  By John Shield, of Newcastle. Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows, And aspects undaunted our Volunteers show, Do you think, O my Delia! to join the brave fellows, My heart beats impatient? O no, my love, no. At the dawn of the day, their warm beds still forsaking, To scamper thro’ bogs, or where prickly whins grow, When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking, Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no. Array’d in full splendour, their arms brightly shining, On guard or on picquet, when proudly they go, (For the pleasures of permanent duty repining) Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no. Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder, What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe, I’ve determin’d to serve under Mr Recorder, In the tip-staff battalion? O no, my love, no. What means, my lov’d Delia! that frown, now appearing? Why, why does your brow such severity show? And wherefore those glances, so cold and uncheering? Do you think me a poltroon? O no, my love, no. Though I wear not a red coat, my honour’s untainted,— To Coventry ne’er was I fated to go; But, whilst with the plan of removal acquainted, Can I, cruel, desert thee? O no, my love, no. Soon war from thy home may a fugitive send thee, Soon give thee of keels and their huddocks to know; In the Voyage to Newburn who’ll succour and tend thee; Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no. Then wear not my Delia! an aspect so chilling, Nor doubt that with ardour heroic I glow; But love’s dear delights shall I barter for drilling? That smile methinks answers,—“O no, my love, no.” |
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