When winter fierce with cold doth pierce, And beats with hail and snow,
We are sure to endure,
When the stormy winds do blow.
We bring home costly merchandize
And jewels of great price,
To serve our English gallantry
With many a rare device:
To please our English gallantry
Our pains we freely show;
For we toil, and we moil,
When the stormy winds do blow.
We sometimes sail to th' Indies,
To fetch home spices rare;
Sometimes again to France and Spain
For wines beyond compare;
While gallants are carousing
In taverns on a row,
Then we sweep o'er the deep,
When the stormy winds do blow.
When tempests are blown over,
And greatest fears are past,
In weather fair, and temperate air,
We straight lie down to rest :
But when the billows tumble,
And waves do furious grow;
Then we rouse-up we rouse,
When the stormy winds do blow.
If enemies oppose us,
When England is at war With any foreign nations,
We fear not wound nor scar;
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em
Our valour for to know;
Whilst they reel, in the keel,
When the stormy winds do blow.
We are no cowardly shrinkers,
But true Englishmen bred;
We'll play our parts, like valiant hearts, And never fly for dread;
We'll play our business nimbly
Where'er we come or go,
With our mates, to the Straits,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismay'd;
Whilst we have bold adventurers
We ne'er shall want a trade :
Our merchants will employ us
To fetch them wealth, I know;
Then be bold, work for gold,
When the stormy winds do blow.
When we return in safety,
With wages for our pains,
The tapster and the vintner
Will help to share our gains.
We'll call for liquor roundly,
And pay before we go;
Then roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow.
"YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND."
YE mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow-
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!—
For the deck it was their field of fame;
The Ocean was their grave.
1 The balladist of his day-i. e. second quarter of the XVIIth cent. He is supposed to have been a tavern-keeper. The first version of this piece was printed by him under the title "Saylers for my Money."
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow-
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,—
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oaks
She quells the floods below,—
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow--
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,-
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow-
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
"THE STATELY SHIP."
(A Master-Mariner.)
THE stately ship with all her daring band
To skilful Albert own'd the chief command:
Though trained in boisterous elements, his mind
Was yet by soft humanity refin'd;
Each joy of wedded love at home he knew,
Abroad, confess'd the father of his crew!
Brave, liberal, just! the calm domestic scene
Had o'er his temper breathed a gay serene;
Him science taught by mystic lore to brace
The planets wheeling in eternal race;
To mark the ship in floating balance held,
By earth attracted, and by seas repell'd;
Or point her devious tracks thro' climes unknown
That leads to every shore and every zone.
He saw the moon thro' heaven's blue concave glide,
And into motion charm th' expanding tide,
While earth impetuous round her axle rolls,
Exalts her watery zone, and sinks the poles;
Light and attraction, from their genial source,
He saw still wandering with diminished force;
While on the margin of declining day
Night's shadowy cone reluctant melts away.
Inured to peril, with unconquer'd soul,
The chief beheld tempestuous ocean's roll:
O'er the wild surge, when dismal shades preside,
His equal skill the lonely bark could guide;
His genius, ever for th' event prepar'd,
Rose with the storm, and all its dangers shared.
FALCONER.
"RODMOND THE NEXT DEGREE."
(A Chief Mate.)
RODMOND the next degree to Albert bore,
A hardy son of England's furthest shore!
Where bleak Northumbria pours her savage train
In sable squadrons o'er the northern main;
That, with her pitchy entrails stor'd, resort,
A sooty tribe! to fair Augusta's port.
Where'er in ambush lurk the fatal sands,
They claim the danger; proud of skilful bands;
For while with darkling course their vessels sweep
The winding shore, or plough the faithless deep,
O'er bar and shelf the wat'ry patch they sound,
With dext'rous arm; sagacious of the ground!
Fearless they combat every hostile wind,
Wheeling in mazy tracks, with course inclin'd.
Expert to moor where terrors line the road,
Or win the anchor from its dark abode;
But drooping and relax'd in climes afar,
Tumultuous and undisciplin'd in war.
Such Rodmond was; by learning unrefin'd,
That oft enlightens to corrupt the mind.
Boisterous of manners; train'd in early youth,
To scenes that shame the conscious cheek of Truth;
To scenes that Nature's struggling voice control,
And freeze compassion rising in the soul!
Where the grim hell-hounds,1 prowling round the shore,
With foul intent the stranded bark explore-
Deaf to the voice of war, her decks they board,
While tardy Justice slumbers o'er her sword-
Thus Rodmond, train'd by this unhallow'd crew,
The sacred social passions never knew;
Unskill'd to argue; in dispute yet loud;
Bold without caution; without honours proud;
In art unschool'd; each veteran rule he priz'd,
And all improvement haughtily despis'd;
Yet tho' full oft to future perils blind,
With skill superior glow'd his daring mind,
Thro' snares of death the reeling barque to guide,
When midnight shades involve the raging tide.
FALCONER.
"POOR CHILD OF DANGER."
POOR child of danger, nursling of the storm!
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form :
Rocks, waves and winds the shattered bark delay;
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.
But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep;
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the helmsman's pensive soul:
His native hills that rise in happier climes,-
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage-home,-his boat, of slender sail,-
His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale,
Rush on his thought: He sweeps before the wind,
Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind;
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear;
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While long-neglected, but at length caressed,
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest,
Points to the master's eyes, where'er they roam,
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.
CAMPBELL.
1 From this it would appear that Falconer knew something of the Northumberland wreckers of his day.
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