Poor Jack.
By Mr. DIBDIN.
Go patter to lubbers and swabs, dò ye see,
'Bout danger and fear and the like,
A tight-water boat, and good sea-room give me,
And 'tan't to a little l'll strike..
Though the tempest top-gallant masts, smack smooth should smite,
And shiver each splinter of wood,
Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and house every thing tight,
And under reef'd foresail we'll scud.
Avast! nor don't think me a milk sop so soft,
To be taken for trifles a-back,
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 comes down below,
And many fine things that proved clearly to me,
That Providence takes us in tow :
For says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft,
Take the top-lifts of Sailors a-back,
There's a sweet little cherub sits perched 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 weighed anchor for sea,
What arguefies 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
Both for seamen and lubbers ashore,
And if to old Davy I go, my dear 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 the ship:
And with her brave the world without offering to flinch,
From the moment the anchor's a-trip:
As to me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,
Nought's a trouble from duty that springs,
My heart is my Poll's, and my rhino my friend's,
And as for my life, 'tis the king's:
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft,
As with grief to be taken a-back,
The same little cherub that sits up aloft,
Will look out a good birth for poor Jack.
The Farmer's Daughter.
Where are you going, my pretty maid?
I'm going a milking, sir, she said;
May I go with you, my pretty maid?
It's just as you please, kind sir, she said.
What is your father, my pretty maid?
My father's a farmer, sir, she said;
Then I will marry you, my pretty maid;
It's not as you please, kind sir, she said.
What is your fortune, my pretty maid?
My face is my fortune, sir, she said;
Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid;
Nobody ask'd you, sir, she said.
This Love-how it plagues me.
This love, how it plagues me, young Ellen did say,
As she sat at her wheel, on a fine summer's day;
Before I saw Sandy I rose with the lark,
And as merrily sang frae the morning till dark;
But now when I'm singing, he comes in my mind,
Tho' he's neither before me, nor yet is behind:
O love, do you plague ilka body like me,
For Sandy ne'er promis'd a lover to be!
Wi' me at the gloaming we've wander'd alane,
And at kirk, and at market, wi' me he has gane;
He speaks not of love, but he's blithe when we meet;
Nor allows me to pass unobserv'd in the street.
Be still then, my heart, let my wheel go its round,
For mother will wonder what's come o' thy sound;
I needna be jealous, for why should I be,
Since Sandy ne'er promis'd his true love to me.
While Ellen was musing, the door it flew wide,
In a moment young Sandy was down by her side
I'm come, my dear Ellen, you mauna say nay,
To ask you to wed me, and Tuesday's the day;
Your mother's consented, O now my love speak,-
Yet she said not a word, and pale grew her cheek;
At length with a smile, and the tear in her e'e,
She clung to his bosom, and said, 'It will be.'
Man the Brother of May.
Let the epicure boast the delight of his soul,
In the high-season'd dish, and the rich flowing bowl;
Can they give such true joys as benevolence can,
Or as charity feels when it benefits man?
Let him know the kind impulse that suffers with grief,
Let him taste the delight of affording relief,
Let him serve the great Author of Nature's great plan,
Who design'd man to act as the brother of man!
Tho' deceiv'd by a friend, let him see what he'll gain,
When the impulse of anger he learns to restrain;
Though great the offence, oh! forgive if you can,
For revenge is a monster disgraceful to man.
Think the chapter of life oft reverses the scene,
And the rich man becomes what the poor man has
been;
Think that chapter must end, for but short is the span
That will give us the power to benefit man.
When the evening Star is peeping.
When the evening star is peeping
Over every vale and dell,
Then we Fairies watch are keeping
In the dew-clad flow'ret's bell.
When the merry chimes are ringing,
When the moon shines o'er the lake,
Then our voices' tuneful singing,
Steals like magic through the brake.
When the evening star, &c.
When the dew drops from the flower,
When the sun sinks in the west,
When at silent midnight hour
All the busy world's at rest:
Then we roam at large, with pleasure,
Frisking in the moonbeam's gleam,
To the lute's soft dulcet measure,
Near the rippling silver stream.
When the evening star, &c.
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth,and ye skies, Now gay with the broad setting sun;
Farewell, love and friendship, ye dear tender ties! Our race of existence is run.
Thou grim king of terrors! thou life's gloomy foe!
Go frighten the coward and slave;
Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave.
Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;
Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark,
He falls in the blaze of his fame.
In the field of proud honor, our swords in our hands,
Our home and our country to save,
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not die with the brave?
On this cold flinty Rock.
On this cold flinty rock I will lay down my head,
And cheerfully sing thro' the night;
The moon shall smile sweetly upon my cold bed,
And the stars shall shine forth to give light.
Then come to me, come to me; wail not nor weep;
O turn thy sweet eyes unto me;
To my bosom now creep, I will sing thee to sleep, And kiss from thy lids the salt tear.
This innocent flower which these rude cliffs unfold, Is thou, love, the joy of this earth;
But the rock that it springs from, so flinty and cold, Is thy father that gave thee thy birth.
The dews that now hang on the cheek of the eve, And the winds that so mournfully cry,
Are the sighs and the tears of the youth thou must
To lie down in those deserts to die.
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