Anacreon, Ode I. Imitated

Of trumpets, drums, guns, and the bold bloody battle, My high-sounding music most loudly should rattle; But alas! my poor fiddle, too weak would it prove, And can play to no tune, but the soft tunes of love. T'other day with new catgut my fiddle I strung, Then "Britons strike home" most heroicly sung; To squeeze out high notes tho' my fiddlestick strove, My fiddle still tweedled and tweedled of love. A scraper from beauty no more will I rove, But tune up my fiddle to sonnets of love.