And each sailor is stirr'd

By the warlike word,
And his jacket he downwards flings.

He strippeth his arms to his shoulders strong; He girdeth his loins about;

And he answers the cry

Of his foemen nigh, With a cheer and a noble shout.

What follows ?-a puff, and a flash of light, And the booming of a gun;

And a scream that shoots

To the heart's red roots, And we know that a fight's begun.

A thousand shot are at once let loose;
Each flies from its brazen den,

(Like the plague's swift breath,)

On its deed of death, And smites down a file of men.

The guns in their thick-tongued thunder speak And the frigates all rock and ride,

And timbers crash,

And the mad waves dash, Foaming all far and wide ;

And high as the skies run piercing cries,
All telling one tale of woe-

That the struggle still,

Between good and ill, Goes on, in the earth below.

Day pauses, in gloom, on his western road :
The moon returns again;

But, of all who looked bright,

In the morning light, There are only a thousand men.

Look up, at the brooding clouds on high!


at the awful sun !
And behold, the sea-flood

Is all red with blood;
Hush !-a battle is lost—and won!


HEN in war on the ocean we meet the

proud foe, Though with ardour for conquest our

bosoms may glow, Let us see on their vessels old England's flag wave, They shall find British sailors but conquer to save.


And now their pale ensigns we view from afar,
With three cheers they are welcom’d by each British

tar, Whilst the genius of Britain still bids us advance, And our guns hurl, in thunder, defiance to France.

But mark our last broadside—she sinks, down she

goes !

Quickly man all our boats, they no longer are foes;
To snatch a brave fellow from a watery grave
Is worthy a Briton, who conquers to save.


DSBLOOD! what a time for a seaman

to skulk Under gingerbread hatches on shore; What a very bad job, that this batter'd

old hulk Can't be rigg'd out for sea once more:

But the puppies as they pass,

Cocking up a squinting glass, Thus run down the old Commodore :

That's the old Commodore,

The rum old Commodore, The gouty old Commodore. He !

Why the bullets and the gout

Have so knock'd his hull about, That he'll never more be fit for sea.

Here I'm in distress, like a ship water-logg'd,

Not a tow-rope at hand, not an oar;
I am left by my crew, and may I be flogg’d,
But the doctor's a deuce of a bore;

While I am swallowing his slops,

How nimple are his chops, Thus queering the old Commodore:

A bad case, Commodore,

Can't say, Commodore,
Mustn't flatter, Commodore—says he;

For the bullets and the gout
Have so knock'd

hull about, That you'll never more be fit for sea.


What! no more to be afloat? blood and fury, they lie;

I'm a seaman, and only three-score; And if, as they tell me, I'm likely to die, Gadzooks, let me not die ashore.

As to death, 'tis all a joke,

Sailors live in fire and smoke, So, at least, says an old Commodore,

The rum old Commodore,

The tough old Commodore, The fighting old Commodore.—He,

Whom the devil nor the gout

Nor the French dogs to boot Shall kill till they grapple him at sea.


OME, sailors, be filling the can,

The wind is beginning to blow; We've time to drink round, to a man,

And then to weigh anchor must go.
What thousands repair to the strand,

To give us a charming adieu ;
'Tis plain they believe, on the land,

We conquer, dear girls, but for you.
When on the maintopsail yard

The sailor is swung to and fro,
Let the tempest blow ever so hard,

He whistles defiance to woe,
The gale can but last for a while

Is always the boast of the crew ;
And then they reflect with a smile,

We conquer, dear girls, but for you.


Though battle tremendous appears,

When blood stains the face of the main,
Though thunder resounds in his ears,

The sailor's a stranger to pain;
The thought, with what rapture and pride

Each girl will her hero review,
'Tis this makes him danger deride-

dear girls, but for you.



OME, busk you gallantlie,
Busk and make

you ready,
Maiden, busk and come,

And be a sailor's lady. The foamy ocean's ours,

From Hebride to Havannah, And thou shalt be my queen,

And reign upon it, Anna.

See my bonnie ship,

So stately and so steady; Thou shalt be my queen,

And she maun be my lady ; The west wind in her wings,

The deep sea all in motion, Away she glorious goes,

And crowns me king of ocean.

The merry lads are mine,

From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon;


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