a hat and she knew just the place to get one. Off to the haberdasher she went, running quickly through the rain, and when she came back with the perfect hat, the soldier was still sipping ale at the bar. He tried it on, it fit him well, and many thanks she did receive.
“Soldier, soldier, will you marry me, with your musket, fife, and drum?”
“Oh, how can I marry such a pretty girl as you, when I have no coat to put on?” said he, shivering in the stormy breeze.
Without hesitation she ran, her gray barmaid dress soaked black, to fetch the soldier a coat from the tailor. She bought him a coat, the best of the best, and brought it to his shoulders. It fit him snug and he gave her a hug, then continued to sip his ale. She thought she’d won his heart for sure, and so she asked him once more, “Soldier, soldier, will you marry me, with your musket, fife, and drum?”
“Oh, how can I marry such a pretty girl as you,” he said, giving her a wink, “when I have no boots to put on?”
Her heart was aching for just a yes, but patient she would be, and it was off to the cobbler through the rain, to get some boots for he. She was out of breath, but not of hope, and so she asked again, “Soldier, soldier, will you marry me, with your musket, fife, and drum?”
His ale was nearly finished, his uniform almost complete, and the soldier gave a little shrug and to her he did repeat, “Oh, how can I marry such a pretty girl as you, when I have no pants to put on?”
Surely he was jesting, he’d been wearing pants when he’d come in. But she knew what it was that he needed, a pair of pants to match the rest, so Donna hurried from the bar to catch the tailor before he went home, and from him she bought a fine pair of pants for the soldier to put on.
Exhausted she was, and soaked to the bone, Donna asked him desperately, “Soldier, soldier, will you marry me, with musket, fife, and drum?”
“Well,” he said, finishing his ale, “how can I marry such a pretty girl as you, with a wife and three kids back home?”
THE END