The Bourbon flowers grow pale Come with me and see The golden islands glowing, NANINE, OR THE EMIGRANT. the waves the wind was sleeping, Then on land he sprung so lightly, Shone her blue eyes through her tears. Left exposed to want and danger, "Ah!" she said, "you vainly, stranger, Kindly tell me, weep no more. "Far from home in exile roving, "Mark," he cried, "yon distant city, Gently tow'rds his boat he led her, Still, though many a year is o'er, Does he bless the hour he told her, "Prithee, sweetheart, weep no more!" R I WENT TO SEA. WENT to sea with heavy heart, Yet from my thoughts did ne'er depart Storms lour'd, waves roll'd, and lightning flew, Still willing, for my heart was true, To forget and to forgive. The first word, when on English ground, And soon upon enquiry found- She loved a youth before the wind, Who cut, and let her drive; Avast! cried I, 'twere now too kind To forget and to forgive! While of these thoughts my mind was full, While adverse hopes and fears Like winds did this and that way pull, She came to me in tears. Down went my colours, and I swore For her alone I'd live ; Kiss'd her, and promised o'er and o'er DAVY JONES'S LOCKER. HEN last honest Jack, of whose fate Weigh'd anchor and cast out for sea, For he never refused for his country and king To fight, for no lubber was he; To hand, reef, and steer, and bouse everything tight Full well did he know every inch, Though the toplifts of sailors the tempest should smite, Jack never was known for to flinch. Aloft from the mast-head one day he espied Seven sail which appear'd to his view, "Clear the decks, sponge the guns," was instantly cried, And each to his station then flew, And fought until many a noble was slain, And silenced was every gun; 'Twas then that old English valour was vain, For by numbers, alas! they're undone. Yet think not bold Jack, though by conquest dismay'd When his country he found he no longer could serve, So now for Old Davy"-then plunged in the main; OLD ENGLAND'S WOODEN WALLS.-1800. HROUGH winds and wave sin days that are no more I held the helm and ne'er ran foul of In pitch-dark night my reck'ning proved so true But though my timbers are not fit for sea, From age to age, as ancient story shows, WHEN LAST IN THE DREADFUL. HEN last in the Dreadful your honour set sail On Newfoundland banks there came on a hard gale, There was thunder, and lightning, and cold whistling hail, Enough the old gemman to scare. |