UNDER THE OLIVE TREE
These playful Turks
My inner works intend to spoil–
They promise me a treat,
A bath in boiling oil–
There is no cure–For this I’m sure–
But if I die thank God I’m pure–
I’ll know that I, as one of missionaries six–
Will calmly brave the currents of the River Styx–
So I’ll be gay, and brave this day
E’en tho’ I pass away.
CHORUS: Under the olive tree
I want you to dine on me,
Missionaries are a tender meet [sic]
Boiled in oil I ought to be a treat;
Tis a shame
That I should be game
But I guess this is open season
Will you remember me
When I’m in a friccassee?
Here in the home of the Turk,
I’ll end my missionary work;
The magistrate has set the date
Beneath the olive tree.