WANTED, A SINGER.
Nay, fashion the verse to a knightly
strain,
And sing of some warlike band;
Of chivalry seeking a battle-plain
And perishing sword in hand.
I feel—whenever I hear you sing—
So decided a taste for that kind of thing.
H! sing me a song of the wild, wide sea,
Of the peril of rocks and storms—
How mariners bold as bold can be
Face Death in a hundred forms
Methinks—whenever I hear you sing—
That I rather should relish that kind
of thing.
But can you not carol a heart-felt lay,
On the pleasures and pains of love—
A melody soft as a breeze in May,
And pure as the skies above?
I think—whenever I hear you sing—
That there may be a charm in that kind of thing.
Come, chirrup me gaily a drinking-stave,
Of the bowl and its deep delights—
A hymn to old Bacchus, the god that gave
Such mirth to our festive nights.
But stop—why trouble yourself to sing,
As I know I am good at that kind of thing?