The American Songster, Song

Hark! hark! sweet Lass, the trumpet sounds, Tis honour calls to war; Now love I leave, perhaps for wounds— And beauty for a fear.

But, ah? suppress those rising sighs; Ah? check that falling tear: Lest soft distress, from lovely eyes, Create a new-born fear.

My life to fame devoted was, Before my fair I knew, And, if I now desert her cause, Shall I be worthy you?

It is not fame alone invites, Though fame this bosom warms: My country's violated rights Impel my soul to arms.