Tom breathed, ere they began to fight, While clouds of smoke obstruct the view And sighs, in death, Sweet Poll adieu. The news was like the thunder dread THE WORN OUT TAR. THE ship was now in sight of land, And crowds from shore with joy did hail her The happy hour was now at hand, When each sweet lass would see her sailor For he was old, his frame was worn, When big with hope, his fancy grew. In his loved country's cause, as warm HOW HAPPY IS THE SAILOR'S LIFE. How happy is the sailors life, He's no where strange, No, masters, no; My life for honest Jack. He loves to range, &c. If saucy foes dare make a noise, We'll out, and quickly larn 'em boys, But fore and aft Lay on our strokes amain; Then if they're stout, For t'other bout, We'll drub 'em o'er again. We know no craft, &c. Or fair or foul let fortune blow, We want, d'ye see, A pluck of this here stuff, And Americ-a We're sure to find enough, For if so be, &c. THE SAILOR'S NOTION. POOR Savage compared a lost friend to the eye, Soon wept itself blind, thus poor Bob would descry Now he may be right, yet as I think he's wrong: Though, perhaps, 'twould do better in prose than in song, Were not we jolly tars from the ocean, So my notion is this, a true lad being dead, Who through life acts the man we first find him, Leaving grief to the women, a tear or two shed, 'Tis to cherish the wife left behind him. Sam Tempest, you know, when he saw his Poll weep, Thought as how as her heart was a-breaking: But scarce had the tar been three nights on the deep, When Miss Poll her fond Sam was forsaking, So 'tisn't the tears your fine feelings may shed, Which prove that a man does his duty, Like preaching advice, when a shipmate wants bread, Such fellows give all but their booty. So my notion's this, &c. For what the world kindness and tenderness call, Are but the false colors to pity; She's an angel; but those, why they're nothing at all A true friend, my lads, like the oak in our ship, So my notion's this, such a one being dead, Who through life, &c. THE FORECASTLE SAILOR. THE wind blew a blast from the northward, You may see by the cut of my jib. Start my timbers, cried Ned Junk of Dover, For the Guardian must quick go to wreck; We were running at nine knots an hour: And on it our ship quickly hied; But now 'twas no use for to bail her, Some took to the boat, do you mind me, TOM BOWLING. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, Tom never from his word departed, His friends were many and true hearted, And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus death, who kings and tars despatches, For though his body's under hatches, TOM HALLIARD. Now the rage of battle ended, |