Images de page

But yet think not our fate is hard,
Though storms at sea thus treat us,
For coming home, a sweet reward,
With smiles our sweethearts greet us!
Now too 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;

And then the grog goes round,

All sense of danger drown'd,

We despise it to a man:

We sing a little, &c.


JACK BINNACLE met with an old ship


That sail'd with him board of the


And they talk'd of their pranks at a pretty round rate, And made all the hearkeners wonder:

For though brave at sea, when you get him ashore, A tar often turns out a ninny,

For now he must jog,

His leave's out with his grog;

Here, house! what's to pay? come sport us the score, Hand us over the change for a guinea:

For a sailor's life is a roaring life,

He laughs while the winds and the waves are at strife, So, safe on shore,

He can pay his score,

And sport the splendid guinea.

The landlord's sweet daughter now comes in his view,
Up to tars when they get into harbour;
Her shoes are morocco, her petticoat's blue,
Her wig's just come home from the barber:
Jack stares in her face with a whimsical phiz,
Reviews her, and looks like a ninny,
For each chalk on his score

She counts two or more,

He fix'd on her eyes, while she penetrates his,
And cheats him while changing his guinea:

For a sailor's life is a careless life,

He sings while the waves and the winds are at strife, To be cheated on shore

While to pay his score

He sports the splendid guinea.

Here's two eighteen-pen'orths, that's five and a kickThree pen'orths of 'bacco a shilling,

For a sixpenny 'bacco-box, quite span and spick,
Half-a-crown, and a tizzy the filling:

Jack hears not a word, chucks her under the chin,-
Lord, how can you be such a ninny?
Let me reckon your score,-

For two sixpen'orths more,

Two hogs and three simons for what's to come in, So there's three shillings out of a guinea:


For a sailor's life is a roaring life,

He whistles while billows and winds are at strife,
From the landlord's long shore,

For a five shilling score

To get three shillings out of a guinea.

Well, well, cries out Jack, you know figures and such,
I dare say your're right, mistress Moggy;
All my wonderment is we should tip off so much
In the time, and yet never get groggy:
But no sailor at toss-pot e'er yet play'd amiss,
Then he's cunning, and never a ninny;
Come, put round the grog,

For away we must jog,

So now, my dear girl, if you'll give me a kiss,
You may pocket your change for a guinea.
For a sailor's life is a careless life,

He minds neither billows nor winds at strife,
But pays his score

With spirit on shore,

And that's all the use of a guinea.


SAILOR'S love is void of art,
Plain-sailing to his port, the heart,
He knows no jealous folly:

'Tis hard enough at sea to war
With boist'rous elements that jar-
All's peace with lovely Polly.

Enough that, far from sight of shore,
Clouds frown, and angry billows roar,
Still is he brisk and jolly:

And while carousing with his mates,
Her health he drinks-anticipates
The smiles of lovely Polly.

Should thunder on the horizon press,
Mocking our signals of distress,
E'en then dull melancholy

Dares not intrude:-he braves the din,
In hopes to find a calm within
The snowy arms of Polly.


|F, my hearty, you'd not like a lubber


You must very well know how to hand,
reef, and steer ;

Yet a better manoeuvre 'mongst seamen is found,
"Tis the tight little maxim to know how to sound;
Which a sailor can tell from a bay to a shoal,
But the best sort of sounding is sounding the bowl.

I've sounded at land, and I've sounded at sea,
I've sounded a-weather, and I've sounded a-lee-
I've sounded my quine at the randivoo-house,
And I've sounded my purse without finding a souse;
What then? we've a brother in each honest soul,
And sailors can ne'er want for sounding the bowl.

All men try for soundings, wherever they steer,
Your nabobs for soundings strive hard in Cape Clear—
And there is not a soul from the Devil to the Pope,
That could live but for sounding the Cape of Good


No fear, then, nor danger, our hearts shall control, Though at sea we're in soundings, while sounding the bowl.



Wapping I landed, and call'd to hail


She had just shaped her course to the

Of two rums and one water I order'd my grog,
And to speak her soon stood under weigh.
But the Haymarket I for old Drury mistook,
Like a lubber so raw and so soft,

Half a George handed out, at the change did not look,
Mann'd the rattlings, and went up aloft.

As I mounted to one of the uppermost tiers,
With many a coxcomb and flirt,

Such a damnable squalling saluted my ears,
I thought there'd been somebody hurt;
But the devil a bit-'twas your outlandish rips
Singing out with their lanterns of jaws;

You'd a swor'd you'd been taking of one of they


'Mongst the Caffres or wild Catabaws.

« PrécédentContinuer »