THE VETERANS.

ICK DOCK, a tar at Greenwich moor'd,
One day had got his beer on board,
When he a poor maim'd pensioner from
Chelsea saw;

And all to have his jeer and flout,

For the grog once in, the wit's soon out, Cried, How, good master Lobster, did you lose your claw?

Was't that time in a drunken fray,

Or t'other, when you run away?

But hold you, Dick, the poor soul has one foot in

the grave;

'Fore slander's wind too fast you fly;

D'ye think it fun ?-you swab, you lie! Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave.

Old Hannibal, in words as gross,—
For he, like Dick, had got his dose,-
To try a bout at wrangling quickly took a spell;
If I'm a Lobster, master Crab,

By the information on your nab,

In some scrimmage or other, why they crack'd

shell:

And then, why, how you hobbling go

On jury-mast, your timber toe,

your

A nice one to find fault, with one foot in the grave;

But halt, old Hannibal, halt, halt!

Distress was never yet a fault,

Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave.

If Hannibal's your name, d'ye see,

As sure as they Dick Dock call me,
As once it did fall out, I owed my life to you;
Spilt from my horse once when 'twas dark,
And nearly swallow'd by a shark,

You boldly plunged in, saved me, and pleased all the

crew;

If that's the case, then cease our jeers;

When boarded by the same Mounseers,

You, a true English lion, snatch'd me from the grave, Cried, "Cowards, do the man no harm,

Damme don't you see he's lost his arm?" Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave.

Then broach a can before we part, A friendly one, with all our heart: And as we put the grog about, we'll cheerly sing, At land and sea may Britons fight,

The world's example and delight,

And conquer every enemy of George our King: 'Tis he that proves the hero's friend,

His bounty waits us to our end,

Though crippled and laid up, with one foot in the grave;

Then tars and soldiers, never fear,

You shall not want compassion's tear; Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave.

BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW.

LOW high, blow low, let tempests tear
The main-mast by the board:

My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear,
And love, well stored,

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,

The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below,

Shall my signal be

To think on thee,

And this shall be my song:

Blow high, blow low, &c.

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 through the sea,
The burden of my song shall be-

Blow high, blow low, &c.

NOTHING LIKE GROG.

PLAGUE of those musty old lubbers, Who teach us to fast and to think, And patient fall in with life's rubbers, With nothing but water to drink! A can of good stuff, had they twigg'd it, Would have set them for pleasure agog; And spite of the rules

Of the schools, the old fools

Would have all of 'em swigg'd it,

And swore there was nothing like grog.

My father, when last I from Guinea
Return'd with abundance of wealth,
Cried "Jack never be such a ninny

To drink." Says I, " Father, your health!" So I pass'd round the stuff-soon he twigg'd it— And it set the old codger agog;

And he swigg'd, and mother,

And sister, and brother,

And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.

One day, when the chaplain was preaching,
Behind him I curiously slunk,

And, while he our duty was teaching,

As how we should never get drunkI tipp'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, Which soon set his rev'rence agog;

And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

Then trust me, there's nothing like drinking
So pleasant on this side the grave:
It keeps the unhappy from thinking,
And makes e'en the valiant more brave.
For me, from the moment I twigg'd it,
The good stuff has so set me agog-
Sick or well, late or early,
Wind foully or fairly,

I've constantly swigg'd it and swigg'd it,
And, damme! there's nothing like grog.

POOR TOM.

HEN farewell, my trim-built wherry!
Oars, and coat, and badge, farewell!
Never more at Chelsea ferry

Shall your Thomas take a spell.

But to hope and peace a stranger,
In the battle's heat I'll go,
Where, exposed to every danger,
Some friendly ball may lay me low.

Then, mayhap, when homeward steering
With the news, my messmates come,

Even you, the story hearing,

With a sigh may cry-Poor Tom!