Siren Song

To the tune of "The Humours of Whiskey"

Oh to know what it is to be known by the siren,

but know no undoing nor untimely end,

but to go on a-going, a-shown in that 'viron:

what 'tis to be loved and still loved more again.

I'd need not the pure, nevermore of fine liquor,

nor all of that lucre in Croesus' low purse,

for the fruit of the sickle would be something fickle,

would be but a trickle to that blesséd curse.

~

Tell me, what could resemble that song of heart's tremble

as such that that maid of the sea could so sing?

Could delights of the fire, or some somewhat higher

sow joy into hearts like that siren could bring?

Little more could be done to inspire my tongue

than to sigh on that song, blue and soft as the sky!

Will it ever be clever and mete to my measure?

Will never a siren be coming on by?

~

Then I'll go on so singing, and for that maid clinging,

‘til words shall defeat me or settle my score,

for if I should keep begging, and poring, and egging,

I'll die like a man who a good cross has bore.

And I'll add to that song that so has me in shackles:

the one that she sang for me so long before!

And the wolves and the jackals shall lower their hackles

when love rightly tackles me down evermore!