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DIBDIN'S MUSEUM, BEING A COLLECTION OF THE NEWEST AND MOST ADMIRED SONGS.
PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED BY R. AITKEN, N o. 22. MARKET STREET FOR JOSEPH CHARLESS.
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Dibdin's Museum, &c.
SONG.
POOR JACK.
GO patter to lubbers and swabs d'ye see,
'Bout danger, and fear and the like;
A tight water boat, and good sea-room give me,
And 't'ent to a little I'll strike;
Tho' the tempest top-gallant mast smack smooth should smite
And shiver each splinter of wood,
Clear the wreck, show the yards, and bouse every thing tight,
And under reef'd foresail we'll scud:
Avast ner do'nt think me a milk-sop so soft,
To be taken for trifles aback,
For they say there's a providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
Why I heard the good Chaplain palaver one day,
About souls, heaven, mercy and such;
And, my timbers, what lingo he'd coil and belay,
Why 'twas just all as one as high Dutch:
But he said how a sparrow can't founder d'ye see,
Without orders that come down below,
And many fine things that proved clearly to me,
That providence takes us in tow.
[Page 4] For says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft,
Take the top-sails of sailors aback,
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
I said to our Poll, for you see she would cry,
When last we weigh'd anchor for sea,
What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye?
Why what a damn'd fool you must be:
Can't you see the world's wide and there's room for us all,
Both for seamen and lubbers ashore;
And if to old Davy I should go friend Poll,
Why you never will hear of me more;
What then, all's a hazard, come don't be so soft,
Perhaps I may laughing come back,
For d'ye see there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
D'ye mind me a sailor should be every inch,
All as one as a piece of his ship,
And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch,
From the moment the anchor's a trip:
As for me in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,
Nought's a trouble which duty demands,
For my heart is my Poll's and my rhino my friend's,
And my life at my country's commands.
Even when my time comes ne'er believe me so soft,
As with grief to be taken aback,
The same little cherub that sits up aloft,
Will look out a good birth for poor Jack.
SONG.
THE SWEET LITTLE ANGEL.
WHEN Jack parted from me, to plough the salt deep,
Alas, I mayn't see him again!
In spite of all talking I could not but weep,
To help it I'm sure was in vain.
[Page] Then he broke from my arms, and bid me farewell,
Saying, "Poll, come, my soul, it won't do;
"So do you hear, avast whining and sobbing my girl,
"'Tis all foolish nonsense in you.'
I could not help thinking that Jack was in right,
From a something that whisper'd d'ye see,
There's a sweet little Angel that sits out of sight,
Will restore my poor Jack unto me.
Yet while he's at distance each tho't is employ'd,
And nought can delight me on shore;
I fancy at times that the ship is destroy'd,
And Jack I shall never see more:
But that it's but fancy; that Angel above,
Who can do such a wonder of things,
I know will ne'er suffer a harm to my love,
And so to myself I thus sings;
What matters repining, my heart shall be light,
For a something, there whispers, d'ye see,
There's a sweet little Angel that sits out of sight,
Will restore my poor Jack unto me.
But should that sweet Angel, wherever he be,
Forget to look out after Jack;
Why then he may never return unto me,
Ah, never, no never come back:
But oh, it can't be, he's too good and too kind,
To make the salt water his grave;
And why should I then each tale-teller mind,
Or dread every turbulent wave:
Besides I will never kind Providence slight,
For a something there whispers d'ye see,
There's a sweet little Angel that sits out of sight,
Will restore my poor Jack unto me.
[Page 6]
SONG.
POOR JACK'S RETURN.
WHAT cheer my dear Poll—did'nt I tell you as how,
That perhaps I may laughing come back;
Now you plainly perceive that my words have come true,
So accept a salute from Poor Jack:
My heart's rigg'd with truth, and my honesty tight,
Not a strip of false colors I wear;
And the compass of love has directed me right,
To be blest with the charms of my fair:
So d'ye see that the chaplain may splice us in one,
Let me steer thee to Hymen's kind shore,
For Jack is resolv'd until that shall be done,
To depart from his Polly no more.
Let your fine courtly lubbers palaver and boast,
Who ne'er sailed on sincerity's main,
Let 'em cowardly skulk upon flattery's coast,
Such buccanier swabs I disdain:
It ne'er shall be said that Jack yet has to learn,
How to guard such a consort as you;
Do you think that I'll crowd canvass and drop you a-stern,
No! shiver my jib if I do.—
So now, my dear girl, let me take you in tow,
Since again I'm safe anchor'd on shore;
For unto 'fore my chaplain I've plighted my vow,
I'll depart from my Polly no more.
Let the mild breeze of virtue still wast thee thro' life,
By the helm of fair constancy steer,
Nor the rocks, nor the shoals, nor the quick-sands of strife,
Start my planks, if you ever need fear:
'Cause why, d'ye mind, while that little sweet youth,
Sits smiling on watch up above,
Can the tempest of fate snap the cable of truth,
Or drag from the anchor of love:
So coil up your doubts, my sweet charmer nor think,
To be wreck'd on misfortune's lee shore;
[Page] Should adversity board us, together we'll sink,
And never to part any more.
O my ship-mates, remember, our Chaplain would say,
(On his log-book he preach'd to us oft)
There's a mighty Commander whom all must obey,
That will order good Christians aloft:
Then, avast my dear girl, swab the sights of your face,
Don't let sniv'ling your pleasure annoy;
O my timbers; I don't like such squalls to take place,
On the smooth bosom'd ocean of joy:
Bear a hand then, my love, with the current of bliss,
Let's be stretching for Hymen's kind shore;
For until we're united, depend upon this,
I'll depart from my Polly no more.
SONG.
THE DEATH OF POOR JACK.
POOR Jack, whose gay heart kept his spirits aloft,
And ever gave mirth its full due,
Who sadness despised, nor to grief was so soft,
Which made him the life of the crew:
Having weather'd the tempests of ocean and fate,
Disdaining all hardships and fear;
Hastened home to his Poll, with his true-hearted mate,
To be laid up in pleasure's snug tier.
With a good store of shiners his chest was supply'd,
Says he, "Now I'm on the right tack;
"For that cherub on whom I so often rely'd,
"Has home, safe and sound brought poor Jack."
To his heart Poll he pressed, the glad moment was fixt,
When tow'rds church he would take her in tow;
And there the good Chaplain should soon name the text,
That would splice 'em together, you know:
To his messmates, elated, he mention'd the morn,
And forecastle jokes went around;
[Page 8] "As how that, they hop'd he'd not double Cape Horn,
"Or on jealousy's shoals run aground;
"But snug, at the helm, he'd all dangers defy,
"Laugh at those who'd his comforts attack,
"And the sweet little cherub aloft would espy
"Waving ensigns of joy o'er poor Jack."
That night which was nam'd by her sailor the last,
Poll should sleep in her hammock alone;
He resolv'd with his shipmates in glee should be past,
And mirth in his countenance shone:
He troll'd the blythe stave, drank a health to all round,
Good liquor had cherish'd his soul;
When a seaman a signal from beauty did sound,
Which call'd him away to his Poll:
"Avast, friend, adieu! for a moment we part,
"Poll commands me, about I must tack;
"For she's the sweet cherub that reigns in the heart,
"Of our friend and companion poor Jack."
But scarce from the cabbin of friendship he flew,
'Ere the sky formed a picture so dread;
The rain beat aloud; and the winds fiercely blew,
And thunder roll'd over his head:
For his messmates at sea, how his bosom did swell,
He sigh'd more than once for their fate;
Blue lightning flash'd around him, the kind victim fell,
His soul fled to death's calm retreat.
The cherub, who ever to virtue is near,
Bore it hence through a clear lucid track;
Yet gaz'd on his dust, and dropt a salt tear,
To deprive his sweet Poll of Poor Jack.
SONG.
POOR NED.
WHY Molly, my girl, do you whimper and sob,
And sigh, all your heart's like to burst?
[Page] What tho' a rude bullet should strike off my nob,
Mine surely would not be the first;
And death we all know in the purple stain'd field,
Regards neither rank nor degree;
For when the grim tyrant fate's weapon doth yield,
He'd as lieve strike a general as me;
Then cheer up, dear Molly, no longer thus sigh,
But banish your sorrow afar;
Ther's a just God of battle stands sentry on high,
To reward me with trophies of war.
What tho' it be wrote in the roll-book of fate,
That 'midst the dread battle's alarm;
Poor Ned shall receive a hard rap on the pate,
Or be dock'd of a leg or an arm;
Shall I skulk from my duty, when glory doth call,
To repel the encroachments of Spain?
Tho' the turf be my pillow, my breakfast a ball,
Why, damme, I'll never complain:
So it signifies nothing my charmer, to cry,
Let hope then to grief be a bar;
There's a just God of battle stands sentry on high,
To reward me with trophies of war.
Midst dangers undaunted each Briton should roam,
Who possesses the soul of a man;
While coxcombs and fribbles may loiter at home,
Whose life's a mere flash in the pan:
But if that I'm destin'd to die in my bed,
And not in a battle be slain;
Besike it may happen with laurels o'erspread,
I'll come to my Molly again;
Then truce to your whining, nor Molly don't sigh,
Don't you know, when I'm fighting afar;
There's a just God of battle stands sentry on high,
To reward me with trophies of war.
Believe me, dear Moll, I most steady shall prove,
Desertion shall ne'er be my fault;
[Page 10] Tho' far off I march, I'll remember my love,
Her soldier till death bids me halt;
But should his keen arrow encounter my breast,
Why then there's an end to poor Ned;
I gloriously fall, but along with the rest,
Streched bravely on honour's wide bed:
Then weep not my charmer, altho' I should die,
Laid low by a shot or a scar:
There's a just God of battle stands sentry on high,
To reward me with trophies of war.
SONG.
THE SAILOR'S MISTRESS.
YOUR Molly has never been false she declares,
Since last we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;
When I swore that I would still continue the same,
And gave you the 'bacco box mark'd with my name:
When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e'er give a buss, Tom, to one of the crew?
To be useful and kind to my Thomas I staid,
For his trowsers I washed and his bumbo I made.
Tho' you threaten'd last Sunday to walk on the mall,
With Susan of Deptford and Billingsgate Sall;
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear:
Still faithful and fond from the first in my life,
Tho' I boast not the name, I've the truth of a wife;
For falsehood in wedlock too often is prized,
And the heart that is constant should not be despised.
SONG.
THE WATERMAN.
I WAS d'ye see a waterman,
As tight an spruce as any,
[Page] 'Twixt Richmond town
And Horsly down,
I earn'd an honest penny;
None could of fortune's favors brag
More than could lucky I,
My cot was snug: well fill'd my keg,
My grunter in the sty.
With wherry tight
And bosem light,
I cheerfully did row,
And to complete this princely life.
Sure never man had friend and wife,
Like my Poll and my partner Joe.
I roll'd in joys like these a while,
Folks far and near carrest me,
Till woe is me,
So lubberly
The press-gang came and press'd me:
How could I all these pleasures leave?
How with my wherry part
I never so took on to grieve,
It wrung my very heart.
But when on board,
They gave the word,
To foreign parts to go,
I ru'd the moment I was born,
That ever I should thus be torn
From my Poll and my partner Joe.
I did my duty mansuily,
While on the billow's rolling,
And night and day,
Could find my way,
Blindfold to the main top bowling
Thus all the dangers of the main,
Quicksands and gales of wind,
I brav'd in hopes to taste again
The joys I left behind.
[Page 12]
In climes afar,
The hottest war,
Pour'd broadsides on the foe,
In hopes these perils to relate,
As by my side attentive sat,
My Poll and my partner Joe.
At last it pleas'd his majesty
To give peace to the nation,
And honest hearts,
From foreign parts,
Came home for consolation:
Like lightning—for I felt new life,
Now safe from all alarms—
I rush'd and found my friend and wife
Lock'd in each others arms—
Yet fancy not,
I bore my lot
Tame, like a lubber:—No,
For seeing I was finely trick'd,
Plump to the devil I fairly kick'd
My Poll and my partner Joe.
SONG.
THE TRUE HEARTED SAILOR.
THE tar on the ocean true hearted and brave,
Looks down with contempt on the big swelling wave;
Regardless of danger, he views with a smile,
The seas in commotion, and thus sings the while:
Tho' tempests may rock me,
No terror can shock me,
For life they preach up we must pay as a toll;
And our ship, should death dock her,
For old Davy's locker,
Why, d'ye mind me, he'll ne'er get an inch of my soul.
When war is in motion then see him behave
Undaunted, and smiling at death and the grave;
[Page] And though from all quarters the shot round him wings,
The true hearted sailor thus carelessly sings:
Tho' tempests may rock me,
No terror can shock me,
For life they preach up we must pay as a toll;
And our ship, should death dock her,
Fór old Davy's locker,
Why, d'ye mind me, he'll ne'er get an inch of my soul.
SONG.
THOMAS AND NANCY.
THE threat'ning storm, the ruffled main,
Forebodes a sad tempestuous night,
The black'ning cloud, the misty rain,
Hides ev'ry pleasing gleam of light:
Still the sailor minds his track,
Lash'd to the helm while thunders crack;
Hope is his only anchor there,
And his brave heart's unknown to fear.
Perhaps sweet Nancy on the beach,
Whose streaming eyes and uplift hand,
With pray'rs the winds and waves would teach,
To set her Thomas safe on land:
Yet still the sailor minds his track,
Lash'd to the helm while thunders crack:
Hope was his only anchor there,
Which sav'd him for his Nancy dear.
At length the beams of morning shine,
The winds are still, the tempest o'er:
And by the aid of pow'r divine,
The ship rides safely near the shore:
Then quick the flowing can goes round,
Each toil's forgot and joys abound;
Hope was his only anchor there,
And sav'd him for his Nancy dear.
[Page]
SONG.
PATRTCK O'NEAL.
YE sons of Hibernia, who snug on dry land,
Round your smoaking turf fires and whiskey in hand,
Drink kid-milk full rough, and ne'er think on the boys,
Who are fighting your battles thro' tempest and noise,
Attend to my ditty 'tis true I declare,
Such swimming and sinking would make you all stare
For storms, squibs and crackers have sing'd at my tail
Since the press-gang laid hold of poor Patrick O'Neal.
'Twas the first of April, I set off, like a fool,
From Kilkenny to Dublin to see Laurence Tool,
My mother's third cousin, who oft' had wrote down,
And begg'd I'd come see how he flourish'd in town,
But I scarce had set foot in this terrible place,
'Ere I met with a sharper who swore to my face,
He beckon'd a press-gang, that came without fail,
And neck and heels dragg'd off poor Patrick O'Neal.
Then they scampered away as they said with a prize
(For they thought me a sailor and off in disguise).
But a terrible blunder they made with their strife,
For I'd ne'er seen a ship or the sea in my life:
Away to a tender they told me to steer,
But of tenderness devil a morsel was there:
O I roar'd and I curst, tho' it did not avail,
They down in the cellar cram'd Patrick O'Neal.
We set sail from Dublin the very next day,
I was half starved and sea-sick the rest of the way;
Not a mile-stone I saw, nor a house, nor a bed,
'Twas all water and sky 'till we came to Spithead:
Then they called up all hands—hands and feet soon obey'd,
O I wish'd myself home cutting turf with a spade,
For the first thing I faw made my courage to fail,
Ws a large floating castle for Patrick O'Neal.
[Page]
This huge wooden world roll'd about on the tide,
And a large row of teeth stuck fast in each side,
They put out the boat and told me to keep
Fast hold with my trotters for fear I should slip:
I let go with my hands to stick fast by my toes,
The ship gave a roll, and away my head goes,
I plung'd in the water and dash'd like a whale,
'Till with boat-hooks they fish'd up poor Patrick O'Neal,
'Midst shouts jests and laughter they hoisted me in
To this huge wooden world full of riot and din;
Such ropes and such pullies, such sights met my eye,
And so large were the sheets that hung up to dry:
I thought it Noah's Ark stuff d full of queer guests,
Hogs, pedlers, geese, sailors, and all other beasts;
Some drank bladders of gin, others pitchers of ale,
And they sung, curst and laugh'd at poor Patrick O'Neal.
All confounded with bother they began to look queer,
When the boatswain's shrill pipe made all hands to appear,
Up the ropes like to monkeys they running did swear
Then like gibbets and rope-dancers swung in the air,
They clap'd sticks in her capstern, (as I afterwards found)
The chap sit and fif'd as they turned it round,
The ship run her anchor, spread her wings and set fail,
with a freight of live lumber and Patrick O'Neal.
Then to go down below I express'd a great wish,
Where they live under water like so many fish;
I was put in a mess with some more of the crew;
And it being banjon-day they gave me burgue;
For a bed they'd a sack hung as high as my chin,
They call'd it a hammock and bade me get in;
I lay hold, took a leap, but my footing being frail,
It swang me clean over!—poor Patrick O'Neal.
With some help I got in, where I rocked all night,
The day broke my rest in a terrible fright,
Up hammocks, down chests, was cry'd from all parts
'There's a French ship in sight,' up and down went my heart:
[Page 16] To a gun I was stationed, they cryed with an oath,
To pull off his breeches, unmuzzle his mouth,
They took off the apron that covered his tail,
And the leading-strings gave unto Patrick O'Neal.
Our thick window shutters we pulled up with speed
And we run out our bull dogs of true English breed,
The captain cried 'England and Ireland my boys!'
When he mentioned old Ireland my heart made a noise;
Our sweet little guns did the Frenchmen defy,
We clap'd fire on his back and bid him let fly,
His voice made me leap, tho' I'd hold by his tail,
The beast then flew back and threw Patrick O'Neal.
Then we leather'd away, by my soul, hob and nob,
'Till the Frenchmen gave up what they thought a bad job,
Then to tye him behind a long cord they did bring,
And we led him along like a pig in a string:
So home to old England we led the French boy,
O the sight of the land made me sea-sick with joy,
They made a new peace when the war was too stale,
And set all hands adrift and poor Patrick O'Neal.
Now safe on dry land a carousing I'll stear,
Nor cat-head, nor cat-block, nor boatswain's cat-fear;
While there's a shot in the locker I'll sing dance my round:
And Saturday night shall last all the year round:
But should peace grow too sleepy and war come again
Returning I'll bring you good folks, a fresh tale,
That you'll cry till you laugh at poor Patrick O'Neal.
SONG.
MARY'S DREAM.
THE moon had climb'd the highest hill,
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
[Page] Then soft and low a voice was heard
Say, 'Mary weep no more for me.'
She from her pillow gently rais'd
Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand,
With pallid cheek and hollow eye:
'O Mary dear cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a stormy sea:
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me.
'Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save—
But all our striving was in vain
E'en then when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love of thee:
The storm is past and I'm at rest;
So Mary weep no more for me.
'O maiden dear, thyself prepare;
We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt or care,
And thou and I shall part no more.'
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled:
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me.'
SONG.
THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL.
THE top-sail shivers in the wind,
The ship she casts to sea,
But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,
Are, Mary, moor'd with thee;
For though thy sailor's bound afar
Still love shall be his leading star.
[Page 16]
[...]
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[Page 18]
Should landsmen flatter when we're sail'd,
O doubt their artful tales;
No gallant sailor ever fail'd
If love breath'd constant gales,
Thou art the compass of my soul,
Which steers my heart from pole to pole.
Syrens in ev'ry port we meet,
More fatal than rocks and waves;
But such as grace the British fleet,
Are lovers and not flaves;
No foes our courage can subdue,
Altho' we leave our hearts with you.
These are our cares—but if you're kind,
We'll scorn the dashing main,
The rocks, the billows, and the wind,
The power of France and Spain:
Now England's glory rests with you,
Our sails are full, sweet girls, adieu!
SONG.
THE FLOWING CAN.
A SAILOR'S life's a life of woe,
He works now late, now early,
Now up and down, now to and fro,
What then, he takes it chearly.
Bless'd with a smiling can of grog,
If duty call,
Stand, rise or fall,
To fate's last verge he'll jog;
The cadge to weigh,
The sheets belay,
He does it with a wish;
To heave the lead,
Or to cat-head
The pond'rous anchor fish:
[Page] For while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger's drown'd,
We despise it to a man:
We sing a little, and laugh a little,
And work a little, and fwear a little,
And fiddle a little, and foot it a little,
And swig the flowing can.
If howling winds, and roaring seas,
Give proof of coming danger,
We view the storm, our hearts at ease,
For Jack's to fear a stranger.
Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly
Where now below
We headlong go,
Now rise on mountains high:
Spite of the gale,
We hand the sail,
Or take the needful reef;
Or man the deck,
To clear some wreck,
To give the ship relief:
Though perils threat around,
All sense of danger drown'd,
We despise it to a man:
We sing a little, &c.
But yet think not our case is hard,
Though storms at sea thus threat us,
For coming home, (a sweet reward!)
With smiles our sweethearts greet us.
Now to the friendly grog we quaff,
Our am'rous toast,
Her we love most,
And gaily sing and laugh;
The sails we furl
Then, for each girl,
The petticoat display:
The deck we clear,
Then three times cheer,
As we their charms survey:
[Page 20] And then the grog goes round,
All sense of danger drown'd,
We despise it to a man:
We sing a little, &c.
SONG.
THREE YEARS A SAILOR'S LIFE I LED.
THREE years a sailor's life I led,
And plow'd the roaring sea;
For why her foes should England dread,
Whilst all her sons are free?
From France and Spain I earn my bread,
I thought it fair, d'ye see,
And if a shot had ta'en my head,
Why there was an end of me.
A med'cine sure from grief and care,
I steer'd my course to find;
Thencesorth an easy sail to bear,
And run before the wind:
Their conjuring skill let doctors boast,
And nostrums of their shop,
Where'er we search from coast to coast,
There's none like the golden drop.
For gold we sail the world around,
And dare the tempest's rage,
For when the sparklers once are found,
They ev'ry ill assuage:
'Twixt Jew and Christian not a fig
Of diff'rence here we find;
The Jew no loathing has to pig,
If 'tis of the Guinea kind.
[Page 21]
SONG.
BEN BOWLING.
BEN BOWLING, a true hearted tar,
A right gallant son of the ocean,
Elate with the rumours of war,
Soon felt all his courage in motion;
The nation he said, must be obey'd,
So Molly, a truce to thy wailing,
For now ev'ry anchor is weigh'd,
And all the fleet ready for failing—
Then, kissing his charmer, withdrew,
But often turn'd kindly to hail her,
While Molly sigh'd faintly, adieu,
Invoking success to her sailor.
Behold the fleet now under way,
Their sails are all swell'd by the breezes;
What beauty their streamers display,
What grandeur the prospect increases!
See! see! down the channel they stretch,
To glory and victory steering:
While proudly the crowd on the beach
Salute the bold heroes with chearing—
And still, while his dear was in view,
Ben often turn'd kindly to hail her,
While Molly sigh'd faintly, adieu,
Invoking success to her sailor.
Should Spain amid'thunder and smoke,
Armadas build hopes of success on;
Depend o'nt our true hearts of oak
Will teach her an old English lesson:
May Ben, for his dear Molly's sake,
Return again, laden with treasure,
And taking her under his wake,
Moor safe in the harbour of pleasure:
[Page 22] That Ben, when again he shall view
His charmer, with rapture may hail her,
And Molly who sigh'd adieu,
Glad greet the return of her sailor.
SONG.
A SAILOR'S LIFE AT SEA.
WHEN the anchor's weigh'd and the ship is unmoor'd,
And landsmen lag behind, sir;
The sailor joyful skips on board
And swearing prays for a wind, sir.
Towing here, yehoing there,
Steadily, readily, chearily, merrily,
Still from care and thinking free, is a sailor's life at sea.
When we sail with a fresh'ning breeze,
And landsmen all grow sick, sir,
The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,
And the song and the can go quick, sir,
Laughing her, quaffing there, steadily, &c.
When the wind at night whistles o'er the deep,
And sings to landsmen dreary,
The sailor fearless goes to sleep
Or takes his watch most cheary.
Boozing here, snoozing there, steadily, &c.
When the sky grows black and the wind blows hard,
And landsmen skulk below, sir,
Jack mounts up to the topsail yard,
And turns his quid as he goes, sir,
Howling here, bawling there, steadily, &c.
When the foaming waves run mountains high,
And the landsmen cry, All's gone sir,
[Page 23] The sailor hangs 'twixt sea and sky,
And he jokes with Davy Jones, sir,
Dashing here, clashing there, steadily, &c.
When the ship dy'see becomes a wreck
And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,
The sailor scorns to quit the deck
While a single plank's affoat sir.
Swearing here, tearing there, steadily, &c.
SONG.
THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS.
I SAIL'D from the downs in the Nancy,
My jib how it smack'd thro' the breeze,
She's a vessel as tight to my fancy,
As ever sail'd on the salt seas;
Then adieu to the white cliffs of Britain,
Our girls and our dear native shore,
For if some hard rock we should split on,
We shall never see them any more:
But sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow high, blow low.
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,
And where the gale drives we must go.
When we entered the Gut of Gibralter,
I verily thought she'ed have sunk;
For, the wind so began for to alter,
She yaw'd just as tho' she was drunk:
The squall tore the mainsail to shivers,
Helm a weather the hoarse Boatswain cries,
Brace the foresail athwart—see she quivers,
As through the rough tempest she flies.
But sailors, &c.
The storm came on thicker and faster,
As black just as pitch was the sky,
[Page 24] When truly a doleful disaster,
Befel three poor sailors and I:
Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handfail,
By a blast that came furious and hard,
Just while we were furling the mainsail,
Were ev'ry soul swept from the yard.
But sailors, &c.
Poor Bea, Sam and Dick cried Peccavi,
As for I at the risk of my neck,
While they sunk down in peace to old davy,
Caught a tope and so landed on deck.
Well, what wou'd you have? we were stranded,
And out of a sine jolly crew,
Of three hundred that sail'd never landed,
But, I and (I think) twenty to.
But sailors, &c.
After thus we at sea had miscarried,
Another guess way sat the wind:
For to England I came and got married,
To a lass that was comely and kind.
But whether for joy or vexation,
We know not for what we were born,
Perhaps I may find a kind station,
Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn.
But sailors, &c.
SONG.
SPANKING JACK.
SPANKING Jack was so comely, so pleasant so jolly,
Though winds blew great guns still he'd whistle and sing;
Jack loved his friend and was true to his Molly,
And if honour gives greatness was as great as a King;
One night as we drove with two reefs in our mainsail,
And the scud came on low'ring upon a lee shore;
[Page 25] Jack went up aloft for to hang the top-gallant sail,
A spray wash'd him off and we ne'er saw him more.
But grieving's a folly,
Come let us be jolly,
If we've troubles at sea, boys, we've pleasures ashore.
Whiffling Tom still of mischief or dun in the middle,
Thro' life in all weathers at random would jog:
He'd dance and he'd sing and he'd play on the fiddle.
And swig with an air his allowance of grog:
Long side of a Don in the terrible Frigate,
As yard arm and yard arm we lay off the shore,
In and out whiffling Tom did so caper and jig it;
That his head was shot off, and we ne'er saw him more.
But grieving's a folly, &c.
Bonny Ben was to each jolly mess-mate a brother,
He was manly and honest, good natured, and free,
If ever one tar was more true than another,
To his friend and his duty that sailor was he:
One day with the david, to heave the cadge anchor,
Ben went into the boat on a bold craggy shore,
He overboard tipt when a shark and a spanker,
Soon nipt him in two, and we ne'er saw him more.
But grieving's a folly, &c.
But what of it all, lads shall we be down hearted,
Because that may hap we now take our last sup;
Life's cable must one day or other be parted,
And death in fast mooring will bring us all up.
But 'tis always the way on't, one scarce finds a brother,
Fond as pitch, honest, hearty, and true to the core,
But by battle or storm or some damn'd thing or other,
He's pop'd off the hooks, and we ne'er see him more.
But grieving's a folly, &c.
SONG.
THE sailor boldly ploughs the deep,
And roams from shore to shore;
[Page] And when the landsman's fast asleep,
Hears stormy billows roar.
set in the midst of dangers round,
His thoughts to love are constant found.
When I remark'd the stars at night,
Within my mind it came—
My Jenny at that moment might.
Perhaps, have done the same.
Then home my thoughts would fly once more,
And fancy former bliss restore.
When wounded in the battle's rage,
And all was war and strife;
She only did my thoughts engage,
And make me wish for life.
'For if I'm kill'd," I oft did cry—
'I know my constant girl will die."
SONG.
THE PLOUGHMAN.
As Sung at Vauxhall.
I THAT once was a ploughman, a sailor am now,
No lark that aloft in the sky,
Ever flutter'd his wings to give speed to the plough,
Was so gay and so careless as I.
But my friend he was a carpenter on board a king's ship,
And he ax'd me to go just to sea for a trip,
And he talk'd of such things,
As if sailors were kings,
And so teazing did keep,
And so teazing did keep,
That I left my poor plough, to plough in the deep.
No longer the horn,
Call'd me up in the morn,
No longer the horn,
Call'd me up in the morn,
[Page 27] I trusted to the carpenter, and the inconstant wind,
That made me for to go and leave my dear behind.
I did not much like for to be aboard a ship,
When in danger, there's no door to creep out;
I lik'd jolly tars, I lik'd bumbo and flip,
But I did not like rocking about;
Bye and bye came a hurricane, I did not like that,
Next a battle, that many a sailor lay flat,
Ah, cried I, who would roam,
That like me had a home,
When I'd sow, and I'd reap,
When I'd sow, and I'd reap,
Ere I left my poor plough, to go plough, in the deep.
Where, so sweetly the horn,
Call'd me up in the morn,
Where, so sweetly the horn,
Call'd me up in the morn,
Ere I trysted the carpenter and the inconstant wind.
That made me for to go and leave my dear behind.
At last safe I landed, and in a whole skin,
Nor did I make any long stay,
Ere I found by a friend who I ask'd for my kin;
Father dead, and my wife ran away:
Ah, who but myself said I, hast thou to blame
Wives losing their husbands, oft lose their good name.
Ah, why did I roam,
When so happy at home,
I could sow, I could reap,
I could sow, I could reap,
Ere I left my poor plough, to go plough in the deep.
Where so sweetly the horn,
Call'd me up in the morn,
Where so sweetly the horn,
Call'd me up in the morn,
Ere I trusted the carpenter, and the inconstant wind,
That made me for to go and leave my dear behind.
Why, if that be the case, said the very same friend,
And you be no more minded to roam;
[Page 28] Gi's a shake of the fist, your care's at an end,
Dad's alive, and your wife safe at home.
Stark staring with joy, I leaped out of my skin,
Kiss'd my wife, mother, sister, and the rest of my kin,
Now, cried I, let them roam,
Who want a good home,
I am well, so I'll keep,
I am well, so I'll keep,
Nor again leave my plough, to go plough in the deep.
Once more shall the horn,
Call me up in the morn,
Once more shall the horn,
Call me up in the morn,
Nor shall any damn'd carfindo, nor the inconstant wind,
E'er tempt me to go and leave my dear behind.
SONG.
HOW blest the life a sailor leads,
From clime to clime still ranging,
For as the calm the storm succeeds,
The scene delights by changing:
Tho' tempests howl along the main,
Some object will remind us;
And cheer with hope to meet again,
The friends we left behind us.
CHORUS.
Then under full sail we laugh at the gale,
And the landsmen look pale never heed 'em;
But toss off the glass, to a favorite lass,
To America, Commerce and Freedom.
But when arriv'd in sight of land,
Or safe in port rejoicing;
Our ship we moor, our sails we hand,
Whilst out the boat is hoisting.
With cheerful hearts the shore we reach,
Our friends delighted greet us;
[Page 29] And tripping lightly o'er the beach,
The pretty lasses meet us.
CHORUS.
When the full flowing bowl enlivens the soul,
To foot it we merrily lead 'em;
And each bonny lass will drink off her glass,
To America, Commerce and Freedom.
Our prizes sold the chink we share,
And gladly we receive it;
And when we meet a brother tar,
That wants we freely give it.
No free-born sailor yet had store,
But cheerfully would lend it;
And when 'tis gone to sea for more,
We earn it but to spend it.
CHORUS.
Then drink round my boys 'tis the first of our joys,
To relieve the distress'd, clothe and seed 'em;
'Tis a duty we share, with the brave and the fair,
In this land of Commerce and Freedom.
SONG.
THE GALLEY SLAVE.
OH! think on my fate, once I freedom enjoy'd,
Was as happy as happy could be!—
But pleasure is fled! even hope is destroy'd!
A captive, alas! on the sea:
I was ta'en by the foe—'twas the fiat of fate,
To tear me from her I adore!
When thought brings to mind my once happy state,
I sigh! while I tug at the oar.
Hard, hard is my fate! oh how galling my chain!
My life's steered by misery's chart;
[Page 30] And though 'gainst my tyrants I scorn to complain,
Tears gush forth to ease my full heart:
I disdain e'en to shrink, tho' I feel the sharp lash;
Yet my heart bleeds for her I adore!
While around me the unfeeling bellows will dash,
I sigh! and still tug at the oar.
How fortune deceives! I had pleasure in tow,
The port where she dwelt we'd in view;
But the wish'd nuptial morn was o'er-clouded with woe,
And dear Anna! I was hurried from you;
Our shallop was boarded, and I borne away,
To behold my dear Anna no more!
But despair wastes my spirits, my form feels decay!
He sigh'd—and expir'd at the oar.
SONG.
WHEN seated with Sall, all my mesmates around,
Fal, de ral, de ral, de ri do!
The glasses shall gingle, the joke shall go round;
With a bumper then here's to you boy.
Come lass a buss, my cargoe's joy,
Here Tom be merry drink about,
If the sea was grog we'd see it out,
For we're met here to be jolly, jolly, boy,
For we're met here to be jolly.
strick, strike up the fiddles; girls gi's your hand;
Fal, de ral, &c.
Take partners, odzooks—ne'er shilleshally stand;
Lead up, cast down, and hands across,
Now lads another noggin toss—
Here's to the girl that I love most,
Join messmates in my fav'rite toast;
(Here's Sall)—for we're met here, &c.
In glee, gay and merriment the moments fly,
Fal, de ral, &c.
While Bacchus's bumpers brighten friendship's eye,
[Page] Oh damme, old one, tip's your hand,
Wili's service ever pray command;
'Tis pastime pleasure joy delight,
Another glass and then good night;
(Wives and sweethearts)—for we're met here to be jolly, jolly boy!
For we're met here to be jolly.
SONG.
ON BOARD A MAN OF WAR.
WOULD you know pretty Nan how we pass our time,
While we sailor's are toss'd on the sea,
Why believe me my girl in each season and clime,
True hearted and merry we be,
Tho' tempest may blow still unmindful of care,
So the fiddles but strike up a bar,
Why we sing and we dance, toast our sweethearts and swear
All on board of a man of war,
All on board of a man of war,
All on board of a man of war,
Why we sing and we dance, toast our sweethearts and swear,
All on board of a man of war.
Should the soe bear in sight and all hands call'd on deck,
Don't think jolly sailors are cow'd
No we'll teach them the old British flag to respect,
And bid them defiance aloud;
Then to it like lions perhaps we may go,
What then do we whine at a scar,
If we sing and fight 'till we take her in tow,
All on board of a man of war.
As for this thing or that which the lubbers on shore,
Would fain make our lasses believe,
[Page 32]
Why d'ye see it's palaver my girl nothing more,
So Nan, pretty Nan do not grieve.
No danger can ever our conrage affright,
Or shake the true love of a tar,
And where ever steering we will still feel delight,
All on board of a man of war.
SONG.
THE SEA-FIGHT.
STAND to your guns, my hearts of oak,
Let not a word on board be spoke,
Victory soon will crown the joke;
Be silent and be ready.
Ram home your guns and spunge them well,
Let us be sure the balls will tell,
The cannon's roar shall found their knell;
Be steady boys, be steady.
Not yet, nor yet—reserve your fire,
I do desire—Fire!
Now the elements do rattle,
The gods, amaz'd, behold the battle,
A broadside, my boys.
See the blood in purple tide,
Trickle down her batter'd side;
Wing'd with fate the bullets fly;
Conquer, boys,—or bravely die:
Hurl destruction on your foes,
She sinks, huzza!
To the bottom down she goes.
SONG.
THE WANDERING SAILOR.
THE wand'ring sailor ploughs the main,
A competence in life to gain,
[Page] Undaunted braves the stormy seas,
To find, at last, content and ease:
In hopes, when to land danger's o'er,
To anchor on his native shore.
When winds blow hard, and mountains roll,
And thunders shake from pole to poie;
Tho' dreadful wares surrounding soam,
Still flatt'ring fancy wasts him home;
In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er,
To anchor on his native shore.
When round the bowl, the jovial crew,
The early scenes of youth renew;
Tho' each his fav'rite faer will boast,
This is the universal toast—
[...]
[...]
SONG.
BLACK EY'D SUSAN.
ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving with the wind,
When black ey'd Susan came on board:
Oh where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among your crew?
William who high upon the yard,
Rock'd with the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides quickly thro' his glowing hands,
And quick as light'ning on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high pois'd in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast
(If chance his mate's shrill voice he hear)
And drops at once into her nest.
[Page 34] The noblest captain in the British fleet,
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.
O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear,
We only part to meet again:
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be,
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
Believe not what the landsmen say,
Who tempt with doubt thy constant mind:
They'll tell thee sailors, when away,
In ev'ry port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present whereso'er I go.
If to fair India's coast we fail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
Thy breath in Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin in ivory so white:
Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charms of lovely Sue.
Tho' battles call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Tho' cannons roar yet safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return:
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The fails their swelling bosom spread,
No longer must she stay aboard;
They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head,
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,
Adieu, she cried, and wav'd her lily hand.
[Page]
SONG.
LOVELY NAN.
SWEET is the ship that under sail,
Spreads her white bosom to the gale,
Sweet, Oh sweet's the flowing can,
Sweet to poise the labouring oar,
That tugs us to our native shore,
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man,
Sweet failing with a fav'ring breeze,
But Oh much sweeter than all these,
Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan.
The needle faithful to the north,
To shew of constancy the worth,
A curious lesson teaches man,
The needle time may rust, a squall
Capsize the binacle and all,
Let seamanship do all it can,
My love in worth shall higher rise,
Nor time shall rust nor squalls capsize,
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
When in the Bilboa's I was penn'd,
For serving of a worthless friend,
And every creature from me ran,
No ship performing quarantine,
Was ever so deserted seen,
None hail'd me, woman, child, or man,
But though false friendship's fails are furl'd
Though cut adrist by all the world,
I'd all the world in lovely Nan.
I love my duty love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend,
To moan their loss who hazard ran,
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty and a spotless heart,
By manners like to shew the man,
To sail through life by honour's breeze,
'Twas all along by loving these,
First made me doat on lovely Nan.
[Page 36]
SONG.
WHILE up the shrouds the sailor goes,
Or ventures on the yard;
The landsman who no better knows,
Believes his lot is hard.
Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,
Casts anchor, heaves the log,
Trims all the sails, belays the sheets,
And drinks his cann of grog.
When mountains high the waves that swell,
The vessel rudely bear,
Now sinking in a hollow dell,
Now quivering in the air.
Bold Jack, &.
When waves 'gainst rocks and quick-sands roar,
You ne'er hear him repine,
Freezing near Greenland's icy shore,
Or burning near the line.
Bold Jack, &c.
If to engage they give the word,
To quarters all repair,
While splinter'd masts go by the board,
And shot sing through the air.
Bold Jack, &c.
SONG.
THE SAILOR BOY CAPERING ASHORE.
POLL dang' it how d'ye do,
Na'n won't you gi's a buss;
Why what's to do wi' you,
Why here's a pretty fuss:
Say
[...] kiss and toy,
I goes to sea no more;
Oh! I'm the sailor boy.
For capering ashore.
[Page 37]
Father he apprentic'd me,
All to a coasting ship;
I being resolv'd d'ye see,
To give 'em all the slip;
I got to Yarmouth fair,
Where I had been before;
So father found me there,
A capering ashore.
Next out to India,
I went a Guinea pig;
We got to Table bay,
But mind a pretty rig;
The thip driven out to sea,
Left me and many more.
Among the Hottentots,
A capering ashore.
I loves a bit of hop,
Life's ne'r the worser for it;
If in my wake should drop,
A fiddle, 'that's your sort':
Thrice tumble up ahoy,
Once get the labour o'er;
Then see the sailor boy,
A capering ashore.
SONG.
TOM BOWLING.
HERE a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling.
The darling of our crew;
No more he hears the tempest howling,
For death has brought him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he's gone alost.
[Page 38]
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair.
And then he'd sing so blythe and jolly,
How many's the time and oft;
But mirth is turn d to melancholy,
Since Tom has gone alost.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
The word who all commands;
Shall live to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus death who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom s life did doft;
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone alost.
SONG.
THE ADIEU.
WHEN the sails catch the breeze and the anchor is weigh'd
To bear me from Anna my beautiful maid.
The top-mast ascending I look for my dear,
And sigh that her features imperfect apper.
Till aided by fancy her charms I still trace,
And for me see the tears trickle down her pale face.
While her handkerchief waving solicits my view,
And I hear her sweet lips sadly sigh out adieu!
The pleasing delusion not long can prevail,
Higher rise the proud waves and more brisk blows the gale.
The gale that regards not the sigh that it bears,
The proud waves still unmov d tho augmented by tears;
Ah will you not one single moment delay,
Oh think from what raptures you bear me away.
[Page] Then my eyes strain in vain my dear Anna to view,
And a tear drops from each as I sigh out adieu!
Yet some comfort it gives to my agoniz d mind,
That I still see the land where I left her behind.
The land that gave birth to my charmer and me,
Tho' less ning my eyes beam with pleasure to see.
'Tis the casket that holds all that's dear to my heart,
In the heaven where yet we shall meet ne'er to part;
If the fates are propitious to lovers so true,
But if not dearest Anna, a long long adieu!
SONG.
THE HEAVING OF THE LEAD.
FOR England when with a fav'ring gale,
Our gallant ship up Channel steer'd;
And scudding under easy sail,
The high blue western land appear'd:
To heave the lead the seaman sprung,
And to the watchful pilot sung
By the deep nine.
And bearing up to gain the port,
Some well known object kept in view;
An Abbey tow'r, or harbour fort,
Or beacon, to the vessel true:
While oft the lead the seaman flung,
And to the watchful pilot sung
By the mark seven.
And as the much lov'd shore we near,
With transport we beheld the roof
Where dwelt a friend, or partner dear,
Of faith and love a matchless proof:
The lead once more the seaman flung,
And to the pilot cheerly sung
Quarter less five.
[Page]
SONG.
THE DISCONSOLATE SAILOR.
WHEN my money was gone that I gain'd in the wars,
The world then did frown on my fate;
What matters my zeal or my honored scars,
When indifference stood at each gate:
The face that did smile when my purse was well lin'd,
Shew'd a different aspect on me;
And when I could nought but ingratitude find,
I hied me again to the sea.
I thought it unwise to repine at my lot
Or care how the world went on shore;
So I packed up the triffling remains I had got,
A trifflle alas was my store:
A handkerchief held all the little I had,
Which over my shoulder I threw;
Away then I trudged with a heart rather sad,
To join in some jolly ship's crew.
The seas were less troubled by far than my mind,
When o'er the wide main I survey'd;
I could not but think that the world was unkind,
And fortune a slippery jade:
I vow'd if once more I could get her in tow,
I would let the ungrateful ones see;
That the turbulent winds and the billows could show
More kindness than they did to me.
Bacchanalian Songs.
[Page]
SONG.
THE BACCHANALIAN.
THE heathenish Gods thought good liquor divine,
Ambrosia and Nectar were quaff'd off as wine:
Dad Jove was oft' muz—merry Momus a soul,
And big beily'd Bacchus stuck firm to his bowl:
The glass gingled round, the glad deities roared,
And gods keep it up, keep it up, was encor'd.
The giants of old from the grape seiz'd their might,
Dapper fairies too sipp'd by the moon's silver light;
Their puny libations with rapture were swill'd,
And butter cup goblets with dew-drops were fill'd:
And thus fairy favors dispensing around,
The vales with their sonnets of pleasure resound.
Old Terra's a drunkard, nice casuists maintain,
Opens her mouth for heaven's juice, gulph potations of rain;
Which if they're denied, her no produce will bring,
But russet appears the gay mantle of spring:
The oak's sturdy root, the smart shrub, herb, or flow'r,
E'en all vegetations refresh'd by the show'r.
Then why should not we the full goblet display,
Let showers from a bumper still moisten our clay;
With love 'twill inspire us, to friendship give zest,
Raise our spirits, expand the proud heart in each breast:
Your glasses then sill, let no moment be lost,
For friendship, the king, and Old England's my toast.
[Page]
SONG.
MY TEMPLES WITH CLUSTERS, &c.
MY temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,
And barter all joy for a goblet of wine;
In search of a Venus I'll no longer run,
But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.
Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair!
'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair;
For what mighty charms can be found in a glass,
If not fill'd to the health of some favorite lass?
'Tis woman whose charms ev'ry rapture impart,
And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart:
The miser himself (so supreme is her sway)
Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.
At the sound of her voice, sorrow lifts up her head,
And poverty listens well pleased from her shed;
And poverty listens well pleased from her shed;
While age, in an extacy, hobbling along,
Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her song.
Then bring me a bottle from Bacchus's hoard,
The largest and deepest that stands on the board;
I'll fill up a brimmer and drink to the fair,
'Tis the toast of a lover, and pledge me who dare.
SONG.
MY FRIEND AND PITCHER.
THE wealthy fool with gold in store,
Will still desire to grow richer;
Give me but these, I ask no more,
My charming girl, my friend and pitcher.
My friend so rare, my girl so fair,
With such what mortal can be richer,
Give me but these, I ask no more,
With my sweet girl, in friend and pitcher.
[Page 43] From morning sun I'd never grieve,
To toil a hedger or a ditcher,
If that when I come home at eve,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.
My friend so rare, &c.
Tho' fortune ever shuns my door,
I know not what 'tis can bewitch her,
With all my heart, can I be poor,
With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher,
My friend so rare, &c.
SONG.
BANISH SORROW, GRIEF'S A FOLLY.
Sung in the Crusade.
BANISH sorrow, grief's a folly,
Thought unbend thy wrinkled brow;
Hence dull care and melancholy,
Mirth and joy invite us now;
Bacchus empties all his treasure,
Comus brings us wit and song;
Follow, follow, follow pleasure,
Let us join the jovial throng.
The love-sick swain who sighs and simpers,
T'other bottle would set free;
Nor artful smiles, nor am'rous whimpers,
E'er could fetter you or me:
We for courtship have no leisure,
Bumpers yeild us better joy;
Follow, follow, follow pleasure,
While thus mirth our time employ.
Why then should dull care perplex us,
Why should we not jovial be?
Since we're here we've nought to vex us,
Bumpers set from care all free:
[Page 44] Then let's have bumpers without measure,
Let's be gay while time we have;
Follow, follow, follow pleasure,
There's no drinking in the grave.
SONG.
THO' BACCHUS MAY BOAST.
THO' BACCHUS may boast of his care-killing bowl,
And folly in thought-drowning revels delight,
Such worship, alas! hath no charms for the soul,
When softer devotions the senses invite.
To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care,
His potions oblivious a balm may bestow,
But to fancy, that feeds on the charms of the fair,
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.
What soul that's possess'd of a dream so divine,
What riot would bid the sweet vision begone?
For the tear that bedew sensibility's shrine
Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun.
The tender excess that enamours the heart
To few is imparted, to millions deny'd,
'Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart
And fools jest at that for which sages have died.
Each change and excess have thro' life been my doom
And well can I speak of its joys and its strife,
The bottle affords us a glimpse thro' the gloom
But love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life.
Come then, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight
The magic illusions that ravish the soul;
Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight
And drop from the myrtle one leaf in my bowl!
[Page 45]
Then deep will I drink of the Nectar divine,
Nor e'er, jolly god! from thy banquet remove,
But each tube of my heart ever thirst, for the wine,
That's mellow'd by friendship, and sweeten'd by love.
SONG.
THE BROWN JUG.
DEAR TOM, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,
(In which I will drink to sweet NAN of the Vale)
Was once TOBY PHILPOT, a thirsty old soul,
As e'er crack'd a bottle or fathom'd a bowl,
In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore of the bell.
It chanc'd as in dog days he sat at his ease,
In his flower woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrow away,
An with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath doors of life on a fudden were shut,
And he dy'd full as big as a Dorchester Butt.
His body when long in the ground it had rain,
And time into clay had dissolv'd it again,
A potter found out in a covert so snug,
And with a part of fat TOBY he made this brown jug.
Now sacred to friendship, to mirth and mild ale,
So here's to my lovely sweet NAN of the Vale,—
Vale, sweet NAN of the Vale.
SONG.
THE SUMMUM BONUM.
GIVE me wine, rosy wine, that foe to despair,
Whose magical power can banish all care;
[Page 46] Of friendship the parent, composer of strife,
The soother of sorrow, and blessing of life:
The schools about happiness warmly dispute,
And weary the sense of the phantom pursuit;
In spite of their maxims, I dare to define,
The grand summum bonum's a bumper of wine.
To the coward a warmth it ne'er fails to impart,
And opens the lock of a miserly heart,
While thus we carouse it, the wheels of the soul,
O'er life's rugged highway agreeably roll;
Each thinks of his charmer, who never can cloy,
And fancy rides post to the regions of joy:
Inspite of dull maxims, I dare to define
The grand summum bonum's a bumper of wine.
'Tis the balsam specific, that heals ev'ry sore,
The oft'ner we taste it, we love it the more;
Then he who true happiness seeks to attain,
With spirit, the full flowing bumper must drain:
And he who the court of fair Venus would know,
Undanted thro' Bachus's vineyard must go;
In spite of dull maxims, I dare to define,
The grand summum bonum's a bumper of wine.
SONG.
BRAVE HAL.
HERE, full of scars, lies brave Hal Brazen,
For whom the corps has griev'd;
He'll ne'er stand centry for this reason,
By death he's now reliev'd:
Five feet six inches he was counted,
And brave with all 'tis said:
The guard by him's no longer mounted,
He rests in honor's bed.
Hal never from his corps deserted,
He'd face a ball or sword:
[Page 47] His regiment he oft' diverted,
And Moll his wife ador'd:
How oft' did he against the foe march,
Pursuing all that Bed:
Farewell his quick step and his slow march,
He halts in honor's bed.
Yet Hal above shall be promoted,
When his commander great,
T'advance the brave, the good, and noted,
Will give his orders scrait:
To handle arms when word is given,
And trumpets call the dead,
Hal, to be billeted in heav'n,
Shall wake from honor's bed.
SONG.
ANACREON.
TO Anacreon in heav'n where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of harmony sent a petition;
That he their inspirer and patron would be,
When this answer arriv'd from the jolly old Grecian;
Voice, fiddle, and flute
No longer be mute,
I'll lend you my name, and inspire ye to boot;
And besides I'll instruct you like me to entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
The news through Olympus immediately flew,
When old thunder pretended to give himself airs,
If these mortals are suffer'd their schemes to pursue,
The devil a goddess will stay above stairs.
"Hark! already they cry,
"In transports of joy,
Away to the sons of Anacreon we'll fly,
And there, with good fellows, we'll learn to entwine.,
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
[Page 48] The yellow hair'd god and his nine fusty maids,
From Helicon's banks will incontinent flee;
Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
And the biforked hills a mere desert will be;
"My thunder, no fear on't,
"Shall soon do its errand,
And d—n me, I'll swing the ringleaders I warrant;
I'll trim the young dogs for thus daring to twine,
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
Appollo rose up, and said "Prythee ne'er quarrel,
Good king of the gods, with my vot'ries below;
Your thunder is useless," Then shewing his laurel,
Cried,
Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
"Then over each head,
"My laurel I'll spread,
So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall dread,
Whilst snug in their club room they jovially twine,
The Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine."
Next Momus got up, with his risible phiz,
And swore with Apollo he'd chearfully join,
The full tide of harmony still shall be his,
But the song, and the catch, and the laugh shall be mine.
"Then Jove be not jealous,
"Of these hearty fellows:
Cried Jove, we relent since the truth you now tell us:
And swear, by old Styx, that they long shall intwine,
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
Ye sons of Anacreon then join hand in hand;
Preserve unanimity, friendship, and love;
'Tis your's to support what's so happily plan'd;
Youv'e the sanction of gods, and the fiat of Jove.
"While thus we agree.
"Our toast let it be.
May our club flourish happy, united, and free;
And long may the sons of Anacreon entwine,
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
[Page 49]
SONG.
THE SOLDIER TIR'D.
THE soldier tir'd of war's alarms,
Forswears the clang of hostile arms,
And scorns the spear and shield.
But if the brazen trumpet sound,
He burns with conquest to be crown'd,
And dares again the field.
SONG.
A SUP OF GOOD WHISKEY.
A SUP of good whiskey will make you glad,
Too much of the creature will make you mad,
If you take in reason it will make you wise,
If you drink to excess it will close up your eyes.
Yet father and mother,
And sister and brother,
They all taste a sup in their turn.
Some preachers will tell you to drink is bad,
I think so too if there's none to be had:
The swadler will bid you to drink none at all,
But while I can get it a fig for them all.
Both laymen and brother,
In spite of this pother,
Will all take a sup in their turn.
Some doctors will tell ye 'twill hurt my health,
And justice will say 'twill reduce your wealth,
Physicians and lawyers will all agree,
When your money is all gone, you can get no see.
Yet surgeon or doctor,
And lawyer and proctor,
Will all take a sup in their turn.
[Page 50]
If a soldier is drunk on his duty found
He soon to the three legg'd horse is bound,
In the face of the regiment obliged to strip,
A naggin will soften the drummer's whip.
For serjeant and drummer,
And likewise his honor,
Will all take a sup in their turn.
The Turks who arrived from the ports sublime,
They told us that drinking was held a great crime,
Yet after their dinner away they slunk,
And tippled their wine, till they got quite drunk.
The Sultan and Crommet,
And even Mahomet,
They all take a sup in their turn.
The Quakers will bid you from drink abstain,
By yea and by nay, 'tis a fault in the vain,
Yet some of the broadbrims will get to the stuff,
And tipple away till they've tippl'd enough,
For stiff rump or steady,
And Solomon's lady,
Will all take a sup in their turn.
The Germans will say they can drink the most,
The French and Itahans will also boast,
Hibernia's the country, for all their noise,
For generous drinking and hearty boys,
There each jovial fellow,
Will drink till he's mellow,
And take off his glass in his turn.
[Page]
Love Songs, &c.
SONG.
THE PARENT BIRD.
THE parent bird, whose little nest,
Is by her tender young possest,
With fluttering wings and downy breast,
She shelters them with love:
But soon as nature plumes their wings,
They take their flight to groves and springs;
Quite unconcerned, the parent sings,
Regardless where they rove.
Unhappy we, of human race,
The lasting cares of life embrace,
And our best affections place
On what procures us pain:
For children, as their years increase,
Increase our cares, and spoil our peace;
Paternal love will never cease,
But ever must remain.
SONG.
THE BUD OF THE ROSE.
Sung in Rosina.
HER mouth with a smile,
Devoid of all guile,
Half open to view;
Is the bud of the rose,
[Page 52] In the morning that blows,
Impearl'd with the dew.
More fragant her breath,
Than the flower-scented heath,
At the dawning of day;
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lilly's perfume,
Or the blossoms of May.
Her mouth, &c.
SONG.
HENRY'S COTTAGE MAID.
AH! where can fly my soul's true love?
Sad, I wander this lone grove;
Sighs and tears for him I shed,
Henry is from Laura fled
Thy love to me thou didst impart,
Thy love soon won my virgin heart:
But dearest Henry, thou'st betrayed,
Thy love with thy dear cottage maid.
Thro' the vale my grief appears,
Sighing sad with pearly tears,
Oft thy image is my theme,
As I wander on the green;
See from my cheek the colour flies,
And love's sweet hope within me dies;
For ah! dearest Henry, thou'st betrayed,
Thy love with thy dear cottage maid.
SONG.
THIS, this, my lad, is a soldier's life—
He marches to the sprightly fife,
[Page 53] And in each town to some new wife
Swears he'll be ever true.
He's here, he's there, where is he not?
Variety's his envied lot,
He eats, drinks, sleeps, and pays no shot,
And follows the loud tattoo.
Call'd out to face his country's foes,
The tears of fond domestic woes
He kisses off, and boldly goes
To earn of fame his due.
Religion, liberty, and laws,
Both are his and his country's cause;
For these, thro' dangers, without pause,
He follows the loud tattoo.
And if at last in honour's wars,
He earns his share of danger's scars,
Still he feels bold, and thanks his stars,
He's no worse fate to rue.
Chelsea, free from toil and pain,
He wields his crutch—points out the slain—
And in fond fancy once again
Follows the loud tattoo.
SONG.
THE MATCH GIRL.
COME buy of poor Mary, good matches I sell,
Thro' London's fam'd city I'm known mighty well;
Tho' my heart is quite sunk, yet I constantly cry,
Come who'll buy my matches,
Come who'll buy my matches, who'll buy, who'll buy;
Come who'll buy my matches.
[Page 54]
Friends and parents I've none, I ne'er saw their face,
I wander about the poor child of disgrace;
Yet tho' poor I am honest and oft heave a sigh,
While crying, my matches who'll buy, who'll buy,
Come, who'll buy my matches.
My equals despise me and say I am proud,
Because I avoid them and keep from the crowd;
For wicked temptations I ever will fly,
I live by my matches, who'll buy, who'll buy,
Come who'll buy my matches.
Alone and unpiti'd I'm look'd on with scorn,
Ah! better for me I had never been born;
Here I sue for protection, while plaintive I cry,
Come who'll buy my matches, who'll buy, who'll buy.
Come who'll buy my matches.
SONG.
THE TWINS OF LATONA.
THE twins of Latona, so kind to my boon,
Arise and partake of the chace;
And Sol lends a ray to chaste Dian's fair moon,
And a smile to the smiles of her face.
For the sport I delight in, the bright Queen of love,
With myrtles my brows shall adorn,
While Pan breaks his chanter, and skulks in the grove,
Excelled by the sound of the horn.
The dogs are uncoupl'd, and sweet is their cry,
Yet sweeter the notes of sweet echo's reply;
Hark forward, hark forward, the game is in view,
But love is the game that I wish to pursue.
The stag from his chamber of woodbine peeps out,
His sentence he hears in the gale,
[Page 55] Yet flies still entangled in fear and in doubt,
His courage and constancy fail.
Surrounded by foes he prepares for the fray,
Despair taking place of his fear!
With antlers erected a while stands at bay,
Then surrenders his life with a tear.
The dogs are, &c.
SONG.
SWEET LILIES OF THE VALLEY.
Sung at Vauxhall.
O'ER barren hills and flow'ry dales
O'er seas and distant shores,
With merry song and jocund tales,
I've pass'd some pleasant hours;
Tho' wand'ring thus I ne'er could find
A girl like blithsome Sally,
Who picks, and culls, and cries aloud,
Sweet lilies of the valley.
From whistling o'er the hollow'd turf,
From nesting of each tree,
I chose a Soldier's life to wed,
So social, gay and free:
Yet though the lasses love as well,
And often try to rally,
None pleases me like her who cries,
Sweet lilies of the valley.
I'm now return'd, of late discharg'd,
To use my native toil,
From fighting in my country's cause,
To plough my country's soil:
I care not which, with either pleas'd,
So I possess my Sally;
That little merry nymph that cries,
Sweet lilies of the valley.
[Page 56]
SONG.
SOMEBODY.
Sung at the Bath Concert.
WERE I oblig'd to beg my bread,
And had not where to lay my head;
I'd creep where yonder herds are fed,
And steal a look at somebody.
Ah, should my love meet with return,
I'll bless the day that I was born,
And never more would sigh forlorn,
But live to look at somebody.
With him I'd tend my fleecy care,
With him each anxious wish I'd share,
And only ask that I might bear,
The name of my dear somebody.
SONG.
Sung in Oscar and Malvina.
OEVER in my bosom live,
Thou source of endless treasure!
Since nothing else on earth can give
So dear, so rich a treasure:
True love perhaps may bring alarms,
Or be but loss of reason;
Yet still it adds to summer charms,
And cheers the wintry season.
The lustre of the great and gay,
Is transitory fashion;
Whilst pure and lasting is the ray,
Of
[...] passion;
[...] the peasant's cot,
[...]
[...] his lot,
[...]
[Page 57]
Then let us each on each rely,
A mutual transport borrow,
The flavish forms of life defy,
And artificial sorrow:
Content we'll laugh, and sport, and sing,
Grow livelier and jocoser:
While time, that fleets on envious wings,
Shall bind our hearts the closer.
SONG.
HOW SWEET THROUGH THE WOODLANDS.
HOW sweet in the woodland, with fleet hound and horn,
To waken shrill Echo, and taste the fresh morn!
But hard is the chase my fond heart must pursue,
For Daphne, fair daphne is lost to my view.
Assist me, chaste Dian, the nymph to regain,
More wild than the roebuck, and wing'd with disdain;
In pity o'ertake her, who wounds as she flies:
Though Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtillo that dies.
SONG.
THE LAMPLIGHTER.
I'm jolly Dick the lamplighter,
They say the Sun's my dad;
And truly I believe it so,
For I'm a pretty lad:
Father and I the world do light,
And make it look so gay;
The difference is I light by night,
My father lights by day.
But father's not the like of I,
For knowing life and fun,
[Page] For I strange tricks and fancy spy,
Folks never shew the Sun:
Rogues, owls, and bats, can't bear the light,
I've heard your wife ones say,
And so, d'ye mind, I sees, by night,
Things never seen by day.
At night men lay aside all art,
As quite an useless task,
And many a face, and many a heart,
Will then pull off the mask:
Each formal prude, and holy wight,
Will throw disguise away,
And sin it openly at night,
Who saint it all the day.
His darling hoard the miser views,
Misses from friends decamp,
And many a statesman mischief brews,
To his country, o'er his lamp;
So father and I, d'ye take me right,
Are just on the same lay,
I barefac'd sinners light by night,
And he false saints by day.
SONG.
OH! HONE! IF I DO MAY I NEVER BE MARRY'D.
THE kiss that he gave when he left me behind,
Sealed the promise of Patrick's love;
And when to my sailor I'm false or unkind,
Such falsehood expect from the dove;
The promise of lovers should ne'er be forgot,
And I promis'd the lad, tho' behind him I tarry'd;
That I ne'er would forsake him, tho humble his lot,
Oh! hone! if I do, may I never be marry'd.
[Page]
Now the winds and the waves bear him over the sea,
The young squire would give me fine things;
But what are his riches or grandeur to me,
His baubles, his ribbons and rings?
The promise of lovers should ne'er be forgot,
And I promis'd the lad tho' behind him I tarried,
That I ne'er would forsake him tho' humble his lot,
Oh! hone! if I do, may I never be married.
His cabbin is low, but content dwells within,
And snug is the thatch o'er the door,
For riches without him I care not a pin,
For my sailor's the lad I adore;
The promise of lovers should ne'er be forgot,
Yet some times such hopes, we all know, have miscarry'd;
I trust he'll prove true, but I'll sit him if not,
Oh! hone! if I don't, may I ne'er be marry'd.
SONG.
WHEN a little merry he,
My mother nurs'd me on her knee;
Smiles and kisses she gave with joy,
And call'd me oft her darling boy:
School boys pranks, as big I grew,
I lik'd but lik'd my lessons too;
Frowns or whippings I seldom got,
And sometimes praises were my lot.
Soon my lord receiv'd me here,
Fine clothes he gave and dainty cheer;
Lords and ladies me carest;
But still I love my mother best:
For when a little, &c.
[Page 40]
SONG.
WAY-WORN TRAVELLER.
FAINT and wearily the way-worn traveller,
Plods uncheerily afraid to stop:
Wandering drearily a sad unraveller,
Of the mazes tow'rd the mountains top:
Doubting, fearing,
While his course he's steering:
Cottages appearing,
When he's nigh to drop:
Oh! how briskly then the way-worn traveller,
Treads the mazes tow'rd the mountains top.
Tho' so melancholy day has past by,
'T would be folly to think on't more:
Blythe and jolly he the keg holds fast by,
As he's sitting at the goat-herd's door:
Eating, quaffing,
At past labour laughing:
Better far by half
In spirits than before:
Oh! how merry then the rested traveller,
Seems while sitting at the goat-herd's door.
SONG.
THE WEDDING DAY.
WHAT virgin or shepherd in valley or grove,
Will envy my innocent lays;
The song of the heart and the offspring of love,
When sung in my Corydon's praise:
O'er brook and o'er brake as he hies to the bow'r,
How lightsome my shepherd can trip!
And sure, when of love he describes the soft pow'r,
The honey dew drops from his lip.
How sweet is the primrose, the vi'let how sweet,
And sweet is the eglantine breeze;
[Page] But Corydon's kiss, when by moonlight we met,
To me is far sweeter than these;
I blush at his raptures, I hear all his vows,
I sigh when I offer to speak;
And, oh! what delight my fond bosom o'erflows,
When I feel the soft touch of his cheek.
Responsive and shrill be the notes from the spray,
Let the pipe thro' the village resound;
Be smiles in each face, oh! ye shepherds, to day,
And ring the bells merrily round:
Your favours prepare, my companions, with speed,
Assist me my blushes to hide;
A twelve month ago on this day I agreed
To be my lov'd Corydon's bride.
SONG.
BELINDA, see from yonder flow'rs
The bee flies loaded to its cell;
Can you perceive what it devours?
Are they impair'd in show and smell?
So, though I robb'd you of a kiss,
Sweeter than their ambrosial dew,
Why are you angry at my bliss?
Has it at all impovrish'd you?
'Tis by this cunning I contrive,
In spite of your unkind reserve,
To keep my famish'd love alive,
Which you inhumanly would starve.
[Page]
Hunting Songs. &c.
SONG.
HARK AWAY TO THE DOWNS,
A favourite hunting song.
HARK, hark my brave boys, away to the downs,
The huntsman is gone before with the hounds,
Sol pleas'd (see he smiles) with his last night's nap,
And now shakes his cars on Thetis's lap:
Come, come my brave boys, away to the joys,
That far does exceed the joys of doxies,
For this is the sport to which we resort,
Without any fear from Hares or Foxes.
See, see Diana, with rosy round face,
With bow and quiver, and her hunting dress,
To follow the Chace she very well knows,
Exceeds the delights of fops and of beaux:
Let each foppish fool be young Cupid's tool,
To follow his Bet, or, whine for his Nan,
We despise his law, and laugh ha ha ha,
We'll live, and w'eil drink, and hunt while we can.
Hark Tray and Flora, see, see, that is good,
Rattler he hits
[...] that she's in the wood,
Bumper and Trowler, they find that she's gone,
See yonder she scuds and flies o'er the lawn;
Hark, gone, gone away, away hark away,
That's good good again, I mean to rally,
Where prithee so fast, pray why in such haste,
Let us enjoy it, now hark they tally.
[Page 63]
See, see, do you see? Comely leads them on,
But Ringwood exceeds them all with his tongue;
You're over over, I see you are down,
Pray sirrah get up or I'll crack your crown.
There Bowman leads on, hark hark hark away,
That's good, good again, see Troll and Shallow,
Let's try the field round, the sheep soil their ground,
The devil, what makes the foot solks hallo?
Prithee good people don't make such a route,
Pray let them alone, they'll soon find her out,
There Tatler now hear how full mouth'd he rings,
Now Beauty Wing see, ware, ware, Beauty Wings:
Hark Trowler does hit, she's gone o'er this bit,
That's good, good again, hey hey to Stockwood,
Bowler leads the way, hey Doxey, hey Tray,
That's good, good again, hark Doll and Rockwood.
Hold hard there, pull in, don't ride such a pace,
See Lady and Troll they work at the chace,
She's now almost spent, do mind what I said,
Pray keep back your hounds, she'll quickly be dead,
Now make good your head, for see she is dead,
Off from your horses keep them from tearing,
Yo ho whoop, yo ho huzza, tally ho,
There comes the foot folks quite out of hearing.
Come now then my lads, 'tis glorious sport,
'Tis three hours ago since we had the start,
Not like dull coursers, that brushing the bush,
They beat all the day and can't find a puss,
And then if they do, it is but so ho,
By my faith and troth the pleasure is none,
'Tis halloo, halloo, and hey hey halloo,
She's up and she's lost, she's dead and its done.
[Page 64]
SONG.
HYMEN'S EVENING POST.
GREAT news, great news, great news,
Great news, great news, great news,
Great news, I'm hither sent,
'Mongst mortals to declare,
What pass'd in Hymea's parliament,
When Cupid took the chair.
They made the wisest best decree,
You've know in all your lives;
Old maids shall blest with husbands be,
And bachelors with wives;
To bachelors what rare news,
And all your tabby host,
Who may the tidings glad peruse,
In Hymen's Evening Post.
To bachelors what rare news,
And all your tabby host,
Who may the tidings glad peruse,
In Hymen's Evening Post.
Great news, great news,
In Hymen's Evening Post,
In Hymen's Evening Post,
Great news, great news.
By ev'ry bachelor for life,
A duty must be paid,
Refusing to take for wife,
And antiquated maid:
Poor soul how great must be her joy,
Who such a lot escapes,
No more with pug or puss to toy,
And freed from leading apes.
What wonderful surprising news,
For all your tabby host,
Who may the tidings glad peruse,
In Hymen's Evening Post.
Great news, &c.
[Page]
A bachelor moreover is
A poor unhappy elf,
Who void of all domestic bliss
Lays snoting by himself;
He need not now to cheer his mind,
In search of gossip roam,
For fure as fate he'll always find
Enough of that at home.
For bachelors what pleasing news,
And all your tabby host,
Who may the tidings glad peruse,
In Hymen's Evening Post.
Great news, &c.
SONG.
THE SAILORS JOURNAL.
'TWAS post meridian, half past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted;
At six, she linger'd on the shore,
With uplift hands, and broken hearted:
At seven, when tautning the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy,
At eight we all got under way,
And bid a long adieu to Nancy.
Night came, and now eight bells had rung,
While careless sailors ever cheary;
On the mid watch so jovial sung,
With tempers, labour cannot weary;
I little to their mirth inclin'd,
While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy,
And my warm sighs increas'd the wind,
Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy.
And now arriv'd, that jovial night,
When every true bred tar carouses;
[Page 66] When o'er the grog all hands delight,
To toast their sweethearts and their spouses:
Round went the can, the jest, the glee,
While tender wishes fill'd each fancy;
And when in turn it came to me,
I heav'd a sigh, and toasted Nancy.
Next morn a storm came on at four
At six the elements in motion,
Plung'd me and three poor sailors more,
Headlong within the foaming ocean.
Poor wretches they soon found their grave,
For me it may be only fancy;
But love seemed to forbid the wave,
To snatch me from the arms of Nancy.
Scarce the foul hurricane had clear'd,
Scarce winds and waves had ceas'd to rattle.
When a bold enemy appear'd,
And dauntless we prepar'd for battle;
And now while some lov'd friend or wife,
Like light'ning rush'd on ev'ry fancy;
To Providence I trusted life,
Put up a prayer and thought on Nancy.
At last 'twas in the month of May,
The crew, it being lovely weather;
At three A. M. discover'd day,
And England's chalky cliffs together,
At seven up channel how we bore,
While hopes and fears rush'd on my fancy,
At twelve I gayly jump'd on shore,
And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy.
SONG.
BACHELOR'S HALL.
TO Bachelor's Hall, we good fellows invite,
To partake of the chase that makes up our delight,
[Page] We have spirits like fire, and of health such a stock,
That our pulse strikes the seconds as true as a clock;
Did you see us you'd swear, as we mount with a grate,
That Diana had dubb'd some new gods of the chase,
That Diana had dubb'd some new gods of the chase,
Hark away, hark away, all nature looks gay,
And Aurora with smiles usher in the bright day.
Dick Thickset came mounted upon a fine black,
A better fleet gelding ne'er hunter did back,
Tom Trig rode a bay, full of mettle and bone,
And gayly Bob Buxom rode proud on a roan;
But the horse of all horses that rivalled the day,
Was the squires neck—or—nothing and that was a grey.
Hark away, hark away,
While our spirits are gay,
Let's drink to the joys of the next coming day.
Then for hounds there was Nimble so well that climbs rocks
And cocknose, a good one at scenting a fox,
Little plunge, like a mole who will ferret and search,
And beetle—browed hawks—eye, so dead at a lurch;
Young sly—locks that scents the strong breeze from the south,
And musical echowell, with his deep mouth.
Hark away, &c.
Our horses thus all of the very best blood,
'Tis not likely you'll easily find such a stud;
And for hounds our opinions with thousands we'll back,
That all England throughout can't produce such a pack
Thus having described you dogs, horses and crew,
Away we set off, for the fox is in view
Hark away, &c.
Sly Reynard's bro't home, while the horns sound a call,
And now you're all welcome to Bachelor's Hall,
The sav'ry surloin grateful smoaks on the board,
And Bacchus pours wine from his favorite hoard;
[Page 68] Come on then do honor to this jovial place,
And enjoy the sweet pleasures that springs from the chace.
Hark away, &c.
SONG.
THE GENERAL ELECTION.
JOHN BULL, for pastime took a prance,
Some time a-go to peep at
France,
To talk of Sciences and Arts,
And knowledge gain in Foreign parts.
Monsieur obsequious heard him speak,
And answered
John in hea-then Greek;
To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,
'Twas
"Monsieur, je vous n'entend pas."
JOHN to the Palais-royal came,
Its splendor almost struck him dumb;
I say, whose house is
that there here?
"House! Je vous n' entend pas, Monsieur."
What,
Nong Tong Paw again, cries JOHN!
This fellow is some mighty don!
No doubt has plenty for the maw,
I'll
breakfast with this
Nong Tong Paw.
JOHN saw
Varseilles from
Marli's height,
And cried astonished at the sight,
Whose fine estate is that there here?
Stat! Je vous n'entend pas Monsieur.
His? what the land and houses too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew;
On every thing he lay's his claw,
I should like to
dine with
Nong Tong Paw.
[Page]
Next tripping by a courtly fair,
JOHN cried, enchanted with her air,
What lovely wench is that there here?
Ventch! Je vous n'entend pas, Monsieur.
What, he again? upon my life;
A palace, lands, and then a wife,
Sir JOSHUA might delight to draw,
I should like to sup with
Nong Tong Paw.
But hold, whose fun'ral's that? cries
John,
"
Je vous n'entend pas: What is he gone?
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save
Poor
Nong Tong Paw, then, from the grave.
His race is run, his game is up,
I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;
But since he's chosen to withdraw,
Good night t'ye Monsieur
Nong Tong Paw
SONG.
WHEN the rosy morn appearing,
Paints with gold the verdant lawn,
Bees on banks of thyme disporting,
Sip the sweets and hail the dawn.
Warbling birds, the day proclaiming,
Carol sweet the lively strain;
They sorsake their leafy dwelling
To secure the golden grain.
See, content the humble gleaner,
Take the scattr'd ears that fall;
Nature, all her children viewing,
Kindly bounteous cares for all.
[Page]
SONG.
DELIA.
WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender sears,
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but hers can hear;
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
SONG.
POLL OF PLYMOUTH.
SWEET Poll of Plymouth was my dear;
When forc'd from her to go,
Down her cheeks rain'd many a tear,
My heart was fraught with wo:
[Page] Our anchor weigh'd for sea we stood,
The land we left behind:
Her tears then swell'd the briny flood,
My sighs increas'd the wind.
We plow'd the deep, and now between
Us lay the ocean wide:
For five long years I had not seen
My sweet, my bonny bride:
That time I sail'd the world around,
All for my true love's sake;
But press'd as we were homeward bound,
I thought my heart would break.
The press-gang bold I ask'd in vain
To let me once on shore;
I long'd to see my Poll again,
But saw my Poll no more.
And have they torn my love away!
And is she gone! he cried,
My Polly, sweetest flower of May!
She languish'd, droop'd and died.
SONG.
THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
ON Richmond hill there lives a lass,
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass,
A rose without a thorn:
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good will;
I'd crowns resign to call thee mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond hill.
Ye zephyrs gay that fan the air,
And wonton thro' the grove,
[Page] Oh! whisper to my charming fair,
I die for her and love.
This lass, &c.
How happy will the shepherd be,
Who calls this nymph his own!
Oh! may her choice be fix'd on me!
Mine's fix'd on her alone,
This lass, &c.
SONG.
WERTER TO CHARLOTTE.
THE conflict's o'er, my love adieu,
To death I'll yield serene and brave;
Before these parting lines you view,
Werter shall sleep within his grave:
Whene'er the summer's sun you greet,
Recall the hours earliest of bloom;
And mark the evening breeze how fleet,
Waves the high grass around my tomb.
From this blest moment you are mine,
Yes, Charlotte, I but go before,
To our dread father's heav'nly shrine,
Where sorrows voice is heard no more:
He shall receive and comfort give,
To one oppress'd with grief and pain;
'Till you at length to bliss arrive,
And there forever we remain.
FINIS