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And very often have we heard

How men are killed and undone,
By overturns of carriages,

By thieves, and fires in London.
We know what risks all landsmen run,

From noblemen to tailors ;
Then, Bill, let us thank Providence

That you and I are sailors !



For England when with fav’ring gale

Our gallant ship up channel steer'd, And, scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear'd; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

"By the deep-nine!" And bearing up to gain the port,

Some well-known object kept in view; An abbey-tow'r, the harbour-fort,

Or beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

“By the mark-seven!” And as the much-loved shore we near,

With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear,

Of faith and love a matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung,

Quarter less-five!" Now to her berth the ship draws nigh:

We shorteu sail_she feels the tide* Stand clear the cable,” is the cry

The anchor's gone; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seamen with delight,

Proclaim—"All's well ! ” TRUE COURAGE.


Why, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a wiping ?

A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way; 'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping;

But they that han't pity, why I pities they.

Says the captain, says he (I shall never forget it)

“If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham; 'Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it.

But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb.”

There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring,

Helter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive; Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing,

And as for a foe, why he'd eat him alive.

But when that he found an old prisoner he'd wounded,

That once saved his life as near drowning he swam, The lion was tamed, and, with pity confounded,

He cried over him just all as one as a lamb.

That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger,

Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess, Is nothing at all, —'tis the poor wounded stranger,

And the poorer the more I shall succour distress:

For however their duty bold tars may delight in,

And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam,
Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting,

He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb.

The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion,

And if both shed their drops 'tis all to the same end; And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean

Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.

If my maxim's disease, tis 'disease I shall die on,

You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn! In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion,

But, the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb.

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SWEET is the ship that under sail,
Spreads her white bosom to the gale;

Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can:
Sweet to poise the labouring oar,
That tugs us to our native shore,

When the boatswain pipes the barge to man:
Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze,
But, oh! much sweeter than all these

Is Jack's delight—his lovely Nan.

The needle, faithful to the north,
To show of constancy the worth,

A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle, time may rust—a squall
Capsize the binnacle and all,

Let seamanship do all it can;
My love in worth shall higher rise:
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize

My faith and truth to lovely Nan.

When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
For serving of a worthless friend,

And every creature from me ran;
No ship, performing quarantine,
Was ever so deserted seen;

None baild me-woman, child, or man: But though false friendship’s sails were furl'd, Though cut adrift by all the world,

I'd all the world in lovely Nan.

I love my duty, love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend,

To moan their loss who hazard ran;
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty with a spotless heart,

By manners love to show the man; To sail through life by honour's breeze:'Twas all along of loving these

First made me dote on lovely Nan.


I'm a tough true-hearted sailor,

Careless and all that, d'ye see,
Never at the times a railer-

What is time or tide to me ?
All must die when fate shall will it,

Providence ordains it so;
Every bullet has its billet,

Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo,

· Life's at best a sea of trouble,

He who fears it is a dunce; Death to me's an empty bubble,

I can never die but once. Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it:

Yet I have a tear for woe;". Every bullet has its billet,

Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo.

Shrouded in a hammock, glory

Celebrates the falling brave;
Oh! how many, famed in story,

Sleep below in ocean's cave.
Bring the can, boys—let us fill it;

Shall we shun the fight? O, no!
Every bullet has its billet,

Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo.

LIFE'S LIKE A SHIP. From a small volume of Lyrical Poetry, privately printed at the expense of Mr.

George Fryer, in 1798.

Life's like a ship, in constant motion,

Sometimes high, and sometimes low,
Where every one must brave the ocean,

Whatsoever wind may blow;
If unassail'd by squall or show'r,

Wafted by the gentle gales,
Let's not lose the fav'ring hour,

While success attends the sails.

Or, if the wayward winds should bluster

Let us not give way to fear;
But let us all our patience muster,

And learn from Reason how to steer:
Let judgment keep you ever steady;

'Tis a ballast never fails;
Should dangers rise, be ever ready

To manage well the swelling sails.

Trust not too much your own opinion

While your vessel's under weigh;
Let good example bear dominion-

That's a compass will not stray:
When thund'ring tempests make you shudder,

Or Boreas on the surface rails,
Let good Discretion guide the rudder,

And providence attend the sails.

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