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And very often have we heard
How men are killed and undone,
By thieves, and fires in London.
From noblemen to tailors ;
That you and I are sailors !
HEAVING OF THE LEAD.
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,
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.
SWEET is the ship that under sail,
Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can:
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man:
Is Jack's delight—his lovely Nan.
The needle, faithful to the north,
A curious lesson teaches man;
Let seamanship do all it can;
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
And every creature from me ran;
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,
To moan their loss who hazard ran;
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.
EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET.
I'm a tough true-hearted sailor,
Careless and all that, d'ye see,
What is time or tide to me ?
Providence ordains it so;
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;
Sleep below in ocean's cave.
Shall we shun the fight? O, no!
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,
Whatsoever wind may blow;
Wafted by the gentle gales,
While success attends the sails.
Or, if the wayward winds should bluster
Let us not give way to fear;
And learn from Reason how to steer:
'Tis a ballast never fails;
To manage well the swelling sails.
Trust not too much your own opinion
While your vessel's under weigh;
That's a compass will not stray:
Or Boreas on the surface rails,
And providence attend the sails.