The Quarter-Master is a man,
so well his charge plies he,
He calls them to the Pomp amain,
to keep their leakt Ship free.

And many Dangers likewise they
do many times endure

Whenas they meet their enemies

that come with might and power,

And seek their lives likewise to take,
their lives and eke their goods;
The Saylors they likewise endure
upon the surging Floods.

But whenas they do come to Land
and homewards do return,
They are most good fellows all,
and scorn ever to mourn.

And likewise they will call for Wine, and score it on the post; For Saylors they are honest men, and love to pay their Host.

For Saylors they be honest men, and they do take great pains, When Land-men, and rufling Lads do rob them of their gains.

Our Saylors they work night and day, their manhood for to try,

When Landed men, and rufling Jacks, do in their Cabins lye.

Therefore let all good minded men,
give ear unto my Song,
And say also as well as I,
Saylors deserve no wrong.

This have I for Saylors sake
in token of good will,

If ever I can do they good,
I will be ready still.

God bless them eke by Sea and Land,

and also other men,

And as my Song beginning had,

so must it have an end.

VIII

Cordial Advice

to all rash young Men, who think to Advance their decaying Fortunes by Navigation : Shewing the many Dangers and Hardships that Sailors endure

To the tune of, 'I'll no more to Greenland sail,' &c.

You merchant men of Billinsgate,

I wonder how you can thrive,
You bargain with men for six months,

and pay them but for five:

But so long as the water runs under the bridge, and the tide doth ebb and flow, I'll no more to Greenland sail,

no, no, no.

Our drink it is fair water,

that floweth from the rocks, And as for other dainties,

we eat both bear and fox: Then boyl our biskets in whale-oyl,

all to increase our woe:

But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

Our Captains and Commanders,
are valiant men and stout:

They've fought in France and Flanders,
and never wou'd give out,
They beat our men like stock-fish,

all to increase our woe:

Then I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

In storms we must stand to it,

when thundring tempests rage; When cables snap and main mast split, and the briny seas ingage: Whilst sable blackness spreads its vail,

all to increase our woe:

But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

Testy Neptune's mounting waves,

still o'er our hatches tower :

Each minute threatens silent graves for fishes to devour ;

Or be intomb'd by some vast whale, and there to end our woe:

But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

To face the cold north eastern winds, whilst shrowds and tackle roar : And man our wracking pinnace, which mountain high is bore: To laboard, starboard tack we trail, our joynts benumb'd with snow: But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

Abaf before: helm a lee,

all hands aloft, they cry:

When strait there comes a rouling sea and mounts us to the sky:

Like drowned rats, we cordage hail, whilst scarce we've strength to go:

But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

For if we faint or faulter,

to ply our cruel work,

The Boatswain with the halter

does beat us like a turk: Whilst we in vain our case bewail, he does increase our woe :

But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

Then to take our lading in,

we moil like Argier slaves: And if we to complain begin,

the cap-stal lash we have:

A cursed cat with thrice three tails,
does much increase our woe:
But I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

And when we faint, to bring us back
they give us bruis strong:

The which does not creepers lack,

to usher it along:

With element which smells so stale,

all to increase our woe:

Then I'll no more, &c.

no, no, no.

Therefore young men I all advise,
before it is too late,

And then you'll say that you are wise,
by dashing of your fate:

The which your rashness did intail,

for to insist your woe:

Then I'll no more to Greenland sail,

no, no, no.

IX

Dirge

FULL fadom five thy Father lies,
Of his bones are Corrall made:
Those are pearl's that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich and strange :
Sea-Nimphs hourly ring his knell.

Hark now I hear them, ding-dong bell.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

bruis] broth.