Now dashed upon the billow, None stops the dreadful leak; Each breathless seaman crowds, In the Bay of Biscay, O! At length the wished-for morrow, Each heaved a bitter sigh; As she lay, on that day, In the Bay of Biscay, O! Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent. A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers, Now we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, O! THE MID-WATCH. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come, And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main, Then sailors think of their far distant home, And of those friends they ne'er may see again; Each serving at his gun, Should any thought of them come o'er your mind, Think only should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Their hearts to hear That their old companion he was one. Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind Have left on shore, some pretty girl, and true, And sighs to think how it may fare with you; You serving at your gun, Should any thought of her come o'er your mind, How 'twill cheer Her heart to hear That her old companion he was one. POOR JACK. CHARLES DIBDIN. Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see, Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack smooth should smite, Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight, Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, I heard our good chaplain palaver one day And a many fine things that proved clearly to me For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack! I said to our Poll-for, d'ye see, she would cry- What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? Why, what a damn'd fool you must be! Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, You never will hear of me more. What then? All's a hazard: come, don't be so soft: For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch And with her brave the world not offering to flinch As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's, Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As for grief to be taken aback; For the same little cherub that sits up aloft BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore, To be once more Safe moor'd with thee! Aloft while mountains high we go, To think on thee; And this shall be my song: And on that night when all the crew The mem'ry of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; And as the ship rolls on the sea, TOM BOWLING. CHARLES DIBDIN. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, Faithful, below, he did his duty, Tom never from his word departed, His friends were many and true-hearted; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly; But mirth is turned to melancholy, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call life's crew together, Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. CHARLES DIBDIN. ONE night came on a hurricane, "And as for them who're out all day, On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home, To cheer their babes and spouses; My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots |