 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
TARGET-SHOOTING.
Now ruthless Mars, while his war-dogs are dozing,
May curry his coursers and burnish his car,
While in the sunshine of peace we 're reposing,
Gayly we practice the duties of war.
Bright are our arms as the eyes of the lasses,
True to their object as Love's feathered dart,
Swift through the target the charmed bullet passes,
Swift as the arrows of love through the heart.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.
May curry his coursers and burnish his car,
While in the sunshine of peace we 're reposing,
Gayly we practice the duties of war.
Bright are our arms as the eyes of the lasses,
True to their object as Love's feathered dart,
Swift through the target the charmed bullet passes,
Swift as the arrows of love through the heart.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.
Life is a game full of hazard and chances,
Each tries his luck for a hit or a miss,
Trusting to fortune, each youth thus advances
Oft gets a kick where he shoots for a kiss.
Whether he wins by a bribe, like Polyctor,
Or fortune, or fate has directed the shaft,
Pleasure still mingles a bowl for the victor,
Eager he drains its contents at a draught.
Seize, then, the present hour,
While joy is in our power,
Mirth unrestrained like our red wine shall flow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.
Each tries his luck for a hit or a miss,
Trusting to fortune, each youth thus advances
Oft gets a kick where he shoots for a kiss.
77
Or fortune, or fate has directed the shaft,
Pleasure still mingles a bowl for the victor,
Eager he drains its contents at a draught.
Seize, then, the present hour,
While joy is in our power,
Mirth unrestrained like our red wine shall flow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.
Fame is the prize which ambition contends for,
Rank is the mark to which Folly aspires,
Gold is the object which Avarice bends for,
Peace and content are what Virtue acquires.
Glory's the prize which we soldiers would try for,
Fired with the plaudits which beauty will give,
Freedom and country we 'd willingly die for,
Wine, wit, and women—for them we would live.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend the festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.
Rank is the mark to which Folly aspires,
Gold is the object which Avarice bends for,
Peace and content are what Virtue acquires.
Glory's the prize which we soldiers would try for,
Fired with the plaudits which beauty will give,
Freedom and country we 'd willingly die for,
Wine, wit, and women—for them we would live.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend the festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |