Canto Eleven

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The Squire’s Song
The signal given, we seek the main,
Where tempests rage, and billows roar
Nor know we if we e’er again
Shall anchor on our native shore.

But, as though surging waves we sail,
as distant seas and isles explore,
Hope whispers that some future gale
Will waft us to our native shore.

When battle rages all amain,
And hostile arms their vengeance pour,
We British sailors will maintain
The honour of our native shore.

But, should we find a wat’ry grave,
A nation will our loss deplore;
And tears will mingle with the wave
That breaks upon our native shore.

Mrs. Hearty’s Song

Cupid, way! Thy work is o’er:
Go seek Idalia’s flow’ry grove!
Your pointed darts will pain no more;
Hymen has heal’d the wounds of Love.
Hymen is here, and all is rest;
To distant flight thy pinions move:
No anxious doubts, no fears molest;
Hymen has sooth’d the pangs of Love.
Cupid, away! The deed is done!
Away, ‘mid other scenes to rove:
For Ralph and Isabel are one,
And Hymen guards the home of love.
—-
The Doctor now his rev’rence made,
And Madam’s smiling nod obey’d.
“Your songs,” said he, “gave me pleasure,
As well in subject as in measure;
But, in some modern songs, the taste
Is far, I’m sure, from being chaste:
They do not make the least pretence
To poetry or common sense.
Some coarse conceits, a lively air,
With a da capo, here and there,
Of uncouth words, which ne’er were found
In any language of the above ground:
And these set off with some strange phrase,
Compose our sing-song now-a-days.
The dancing-master of my school
In this way oft will play the fool,
And make one laugh—one knows not why,–
But we had better laugh than cry.
The song, which you’re about to hear
Will of this character appear;
From London it was sent him down,
As a great fav’rite through the town.

Doctor Syntax’s Song

I’ve got a scold of a wife,
The plague and storm of my life;
O! Were she in coal-out bottom,
And all such jades, ‘od rot ‘em!
My cares would then be over,
And I should live in clover.
With harum scarum, horum scorum—
Stew’d prunes for ever!
Stew’d prunes for ever!

Brother Tom’s in the codlin-tree,
As blithe as blithe can be:
While Dorothy sits below,
Where the daffodillies grow;
And many a slender rush,
And blackberries all on a bush:
With harum scarum, horum scorum—&c. &c.

We’ll to the castle go
Like grenadiers all of a row,
While the horn and trump shall sound,
As we pace the ramparts round,
Where many a lady fair
Comes forth to take the air,
With harum scarum, horum scorum—&c. &.

The vessel spreads her sails
To catch the rising gales,
And dances o’er the wave;
While many a love lorn slave
To his mistress tells his tale,
Far off in the distant vale;
With harum scarum, horum scorum—&c. &c.

When the dew is on the rose,
And the wanton zephyr blows;
When lilies raise their head,
And harebells fragrance shed
Then I to the rocks will hie,
And sing a lullaby;
With harum scarum, horum scorum—&c. &c.

By fam’d Ilyssus stream
How oft I fondly dream,
When read in classic pages
Of all the ancients sages;
But they were born to die,
And so were you and I;
With harum scarum, horum scorum—
Stew’d prunes for ever!
Stew’d prunes for ever!