The Fancy A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Gray's Inn, Student at Law. With a brief memoir of his life [by J. H. Reynolds] |
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STANZAS
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 | The Fancy |  |
97
STANZAS ,
WRITTEN DURING A VOYAGE IN SEARCH OF A NORTH-WEST PASSAGE, AND ADDRESSED TO A NORTHERN PRINCESS.
Oh! pretty Polar lady!
Doth thy bearded bosom beat,—
That breast so sweetly shady—
With an unaccustomed heat?—
Dark, oily, Polar woman!
Lay aside thy freezing airs,—
And take to something human,
In the room of boors and bears.
Doth thy bearded bosom beat,—
That breast so sweetly shady—
With an unaccustomed heat?—
Dark, oily, Polar woman!
Lay aside thy freezing airs,—
And take to something human,
In the room of boors and bears.
98
I'm an Officer! my jacket
Will tell thee what I am;—
No master of a packet,
My pretty Polar dame!
But a sailor with old Jervis—
A man of royal blue;—
Kings send me on their service,—
And their service send to you.
Will tell thee what I am;—
No master of a packet,
My pretty Polar dame!
But a sailor with old Jervis—
A man of royal blue;—
Kings send me on their service,—
And their service send to you.
Thy Husband, from his swooning
At thy flight, will soon arise;
And go about harpooning
The sorrow from his eyes:
And he'll be no more a rubber
Of wet sockets,—but he'll seek,
With a wiser kind of blubber,
To pacify his cheek.
At thy flight, will soon arise;
And go about harpooning
The sorrow from his eyes:
And he'll be no more a rubber
Of wet sockets,—but he'll seek,
With a wiser kind of blubber,
To pacify his cheek.
Thine eyes are dark and roving,
My pretty Polar sun!
Oh, they're very full of loving—
And extremely full of fun.—
The Mate attracts thine ogling—
But, oh, my fair! thy fate
Don't now be after boggling,—
But take me for thy mate.
My pretty Polar sun!
Oh, they're very full of loving—
And extremely full of fun.—
99
But, oh, my fair! thy fate
Don't now be after boggling,—
But take me for thy mate.
The ruby tide is rushing
To that shadowy cheek,—and, oh,
So heavenly is that blushing,
It shames the ruby snow.
All things thine eye doth snatch at,
With a kind of amorous fear;—
Ah, do not steal the hatchet,—
My pretty Polar dear!
To that shadowy cheek,—and, oh,
So heavenly is that blushing,
It shames the ruby snow.
All things thine eye doth snatch at,
With a kind of amorous fear;—
Ah, do not steal the hatchet,—
My pretty Polar dear!
Give up ice-fields, where no hedges
Are full of bloom or birds,—
Give up bear-skins, give up sledges,
Give up all thy barking herds:
Come to England, let me marry thee,
And trees shall be thy own;
And a neat post-chaise shall carry thee
From Chatham up to town.
Are full of bloom or birds,—
Give up bear-skins, give up sledges,
Give up all thy barking herds:
Come to England, let me marry thee,
And trees shall be thy own;
And a neat post-chaise shall carry thee
From Chatham up to town.
| The Fancy | |