No, lads ! in spite of every railer,

Who succours all he can Will

prove not only the best sailor, But, I say, the best man.

Then sport the grog, &c.

Mercy is nature in a tar,

And best becomes the brave;
He'll rush where death and danger jar,

And conquer but to save.
You'll hear from every one you meet

The blow on France we've hurld;
They're drubb’d; we've nabb’d the Russian fleet,
And saved, perhaps, the world.

Then sport the grog, &c.


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JARK! the boatswain hoarsely bawling-
By topsail sheets and haulyards stand,


Down top-gallants, down be hauling;
Down your stay-sails—hand, boys—hand, boys !

Now set the braces-
Don't make


But the lee topsail sheet let go.

Starboard here, larboard there;
Turn your quid, take a swear-yo, yo, yo!

As the tide flows, so time passes ;

Life's too short to lose a day, boys :
Load your guns, lads—charge your glasses;

Point your bumpers—fire away, boys !

A full broadside pour

To those girls on shore
Who let sailors take them in tow.

Starboard here, &c.
Though the tempest swells the billows,

Clear the decks—come, drink about, boys; Punch-bowls here we'll make our pillows, Ne'er heed the wind without, boys !

Though the ship may roll,

Heave the lead, sound the bowl, Mark above water thus we go.

Starboard here, &c.

H! to hand, reef, and steer, is the thing

sailors prize!
When we'd toast Bet and Poll on some

shammock, I'd hand round the glass, take a reef in my eyes,

And steer in short trips to my hammock, Fait! honey, they'd call me the pride of the ship,

Wid my hornpipe so nate and so frisky: Then on Saturday night, fait! I'd make 'em such flip,

Oh! the best in the world except whiskey ! Sing the perils of tars, that lead such happy lives, Wid their foes and their friends, and their sweethearts

and wives ! You'd be charm'd to the life, were it not for your fears,

Though of danger and death in the middle, To hear the sweet billows so bodder your ears,

As they play a duet with the fiddle.

Then though shot-holes and leaks leave wide open

Death's doors, And the chances against you are various, Storms are all gig and fun-but for breakers and

shores; Fights are safe—were they not so precarious.

Sing the perils, &c.

Why, one day, as I tumbled down plump from the

shrouds, As neat as a bird or a fairy, “ Where the devil did you come from ?” cried one

“ from the clouds ?“ Did I come from ?-Arrah fait! Tipperary.” Then that time when we sail'd wid the wind in our

mouth, Old Boreas to keep to his tether, Fait! the compass I cunningly nail'd to the south, That we always might sail in fine weather.

Sing the perils, &c.


HAT if the sailor boldly goes,

To distant climates bound-
Braves wind from every point that blows

The varying compass round ?
No longer when compell’d to rove,

To make him rich amends,
As the needle true, he finds his love,

His country, and his friends.

Thus every danger life endures,

May to o'erwhelm him come,
Trouble at sea only insures

Pleasure that waits at home:
He braves the storm, that calm to prove

Propitious Fortune sends;
As the needle true to find his love,

His country, and his friends.

SAY my heart, why here's your works!

The French have it now with the gravy;
Why, what between the English and

They'll lose both their army and navy.
Bold Nelson went out with determinate view

To keep up our national glory;
So of thirteen large ships he left Mounseer but two,

Just to tell the Direct'ry the story.
Then of England, and England's brave tars, let us sing,

As true as the keel to the kelson;
Let's be loyal to honour, to truth, and the king,

And drink to the Navy and Nelson.

To destroy, burn, and sink, his orders were;

And by heart he so perfectly got 'em,
That some he took, some blow'd up in the air,

And some he sent to the bottom:
So you see the despatches was easily stow'd,

'Twas no use with a hist'ry to charge 'em ; He'd occasion for only the old-fashion modeTaken, burnt, and destroy'd, as per marjum,

Then of England, &c.

So “ship to ship” was next the word;

Master Brueys, how sweet they did sarve him; For when a bold Briton sits down to his bird,

He pretty well knows how to carve him: Thus with one of his precious limbs shot away,

Bold Nelson know'd well how to nick 'em ; So as for the French, 'tis as much as to say, We can tie up one hand, and then lick 'em.

Then of England, &c.

But with France 'tis all up, they are meeting their


They've thrown down their basket of crockery; And vengeance like this will o'ertake, soon or late,

All who make of religion a mockery.
Then of England, that wonderful country, sing,

Where we've thousands of joys, if we need 'em; Mild laws that protect us, a Protestant King, Lovely women, grog, biscuit, and freedom.

Then of England, &c.

But while we're about it, let's loudly blend

The names of both Nelson and Warren; And be thankful to Heav'n there must soon be an end

To wars, both domestic and foreign. While Fame shall sing out the glad news with a smile,

Let the thundering roar of our cannon Speak our valorous acts from the mouth of the Nile, All the way to the banks of the Shannon.

Then of England, &c.

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