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IGHT lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so sightly

As honest Bill Bobstay, so kind and so



He'd sing like a mermaid, and foot it so lightly, The forecastle's pride, and delight of the crew! But poor as a beggar, and often in tatters,

He went, though his fortunes were kind without end;

For money, cried Bill, and them there sort of matters, What's the good on't, d'ye see, but to succour a


There's Nipcheese, the purser, by grinding and squeezing,

First plund'ring, then leaving the ship, like a rat, The eddy of fortune stands on a stiff breeze in,

And mounts, fierce as fire, a dog-vane in his hat. My bark, though hard storms on life's ocean should rock her,

Though she roll in misfortune and pitch end for end, No, never shall Bill keep a shot in the locker,

When by handing it out he can succour a friend.

Let them throw out their wipes, and cry, "Spite of their crosses,

And forgetful of toil that so hardly they bore, That sailors, at sea, earn their money like horses, To squander it idly like asses ashore."

Such lubbers their jaw would coil up, could they


By their feelings, the gen'rous delight without end, That gives birth in us tars to that truest of pleasure, The handing our rhino to succour a friend.

Why, what's all that nonsense they talk of, and pother, About rights of man? What a plague are they at? If they mean that each man to his messmate's a brother,

Why, the lubberly swabs! every fool can tell that. The rights of us Britons we know's to be loyal,

In our country's defence our last moments to spend, To fight up to the ears to protect the blood royal, To be true to our wives, and to succour a friend.


WO real tars, whom duty call'd
To watch in the foretop,
Thus one another overhaul'd,
And took a cheering drop:

I say, Will Hatchway, cried Tom Tow,

Of conduct what's your sort,
As through the voyage of life you go,
To bring you safe to port?

Cried Will, You lubber, don't you know?—
Our passions close to reef,

To steer where honour points the prow,
To hand a friend relief:

These anchors get but in your power,
My life fort, that's your sort;

The bower, the sheet, and the best bower,
Shall bring you up in port.

Why then you're out, and there's an end,
Tom cried out blunt and rough;
Be good, be honest, serve a friend,

Be maxims well enough.

Who swabs his bows at others' woe,
That tar's for me your sort;
His vessel right a-head shall go
To find a joyful port.

Let storms of life upon me press,
Misfortunes make me reel,

Why, damme, what's my own distress ?-
For others let me feel.
Ay, ay, if bound with a fresh gale
To heaven, this is your sort,
A handkerchief's the best wet sail
To bring you safe to port.


JOME, never seem to mind it,
Nor count your fate a curse,
However sad you find it,
Yet somebody is worse.

In danger some must come off short,
Yet why should we despair?
For if bold tars are Fortune's sport.
Still are they Fortune's care.

Why, when our vessel blew up,
A-fighting that there Don,
Like squibs and crackers flew up

The crew, each mother's son.

They sunk, some rigging stopp'd me short,
While twirling in the air;
And thus, if tars are Fortune's sport,
Still are they Fortune's care.

Young Peg of Portsmouth Common
Had like to have been my wife,
'Longside of such a woman
I'd led a pretty life:

A landsman, one Jem Davenport,
She convoy'd to Horn Fair;

And thus though tars are Fortune's sport,
They still are Fortune's care.

A splinter knock'd my nose off,
My bowsprit's gone, I cries,
Yet well it kept their blows off,

Thank God, 'twas not my eyes.
Chance if again their fun's that sort,
Let's hope I've had my share :
Thus, if bold tars are Fortune's sport,
They still are Fortune's care.

Scarce with these words I'd outed,
Glad for my eyes and limbs,
When a cartridge burst, and douted
Both my two precious glims.
Why, then, they're gone, cried I, in short,
Yet Fate my life did spare;

And thus, though tars are Fortune's sport,
They still are Fortune's care.

I'm blind, and I'm a cripple,
Yet cheerful would I sing
Were my misfortunes triple,

Cause why?-'twas for my king.
Besides, each Christian I exhort,
Pleased, will some pittance spare;
And thus, though tars are Fortune's sport,
They still are Fortune's care.


VERT yon omen, gracious Heaven !-
The ugly scud,

By rising winds resistless driven,
Kisses the flood.

How hard the lot for sailors cast,
That they should roam

For years, to perish thus at last
In sight of home!

For if the coming gale we mourn
A tempest grows,

Our vessel's shatter'd so and torn,
That down she goes!

The tempest comes, while meteors red
Portentous fly;

And now we touch old Ocean's bed,
Now reach the sky!

On sable wings, in gloomy flight,
Fiends seem to wait,

To snatch us in this dreadful night,
Dark as our fate:

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