I've served my country nine and twenty years,
A mere light chip, the sport of all the spheres:
To India I was early sent in youth;
Then bandied to the north, the west, and south;
France, Holland, Prussia, Portugal, and Spain,
America, and all the western main.
Now I'm for Guinea, in an infant war,
Chief of a gallant ship, where ev'ry tar,
Ragged and lousy, hungry is and poor,
Well fitted a rich Frenchman to devour.
As for sea hardships, they create my smiles—
We'll bury them in the Canary Isles,
In the soft lap of beauteous Portuguese,
The olive Sirens of those summer seas.
Now for my wish—and Venus hear the strain!
When I've this bark conducted o'er the main,
And I return with golden laurels bound,
Parcel me out a little fertile ground,
And build thereon a house, by some thick wood,
And at the mountain's foot a rapid flood:
The river stored with trout, the wood with game,
And lovely Emma my propitious dame!
Retired from war, the bustle of the seas,
Let me repose with her in health and ease;
I seek no star or honours of the land;
I'd rather have a kiss of her white hand
Than all the salutations of St. James,
Where nobles truck their characters for names.
I only bend my knee to her and heaven,
Nor pray for aught, but thank for what is given.
If ye who rule the clouds, and guide the sun,
Will perfect this before my sand is run,
I bow—if not, your mighty wills be done.