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.