And sent to brave Jackson the sons of the West, To welcome and bury the bones of the stranger.
Brave sons of the West, all Europe will praise
The promptness with which you performed your
commission;
The world will admit that your conduct displays
A zeal to move on with a "great expedition;"
E'en Wellington's duke, who in France and in Spain
Oft sacrificed legions of Buonaparte's martyrs,
Will swear, when he hears that his generals are slain,
Our Western backwoodsmen are certainly Tartars.
The Dying Soldier to his Sword.
Friend in the battle day,
My father's sword and mine,
I cast thee now away
For ever thee resign.
The bitter conflict's past,
This palsied arm doth shrink,
Life's tide is ebbing fast,
My spirits fade and sink.
Yet, ere I breathe my last adieu,
I turn to thee, companion true;
And for the aid thou didst afford,
I thank thee well, my own good sword!
Tho' dimm'd thy once bright blade,
With foemen's blood imbu'd,
Thy strength is undecay'd,
Thy courage unsubdu'd.
When I am dead and gone,
Thou'lt gleam again on high,
Some hand will bear thee on
To deeds of victory.
Yet, ere I breathe, &c.
My name d'ye see's Tom Tough, I've seen a little service
Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I have sail'd with valiant Howe, I've sail'd with noble Jervis,
And in gallant Duncan's fleet I've sung out yo heave ho!
Yet more shall ye be knowing,
I was cockswain to Boscawen,
And even with brave Hawke I've nobly faced the foe. Then put round the grog,
So we've that and our prog,
We'll laugh in care's face, and sing yo heave ho.
When from my love to part I first weigh'd anchor,
And she was snivelling seen on the beach below,
I'd like to cotch my eyes snivelling too, d'ye see to
thank her,
But I brought my sorrows up with a yo heave ho;
For sailors though they have their jokes,
They love and feel like other folks,
Their duty to neglect must not come for to go;
So I seiz'd the capstan bar,
And in spite of tears and sighs sung yo heave ho.
But the worst on't was that time, when the little ones were sickly,
And if they'd live or die, the doctor did not know; The word was gov'd to weigh so sudden and so quickly,
I thought my heart would break as I sung yo heave ho.
For Poll's just like her mother;
And as for Jack, her brother,
The boy when he grows up, will nobly fight the foe;
But in Providence I trust,
What must be, must,'
So my sighs I gave the winds, and sung out yo heave ho.
And now at last, laid up in a decentish condition,
For I've only lost an eye and got a timber toe;
But old ships must expect in time to be out of com-
mission,
Nor again the anchor weigh with a yo heave ho.
So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,
For my boy shall revenge my wrongs,
And my girl shall breed young sailors nobly for to
face the foe.
Then to country and king,
Fate no danger can bring,
While the tars of old England sing out yo heave ho.
Ah no! Dearest, no!
It is not where bright eyes are brightest,
Nor sweetest music wakes the tongue,
Nor where the bounding step is lightest,
A thousand gay compeers among.
"Tis not where beams the loveliest beauty
That round the heart a spell can throw,
Aught can of mine defeat the duty,
No, dearest, no! ah no! dearest, no!
It is not where the diamond trembles,
Beneath the proudly glittering dome,
Where pleasure all her train assembles,
And seeks the heart in vain a home,
A smile, a power, can e'er be given,
That worship'd charm to overthrow
That sheds o'er thee a grace of heaven,
No, dearest, no! ah no! dearest, no!
Now Westlin Winds and Slaughtꞌring
Guns.
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns,
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moor-cock springs on whirring wings,
Among the blooming heather;
Now waying grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains;
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel-bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus, ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander;
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading green and yellow.
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk
Till the silent moon shines clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear, how I love thee dearly!
Not vernal showers to budding flow'rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
Come, take the Harp.
Come, take the harp-'tis vain to muse
Upon the gathering ills we see!
Oh! take harp, and let me lose,
All thoughts of ill in hearing thee!
Sing to me, love! though death were near,
Thy song could make my soul forget-
Nay, nay, in pity dry that tear,
All may be well, be happy yet!
Let me but see that snowy arm
Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
Will smile at fate when thou art nigh!
Give me that strain, of mournful touch,
We used to love, long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
As now, alas! they bleed to know!
Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,
Of all that look'd so rapturous then,
Now wither'd, lost-oh! pray thee cease-
I cannot bear those sounds again!
Art thou, too, wretched? yes, thou art;
I see thy tears flow fast with mine-
Come, come to this devoted heart,
'Tis breaking, but it still is thine!
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