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If enemies oppose as, when England is at wars With any foreign nations, we fear no wounds or
scars; Our roaring guns shall teach them our valour for
to know, Whilst they reel on the keel, When the stormy winds do blow.
Then courage all brave mariners, and never be
afraid, Whilst we have bold adventurers we ne'er shall
want a trade : Dar merchants will employ as to bring them
wealth we know, Then be bold, work for gold, When the stormy winds do blow.
T'Egentle maid of whom I sing,
Once liv'd where 'Tweed's blue waters wave, But now the modest flower of spring
Hangs weeping o'er her dewy grave. T'ond nymphs ! of Mary's fate beware,
Of perjur'd William's vows take heed, Lest you should love and then despair,
Like gentle Mary of the Tweed.
Tho Tong he woo'd the forely maid,
And she was faithful in return,
Alarm'd Alarm'd at her false lover's flight,
Her fair companions sought the mead, To sink the hopes, in endless night,
Of gentle Mary of the Tweed.
She heard--but scorning to upbraid,
She breath'd alone the secret sigh, For graceful pride induc'd the maid
To hide her wrongs from ev'ry eye. Here, in these shades, a prey to grief,
She tuu'd to plaintive strains the reed; 'Till death from woe, a blest relief,
Smote gentle Mary of the Tweed.
Now in the turf-bound grave at rest,
Where yonder willow droops its head, With hopeless care no more oppress'd,
She sleeps beneath the waving shade. The cruel wrongs are all forgot
Which forc'd her virgin heart to bleed; Fond nymphs ! be yours a milder lot
Than gentle Mary's of the Tweed.
Says Dick to Tom now that's your sort,
Come fill a bumper of the best,
Then here's to smiling black ey'd Sue,
The paragon of beauty ;
The gods have done their duty.
Next then a glass to bonny Bess,
her as a treasure;
Ye Bipeds, what a treasure.
Choice spirits own that this is life,
If Joan, Kate, Nance, or Molly:
So drink, and let's be jolly.
O hark! I hear the woodman's stroke,
What mischief dire he brews;
The tree now fell’d by this good man,
So vulgar runs her rig;
Where shines the parson's wig.
He makes, bold peasant ! O what grief!
The throne, the cobler's stall :
And coffins for us all,
Yet justice let us still afford,
Confess the woodman's stroke;
To crack their mirthful joke.
Each breaker hush'd, the shore a hacer
The broken gold, the braided hair,
Then as his 'bacco box he held,