MARS DISARMED BY LOVE. (1830.)

Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child, Though dire the burden be, And hide it in the pathless wild, Or drown it in the sea; The ruthless murderer prays and swears; So let him swear and pray; Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers, And take the sword away. We’ve had enough of fleets and camps, Guns, glories, odes, gazettes, Triumphal arches, coloured lamps, Huzzas and epaulettes; We could not bear upon our head Another leaf of bay; That horrid Buonaparte’s dead: Yes, take the sword away, We’re weary of the noisy boasts That pleased our patriot throngs; We’ve long been dull to Gooch’s toasts, And tame to Dibdin’s songs; We’re quite content to rule the wave Without a great display; We’re known to be extremely brave; But take the sword away. We give a shrug, when fife and drum Play up a favourite air; We think our barracks are become More ugly than they were; We laugh to see the banners float: We loathe the charger’s bray; We don’t admire a scarlet coat; Do take the sword away. Let Portugal have rulers twain, Let Greece go on with none, Let Popery sink or swim in Spain While we enjoy the fun; Let Turkey tremble at the knout, Let Algiers lose her Dey, Let Paris turn her Bourbons out: Bah! take the sword away. Our honest friends in Parliament Are looking vastly sad; Our farmers say with one consent It’s all immensely bad; There was a time for borrowing, And now it’s time to pay; A budget is a serious thing; So take the sword away. And, oh, the bitter tears we wept In those our days of fame,— The dread that o’er our heart-strings crept With every post that came,— The home affections, waged and lost In every far-off fray,— The price that British glory cost! Ah, take the sword away! We’ve plenty left to hoist the sail Or mount the dangerous breach, And Freedom breathes in every gale That wanders round our beach; When duty bids us dare or die, We’ll fight, another day; But till we know the reason why, Take—take the sword away.