GAIN the willing trump of fame

Receives from bounteous Heaven a claim
Around glad Nature's sons to call,
And wake with wonder the terrestrial

ball :

Strike shudd'ring France, and harrow'd Spain,
With Duncan's thunder, and Britannia's reign,
Confirm’d, anew, her empire o'er the main,
Sing, Britons, sing, prizing what Fate has given,
Union, content, and gratitude to Heaven.

October the eleventh, at nine,
Neptune beheld the British line:
And, lest his honours, so long worn,
Should from our ever-conquering flag be torn,
Dismay to France, horror to Spain,
Bade Duncan's thunder great Britannia's reign
Proclaim anew—the sovereign of the main.

Sing, Britons, sing, &c.

Fate warr'd on that momentous day-
Three hours nine ships saw captured lay:
Vain Holland's dream of power's no more !
Her conquer'd fleet shall grace the British shore.
Droop, fearful France—sink, trembling Spain,
Duncan, in thunder, great Britannia's reign
Proclaims anew—the sovereign of the main.

Sing, Britons, sing, &c.


HY, Jack, my fine fellow, here's glorious


Lord, I could have told 'em as much; That the devil himself durst not stand in

their shoes If Duncan fell in with the Dutch ! What heart in the kingdom can now feel dismay?

Nine sail of the line —not amiss;
While they shrug up their shoulders and snuff away,

How the Mounseers will jabber at this :
No! while English bosoms boast English hearts,

We'll tip 'em all round a touch;
While with ardour each starts that nothing can

We'll bang the Spaniards,

Belabour the Dutch,
And block

up and laugh at the French.

Now the French while in harbour so snug and so sly,

'Bout their courage they make a fine rout; If they'd have the whole world not believe it a lie,

Then, damme, why don't they come out ? Because, though they brag that so boldly they feel,

They are all of them trembling for fear, Lest from Bridport they get such another salt eel, As brave Duncan prepared for Mynheer.

No, while, &c.

Let French, Spanish, and Dutch lay together their

heads, And of beating the English brag; That they'll sail up the Thames, take us all in our beds,

And hoist on the Tower their flag: “Oui, oui,” cries Mounseer; “Si, Signor," says the


Mynheer smokes his pipe and cries “ Yaw;" But when Jervis, or Duncan, or Bridport come on, They are damnably sick in the craw.

No, while, &c. Your true honest maxim I've heard them commend,

Is the nation you live in to sing : Where your property, children, your wife, and your

friend, Are the care of their father the King; The man then, so bless d, who disseminates strife,

Deserves, while he sinks in disgrace,
Neither king to protect him, to love him a wife,
Nor children to smile in his face.

No, while, &c.

DIEU, my gallant sailor! obey thy duty's

Though false the sea, there's truth

ashore; Till nature is found changing, thou’rt sure of constant

And yet, as now, we sever,

Ah! much I fear that never
Shall I, alas ! behold thee more!”

Jack kiss'd her, hitch'd his trowsers, and hied him

to begone, Weigh'd anchor, and lost sight of shore: Next day a brisk south-wester a heavy gale brought

on :

“ Adieu," cried Jack, “for ever,

For much I fear that never
Shall I, sweet Poll, behold you more.”

Poll heard that to the bottom was sunk her honest tar,

And for a while lamented sore; At length, cried she, “I'll marry; what should I

tarry for?

I may lead apes for ever ;

Jack's gone, and never, never
Shall I, alas, behold him more!”.

Jack safe and sound returning, sought out his faithful

“ Think you,” cried she, “that false I swore ?
I'm constant still as ever—'tis nature's changed,

that's all;
And thus we part for ever,

For never, sailor, never

Shall I behold you more!” If, as you say, that nature, like winds, can shift and

veer, About-ship for a kinder shore; I heard the trick you play'd me, and so, d’ye see, my

To a kind heart for ever

I've spliced myself, so never
Shall I, false Poll, behold you more.”


SING of that life of delight beyond

measure, That tars calmly lead on the boisterous


Where toil is enjoyment, where trouble’s all pleasure, And where men lose their lives, a sure fortune to

gain; Where you fear no diseases but sickness and scurvy ;

Where the water stinks sweetly by way of a zest; Where you walk on your legs, when you're not topsy

turvy; And where, though you sleep soundly, you're never

at rest! Then push round the can- 2-oh! you have not a notion Of sailors, their grog, and their sweethearts and

wives ! Ah! give me, my soul, the tight lads of the ocean, Who, though they're so wretched, lead such happy

lives. Then you're always of billows and winds in the middle,

That so dash, and so whistle, and bodder your ears, And play a duet with the tar's song and fiddle,

So sweetly that sounds, and that nobody hears : Then to see the tight lads, how they laugh at a stranger Who fears billows can drown, and nine-pounders

can kill ! For you're safe, sure enough, were you not in such

danger, And might loll at your ease, if you could but sit still,

Then push round the can, &c.,

« ForrigeFortsett »