Roar, thundering cannons, roar, 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 a frown, His manliness won every heart: Sweet Polly, of Portsea, he took for his bride, A couple so gay march to church side by side, 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, Then homeward they steer full of glory and scars, 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 HE north-east wind did briskly blow, Young Bryan thought the boat's crew And so leapt overboard. Pereene, the pride of Indian dames, And whoso his impatience blames A long, long year, one month and day For Bryan he was tall and strong, Right blithesome roll'd his een, Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung, He scant had twenty seen. But who the countless charms can draw, Her raven hair plays round her neck, Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck, Soon as his well-known ship she spied In seagreen silk so neatly clad She there impatient stood, Her hands a handkerchief display'd S Her fair companions, one and all, Then through the white surf did she haste When ah! a shark bit through his waist, He shriek'd; his half sprang from the wave, And soon it found a living grave, And ah! was seen no more. Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray, Fetch water from the spring; Now each May morning round her tomb, So may your lover 'scape his doom, THE NEGLECTED TAR. EDWARD RUSHTON of Liverpool, born 1756, died 1814. SING the British seaman's praise, A theme renown'd in story; When mad-brain'd war spreads death around By them you are protected; But when in peace the nation's found These bulwarks are neglected. Then, oh! protect the hardy tar, And when again you're plunged in war, When thickest darkness covers all, When lightnings dart, when thunders roll, When o'er the bark the white-topp'd waves When deep immersed in sulph'rous smoke, He loads his gun, he cracks his joke, Though fore and aft the blood-stain'd deck Or should the vessel float a wreck, The sailor knows no fear. Then, oh! protect, &c. When long becalm'd on southern brine When all the canvas hangs supine And food and water fail him, |