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IGHT lads have I sail'd with, but none
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 friend?
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
I say, Will Hatchway, cried Tom Tow,
Cried Will, You lubber, don't you know?-
To steer where honour points the prow,
These anchors get but in your power,
The bower, the sheet, and the best bower,
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,
Let storms of life upon me prcss,
Why, damme, what's my own distress?—
THE BLIND SAILOR.
JOME, never seem to mind it,
Nor count your fate a curse,
Why, when our vessel blew up,
They sunk, some rigging stopp'd me short,
And thus, if tars are Fortune's sport,
Still are they Fortune's care.
Young Peg of Portsmouth Common
A landsman, one Jem Davenport,
And thus though tars are Fortune's sport,
A splinter knock'd my nose off,
My bowsprit's gone,
Yet well it kept their blows off,
Scarce with these words I'd outed,
Why, then, they're gone, cried I, in short,
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
Cause why?-'twas for my king.
VERT yon omen, gracious Heaven!-
By rising winds resistless driven,
How hard the lot for sailors cast,
For years, to perish thus at last
For if the coming gale we mourn
Our vessel's shatter'd so and torn,
The tempest comes, while meteors red
And now we touch old Ocean's bed,
On sable wings, in gloomy flight,
To snatch us in this dreadful night,