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Roar, thundering cannons, roar,
Death-dealing bullets whistle round,
Flash, vivid lightnings, flash, &c.
POOR JOE THE MARINE.
OOR Joe the Marine was at Portsmouth
well known, No lad in the corps dress’d so smart; The lasses ne'er look'd on the youth with
And surely there never was seen
As Polly and Joe the Marine.
The bright torch of Hymen was scarce in a blaze,
When thundering drums they heard rattle, And Joe in an instant was forced to the seas,
To give the bold enemy battle; The action was dreadful-each ship a mere wreck,
Such a slaughter few soldiers have seen, Two hundred brave fellows lay strew'd on the deck,
And amongst them poor Joe the Marine.
But victory, faithful to true British tars,
At length put an end to the fight; Then homeward they steer full of glory and scars,
And soon had famed Portsmouth in sight;
The ramparts were crowded, the heroes to greet,
And foremost sweet Polly was seen; But the very first sailor she chanced for to meet,
Told the fate of poor Joe the Marine.
The shock was severe, as lightning's fork'd dart,
Her poor heart with frenzy wild fired, She flew from the crowd, softly cried, “My poor
heart!” Clasp'd her hands, faintly sigh’d, and expired. Her body was laid ’neath a wide-spreading yew,
And on a smooth stone may be seen, “ One tear-drop let fall, all ye lovers so true,
For Polly and Joe the Marine.”
BRYAN AND PEREENE.
A West Indian Ballad. From “ Reliques of
Ancient English Poetry.”
The ship was safely moor’d,
Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall,
I wot ne'er loved at all.
A long, long year, one month and day
He dwelt on English land,
Though ladies sought his hand.
For Bryan he was tall and strong,
Right blithesome rollid his een, Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung,
He scant had twenty seen.
But who the countless charms can draw,
That graced his mistress true ? Such charms the Old world never saw,
Nor oft, I ween, the New.
Her raven hair plays round her neck,
Like tendrils of the vine,
like diamonds shine.
Soon as his well-known ship she spied
She cast her weeds away,
All in her best array.
In seagreen silk so neatly clad
She there impatient stood,
Repel the foaming flood.
Her hands a handkerchief display'd
Which he at parting gave,
And manlier beat the wave.
Her fair companions, one and all,
Rejoicing crowd the strand,
And almost touch'd the land.
Then through the white surf did she haste
To clasp her lovely swain,
His heart's blood dyed the main !
He shriek’d; his half sprang from the wave,
Streaming with purple gore,
And ah! was seen no more.
Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray,
Fetch water from the spring;
And soon her knell they ring.
Now each May morning round her tomb,
Ye fair, fresh flow'rets strew,
Her hapless fate 'scape you.
THE NEGLECTED TAR. EDWARD Rushton of Liverpool, born 1756, died 1814.
SING the British seaman's praise,
A theme renown'd in story;
Oh !’tis your boast and glory.
When mad-brain'd war spreads death around
By them you are protected;
Be mindful of his merit,
He'll show his daring spirit.
When thickest darkness covers all,
Far on the trackless ocean, When lightnings dart, when thunders roll,
And all is wild commotion, When o'er the bark the white-topp'd waves
With boist'rous sweep are rolling, Yet coolly still the whole he braves, Untamed amidst the howling.
Then, oh! protect, &c.
When deep immersed in sulph'rous smoke,
He feels a glowing pleasure;
Elated beyond measure.
Should lifeless trunks appear, Or should the vessel float a wreck, The sailor knows no fear.
Then, oh ! protect, &c.
When long becalm'd on southern brine
Where scorching beams assail him, When all the canvas hangs supine
And food and water fail him,