Music of the War With France: Song Lyrics

Away to the Battle:

Away to the battle! for danger draws nigh,
The Trumpet awakes us to conquer or die,
So noble our cause is, that we, ’tis decreed
Shall gloriously conquer or gloriously bleed.
Then why this reluctance can fear those enthrall
Whom Fame must attend let them triumph or fall?
No hence with these terrors since laurels shall bloom
In life on our brow and in death on our tomb.
Then on to the battle! tho’ danger draws nigh.
The Trumpet awakes us to conquer or die,
So noble our cause is, that we ’tis decreed
Shall gloriously conquer or gloriously bleed.

Captain Morgan’s March:

Hark! I hear the sound of War!
Love to Glory now must yield:
Go; for deeds of death prepare
Honour summons to the Field.

Haste where Danger leads the way!
I disdain to bid thee stay
Firm, tho’ fond, I’ll try to prove
Worthy of a Hero’s love.

Lo! thine eager bands draw near,
Still I check the starting tear
Thee they call!––but firm’s my tone,
Duty! I am thine alone.

Crazy Sally: 

Hark! what sound fills yonder valley?
’Tis the tone of Woe. Ha! that voice I know
Sure ’tis crazy Sally singing soft and slow.
‘Haste O my love, prithee haste away!
The guests are come, hurry hurry home,
For this my love is our wedding day!’
How the sound rings thro’ the valley
Well that voice I know sadly tun’d to woe
’Tis poor crazy Sally, singing soft and slow.


They may say he’s wed, but I know he’s dead
And throughout the valley shall forsaken Sally
Seek him here and there for I’ll not despair
They may tell me I am mad, but I’m sure I’m only sad,
A lovelorn Maid, by a faithless Swain betray’d.
O! I’ll haste to leave the valley,
For alas! I know on that child of woe,
Wand’ring, crazy Sally none can aid bestow.

Dream of Soft Delight:

Dream of soft delight,
O’er my couch still hover,
On my raptur’d sight
Paint my long-lost lover.
Paint the moment near
Fancy holds so dear
When pangs of absence o’er
We meet to part no more,
Shade of Joys so vast,
O’er my couch still hover.
’Till these eyes at last,
View my real lover.

Flaunting Two: 


Tho’ I’ve heard some Shepherds speak
In praise of pensive beauty,
Mine’s the Girl with dimpled Cheek
Who thinks to smile’s her duty,
Eyes may be bright swelling with tears,
I do not mean to scout them,
But then to me thus it appears,
They’d brighter be without them.


And for me a pallid face
No winning charms discloses,
For tho’ Lillies hands may grace
Sure Cheeks were made for Roses:
Some too there are, odd tho’ it be,
Weak, languid Nymphs desiring,
Yet I must own
Health has for me
Attractions more inspiring.


Some the saucy turn’d-up
Nose Survey with eyes of passion,

I the Grecian profile chuse
Or that of Roman fashion:
Others prefer Skins white as Snow
And Tresses like the Morning,
I Ringlets prize, black as the Sloe
Clear Nut-brown skins adorning.

Stately charms some Swains require
That awe into Affection,
Little Forms do I admire
That seem to claim protection;
I can’t delight in aged eyes
That do not shine but twinkle,
Tho’ some there are who dimples prize
Far, far below a Wrinkle.


But ’tis well tastes disagree
Else ever Rivals proving,
Men in Arms must skillful be
And win the right of loving;
Then let us all, our Fancies please
Without dispute or pother,
And, if we find one Damsel tease
We can but woo another.

Here’s A Health to Those Far Away: 

Here’s a health to those far away
Those who’re gone to war’s fatal plain,
Here’s a health to those who were here t’other day,
But ne’er may be with us again––no never!
’Tis hard to be parted from those,
With whom we for ever could dwell
But bitter indeed, is the sorrow that flows,
When perhaps we were saying fare-well––for ever!
Yet we hope some guardian divine
Will each youth from danger defend
Whilst glory for them bright laurels shall twine
Whose beauty no perils can end––no never!
Tho’ those whom we tenderly love,
Our tears at this moment may claim a balm to our sorrow
This truth sure must prove,
They’ll live in the record of fame for ever!

How Still Now is the Hamlet: 


How still is now the hamlet! it seems the world of sleep,
But I while others slumber go forth to watch and weep,
Unbound my tresses flow,
I make the cold damp sod my pillow,
And bind the weeping willow
Round my aching brow.


O night thy horrors suit me, thy gloom, thy chilling dews,
For sorrow’s constant victim, the day with loathing views,
And I, from War’s dread plain,
Since all returned, except my lover,
Must shed ’till life is over
Tears that mourn in vain!

Lullaby Song: 


Hush my Child! soundly sleep,
Tho’ I wake, tho’ I weep;
Guiltless thou, guilty I,
Thou cans’t rest, I must sigh.
Hush my Child! soundly sleep,
Tho’ I wake, tho’ I weep.

Happy Child! calm he lies!
While sad tears, fill my eyes.

Hush my Child! soundly sleep
Tho’ I wake, tho’ I weep.

Ah! time was, I could be,
Lull’d to sleep, calm like thee.
Hush my Child! soundly sleep,
Tho’ I wake, tho’ I weep.

Tears and smiles, greet thee Boy!
Thou’rt my shame, thou’rt my joy.
Hush my Child! soundly sleep,
Tho’ I wake, tho’ I weep

New Year’s Night: 

Bring the song, and join in chorus;
Let the voice of gladness sound;Pleasure, shed thy roses o’er us;
Come ere dangers threaten round.

Now to care let’s bid defiance,
Welcome, hearts and features gay;
On tomorrow no reliance,
But let us enjoy today.

Future suns may set in sorrow,
Or in sorrow dimly rise;
Then, regardless of the morrow,
We the present hour will prize.

Pleasure, come! for thee we languish;
Bind us in thy silken sway!
Be tomorrow’s joy or anguish,
We’ll to smiles devote today.

Poor Mary-Anne: 

Here beneath this willow sleepeth
Poor Mary Anne, . . . .
One whom all the village weepeth;
Poor Mary Anne!
He she loved her passion slighted,
Breaking all the vows he’d plighted;
Therefore life no more delighted
Poor Mary Anne

Pale thy cheek grew, where thy lover,
Poor Mary Anne,
Once could winning charms discover; . . . .
Poor Mary Anne!
Dim those eyes, so sweetly speaking
When true love’s expression seeking; . . . .
Oh! we saw thy heart was breaking,
Poor Mary Anne!

Like a rose we saw thee wither,
Poor Mary Anne! . . . .
Soon, a corpse, we brought thee hither,
Poor Mary Anne!
Now, our evening pastime flying,
We, in heartfelt sorrow vying,
Seek this willow, . . . . softly sighing
‘Poor Mary Anne!’

Stay Gentle Damsel: 

Lover: Stay gentle Damsel, stay awhile And to my love give
Daughter: Not now good Sir,
My Mother calls,
Your tale I dare not hear,
Mother: Daughter, Daughter, dinner waits,
Why child! why child I say,
D: Coming.
Mother let me go Sir.
M: Come child come away
L: Stay charming Girl,
O heed her not but to my love give ear
D: Not now dear Sir my Mother’s nigh
And I should die with fear,
M: Hussey! Hussey!
D: What dear Mother,
M: Come away come this moment
D: Let me go Sir,
M: Come I say,
L:O do but tell me
When you will unto my tale give ear

D: When fast asleep my
Mother lies
And cannot chide or hear
O yes I will good Sir

M: Hussey! Hussey!

L: O will you then my charm- ing Girl
Unto my tale give ear
When fast asleep your
Mother lies
And cannot chide, or hear.

D: (alongside Lover) I will unto your tale give ear,
When fast asleep my
Mother lies,
And cannot chide, or hear.

M: Come come away
this moment come
I say.

Stella Thou False One: 

Stella! thou false one, forever adieu,
No longer thy captive for mercy I’ll sue
I’ll for artless beauties sigh,
And Coquettes like thee, I’ll fly,
I’ll that voice admire no more,
Nor that matchless form adore,
And that glance so arch and sweet,
I with unconcern will meet,
Touch me and no longer now,
Shall my cheek with blushes glow
Stella! O chide not, thy pardon I crave,
My vaunting my freedom, but proves me thy slave.

The Emigrant: 


O talk not to me of my Country’s delights
Its Fountains, its Gardens and Vine cover’d Hills
The Tale which in others to gladness excites,
Mine Eyes with the Tears of vain agony fills
Methinks thro’ the scenes where such pleasures reside
Scenes thousands like you gayly hasten to see
The shades of my lost slaughter’d kindred now glide
And stain’d with their blood is each pathway to me


And shall I return to the land of my Birth
To tread on that spot where my Parents were slain,
Where Ruffians, their groans, deem’d a subject of mirth
And I, for their lives shou’d have pleaded in vain,
No! while in my mem’ry those Parents yet live,
That Land of abhorrence I never will see,
Tho’ blest with each Charm partial Nature can give,
A charnel House ever, ’twould seem unto me.


Say what renders precious, one’s lov’d native Shore,
But friendship’s fond smiles, and affection’s firm ties,
Then France as my Country, to me is no more,
There cold in the Grave, all I valued now lies,
And England kind England my Country thou art,
The Exile finds Friendship and Comfort in thee,
While France, tho’ of Europe the gay crouded Mart,
Alas! seems a Dungeon a Desart to me.

The Orphan Boy’s Tale: 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy’s sake,
And hear a helpless orphan’s tale!
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake, . . . .
’T is want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother’s pride,
And my brave father’s hope and joy;
But in the Nile’s proud fight he died,
And I am now an ORPHAN BOY.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson’s victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father’s life ’twas bought,
And made me a poor ORPHAN BOY.

The people’s shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
‘Rejoice! rejoice!’ still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
‘Why are you crying thus,’ said I,
‘While others laugh and shout with joy?’
She kissed me, . . . . and, with such a sigh!
She called me her poor ORPHAN BOY.

‘What is an orphan boy?’ I said,
When suddenly she gasped for breath,
And her eyes closed; . . . . I shrieked for aid, . . . .
But ah! her eyes were closed in death.
My hardships since I will not tell:
But, now no more a parent’s joy,
Ah! lady, . . . . I have learnt too well
What ’tis to be an ORPHAN BOY.

Oh! were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide, . . . .
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor’s orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep! . . . . Ha? . . . . this to me?
You’ll give me clothing, food, employ? . . . .

Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy happy ORPHAN BOY.

Who Gave the Sun His Light: 

Who gave the Sun his light,
To charm the wond’ring sight,
Who cloath’d in verdure bright,
Earth’s wealth bestowing breast?
What Pow’rs sublime command,
Bade Ocean’s floods expand,
Then could their course arrest?


Great God! these works were thine,
Wak’d by thy voice divine,
These wonders round us shine,
The Sun’s bright beams,
Earth’s verdant vest,
And Ocean’s swelling flood,
Proclaim thee, gracious pow’r!
Most good, most wise, most great, most blest!

Then the vast thanks we owe,
In songs devout shall flow,
Thine ’tis thy pow’r to show,
And ours that power to praise,
While thus the votive lay,
In solemn sounds we pay,
Thus the full Chorus raise.