Song

To all you ladies now at land

We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand

How hard it is to write:

The Muses now, and Neptune too,

We must implore to write to you—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,

And fill our empty brain,

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind

To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,

Roll up and down our ships at sea—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post,

Think not we are unkind;

Nor yet conclude our ships are lost

By Dutchmen or by wind:

Our tears we'll send a speedier way,

The tide shall bring them twice a day—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise

Will swear the seas grow bold,

Because the tides will higher rise

Than e'er they did of old:

But let him know it is our tears

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know

Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,

And quit their fort at Goree:

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind?—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,

No sorrow we shall find:

'Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away

We throw a merry main,

Or else at serious ombre play;

But why should we in vain

Each other's ruin thus pursue?

We were undone when we left you—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow

And cast our hopes away;

Whilst you, regardless of our woe,

Sit careless at a play:

Perhaps permit some happier man

To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear,

That dies in every note

As if it sigh'd with each man's care

For being so remote,

Think then how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were play'd—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness:

All those designs are but to prove

Ourselves more worthy of your love—

With a fa, la, la, la, la.