Then Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, In each saying, This shall be my land; Should the army of England, or all they could bring, land, We'd show 'em some play for the island! Bite at the dust, But not a bit more of the island. Sailors are born for all Weathers. ISAIL'D from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib how she smack'd through the breeze, She's a vessel as tight to my fancy, As ever sail'd on the salt seas: CHORUS. But sailors are born for all weathers, And where the gale drives we must go. When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar, She yaw'd just as though she was drunk. The squall tore the main-sail to shivers, The storm came on thicker and faster, Befel three poor sailors and I; Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick, cried Peccavi, While they sunk down in peace to Old Davy, Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed After thus we at sea had miscarry'd, We know not for what we were born, Sally in our Alley. OF all the girls in our town, There's none like pretty Sally; Her father he makes cabbage-nets, When Sally's by, I leave my work, My master comes, like any Turk, Of all the days there's in the week, And that's the day that comes between O then I'm drest all in my best, My master carries me to church; I leave the church in sermon-time, My master and the neighbours all O then I'll wed, and then we'll bed, All on Board of a Man of War. WOU'D you know, pretty Nan, how we pass our time, While we sailors are toss'd on the sea? Why, believe me, my girl, in each season and clime, True-hearted and merry we be, Though tempests may blow, still unmindful of care, So the fiddles but strike up a bar, Why we sing, and we dance, toast our sweethearts and swear, All on board of a man of war. Shou'd the foe bear in sight, and all hands call'd on deck, Don't think jolly sailors are cow'd; No-we'll teach them the old British flag to respect, Then to it like lions perhaps we may go, No-we sing and we fight till we take her in tow, As for this thing and that, which the lubbers on shore Would fain make our lasses believe; Why, d'ye see, it's palaver, my girl, nothing more, In wherever steering, we still feel delight, Rouse, rouse, jolly Sportsmen. ROUSE, rouse, jolly sportsmen, the hounds are all out, The chase is begun, I declare; Come up, and to horse, let us follow the route, |