  Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows, And aspects terrific proud Frenchmen still show, Do you think, O my Colin! to join our brave fellows I e’er would forbid you? O no, my love, no. At the dawn of the day, my bed cheerly forsaking, I’d scamper thro’ bogs, or where prickly whins grow; On a view of your martial manoeuvres partaking, I vow ne’er to leave you: O no, my love, no. Array’d in full splendour, your arms brightly shining, On guard or on picquet, when proudly you go, Or on permanent duty, do you think that, repining, I’d sighing reprove you? O no, my love, no. Or when you are called to quell rude disorder, Or with brother heroes shall face the dread foe, If my honour I trusted to Mr Recorder, Will he fail to protect me? O no, my love, no. What means, then, my Colin! that cold sweat appearing? Why, why should your brow such timidity show? And where are those glances so cold and uncheering? Shall I think you a poltroon? O no, my love, no. Then, haste, wear a red coat, while your honour’s untainted, Or to Coventry you may be fated to go; And tho’ with the plan of removal acquainted, I’ll not go to Newburn: O no, my love, no. Soon War from my home may a fugitive send me, And which way, or how, I’m not anxious to know; For I’ll follow the lads that are arm’d to defend me: Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no. Then wear not, my Colin! an aspect so chilling, Let your breast now with ardour heroic but glow, Then love’s dear delights will I barter for drilling: You sure can’t refuse me? O no, my love, no. |
|
