TO THE SHIP.
57
And thou, cross-bowman true and good,
Thou shooter with the faultless wood,
Send me an arrow through his brain,
(Who of his fate will e’er complain!)
Then from thy quiver take and aim
A second arrow through his frame;
Well will the varlet’s corpse be known
By the stiff beard so scantly sown;
Haste! with thy stirrup-fashioned bow[1],
To lay the hideous varlet low!
Long may he roam on distant shore—
Ill luck attend upon the boor;
The poet’s anger will not burn,
E’en should he ne’er again return!
To-night the lady of my choice
With me will laugh, with me rejoice;
With me confess, with me will pray,
That Eithig of malignant tongue,
The churlish foe of joy and song,
In foreign realms may ever stay.
- ↑ ‘Stirrup-fashioned bow’—the cross-bow, of which this epithet is very descriptive.
