O No, My Love, No

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.”