Classic Poem

OF NEWBURY, BERKS,

The Fates ordain, we must obey;
This, this is doom'd to be the day;
 The hour of war draws near:
The eager crew with busy care
Their instruments of death prepare,
 And banish every fear.

The martial trumpets call to arms,
Each breast with such an ardour warms,
 As Britons only know:
The flag of battle waving high,
Attracts with joy each Briton's eye;
 With terror strikes the foe.

Amidst this nobly awful scene,
Ere yet fell slaughter's rage begin,
 Ere Death his conquests swell;
Let me to Love this tribute pay,
For Polly frame the parting lay;
 Perhaps, my last farewell:

For since, full low among the dead,
Must many a gallant youth be laid,
 Ere this day's work be o'er;
Perhaps e'en I, with joyful eyes
Who saw this morning's sun arise,
 Shall see it set no more.

My love, that ever burnt so true,
That but for thee no wishes knew;
 My heart's fond, best desire!
Shall be remember'd e'en in death,
And only with my latest breath,
 With life's last pang expire.

And when, dear maid, my fate you hear,
(Sure love like mine demands one tear,
 Demands one heart-felt sigh)
My past sad errors, O forgive!
Let my few virtues only live,
 My follies with me die.

But hark! the voice of battle calls;
Loud thundering from the towery walls
 Now roars the hostile gun;
Adieu, dear maid!—with ready feet,
I go prepar'd the worst to meet,
 Thy will, O God, be done!