We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay; If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore; They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes! Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea; 66 THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WILLIAM COWPER, born 1731, died 1800. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. THE STORM. GEORGE ALEXANDER SEKVENS, died 1784. (Often attributed to FALCONER the Author of "The Shipwreck.") CEASE rude Boreas, blust'ring railer! Where the seas contend with skies. Hark! the boatswain hoarsly bawling, "By topsail-sheets and haulyards stand!" "Down top-gallants quick be hawling," “Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand!' "Now it freshens, set the braces, Quick the top-sail-sheets let go; Now all you on down beds sporting Safe from all but love's alarms: Round us roars the tempest louder, Harder yet, it yet blows harder. Now again the boatswain calls. "The top-sail yard point to the wind, boys; Now the dreadful thunder's roaring, One wide water all around us, Hark! what means that dreadful cry? "The fore-mast's gone," cries ev'ry tongue out, Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, Both chain-pumps are choked below: O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys, Let the guns o'erboard be thrown; The leak we've found it cannot pour fast; Up and rig a jury fore-mast, She rights! she rights, boys! we're off shore. Another stanza to this song appears in some collections, but we omit it, as not necessary to the completion of the story, and as quite unworthy of the sentiment which pervades the rest of the piece. According to some versions, the last line should read "She rights! she rights, boys! wear off shore." COME, BUSTLE, BUSTLE. COME, bustle, bustle, drink about, Our can is full, we'll see it out, And then all hands to sea. And a sailing we will go, will go, K Fine Miss at dancing school is taught But we go better when we've brought The jockey's called to horse, to horse, When horns and shouts the forest rend, With gold and silver streamers fine What's got at sea, we spend on shore And a sailing they do go, do go; THE BAY OF BISCAY, O! ANDREW CHERRY. LOUD roared the dreadful thunder, The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vivid powers; The night both drear and dark, Till next day, there she lay, In the Bay of Biscay, 0! |