The ample can adorn'd the board;
Prepar'd to see it out,

Each gave the lass that he ador'd,
And push'd the grog about.

And push'd, &c.

Cried honest Tom, my Peg I'll toast,
A frigate neat and trim,

All jolly Portsmouth's fav'rite boast:
I'd venture life and limb,

Sail seven long years, and ne'er see land,
With dauntless heart and stout,
So tight a vessel to command:

Then push the grog about.

I'll give cried little Jack, my Poll,
Sailing in comely state,

Top ga'nt-sails set, she is so tall,

She looks like a first-rate.

Ah! would she take her Jack in tow,
A voyage for life throughout,
No better birth I'd wish to know:
Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried I, my charming Nan,
Trim, handsome, neat, and tight;
What joy, so neat a ship to man!
Oh! she's my heart's delight.
So well she bears the storms of life,
I'd sail the world throughout,
Brave every toil for such a wife:
Then push the grog about.

L

Thus to describe Poll, Peg, or Nan,
Each his best manner tried ;
Till summon'd by the empty can,
They to their hammocks hied:
Yet still did they their vigils keep,
Though the huge can was out;
For in soft visions, gentle sleep
Still push'd the grog about,

The Cottager's Daughter.

AH! tell me, ye swains, have you seen my Pastora? O say, have you met the sweet nymph in your way?

Transcendent as Venus, and blythe as Aurora
From Neptune's bed rising, to hail the new day.
Forlorn do I wander, and long time have sought her,
The fairest, the rarest, for ever my theme;
A goddess in form, though a cottager's daughter,
That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding

stream.

Tho' lordlings so gay, and young squires have sought her,

To link her fair hand in the conjugal chain, Devoid of ambition, the cottager's daughter

Convinc'd them their flattery and offers were vain. When first I beheld her, I fondly besought her;

My heart did her homage, and love was her theme; She vow'd to be mine, the sweet cottager's daughter, That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding

stream.

Then why thus alone does she leave me to languish? Pastora to splendour could ne'er yield her hand; Ah, no! she returns to remove my fond anguish,

O'er her heart love and truth retain the command. The wealth of Golconda could never have bought her,

For love, truth, and constancy, still is her theme; Then give me, kind Hymen, the cottager's daughter, That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding stream.

Kate Kearney.

DID you not hear of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.

For that eye is so modestly beaming,

You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming;
Yet oh! I can tell, how fatal the spell

That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.

Oh, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney.
Who lives on the banks of Killarney,
Beware of her smile, for many a wile

Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney.
Though she looks so bewitchingly simple,
There's mischief in every dimple;

And who dares inhale her mouth's spicy gale,
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.

Answer to Kate Kearney.

OII, yes, I have seen this Kate Kearney,
Who lives near the lake of Killarney;
From her love-beaming eye what mortal can fly,
Unsubdu'd by the glance of Kate Kearney!
For that eye, so seducingly beaming,
Assures me of mischief she's dreaming,
And I feel 'tis in vain to fly from the chain
That binds me to lovely Kate Kearney.

At eye when I've met this Kate Kearney,
On the flow'r-mantled banks of Killarney,
Her smile would impart thrilling joy to my heart,
As I gaz'd on the charming Kate Kearney.
On the banks of Killarney reclining,

My bosom to rapture resigning,

I've felt the keen smart of love's fatal dart,

And inhal'd the warm sigh of Kate Kearney.

Dick Dock.

DICK Dock, a tar, at Greenwich moor'd, One day had got his beer on board, When he a poor maim'd pensioner, from Chelsea,

saw;

And for to have his jeer and flout,

(For the grog once in, the wit's soon out,)

Cries, "How good master lobster did you lose your claw?

Was't one night in a drunken fray,
Or to'ther when you ran away?

But hold ye, Dick, the poor sot has one foot in the

grave;

For slander's wind too fast you fly,

Do you think it fun, you swab, you lie, Misfortunes ever claim the pity of the brave."

Misfortunes ever claim, &c.

Old Hannibal, in words as gross,
For he, like Dick, had got his dose,
So to have his bout at grumbling took a spell-→
"If I'm a lobster, master crab,

By the information on your nab,

In some skirmish or other they have crack'd your shell;

And then how you hobbling go,

On that jury mast your timber toe,

A nice one to find fault with one foot in the grave;
But, halt! old Hannibal, halt! halt!
Distress was never yet a fault,

Misfortunes ever claim the pity of the brave."

Misfortunes ever claim, &c,

"If Hannibal's your name d'ye see, As sure as they Dick Dock call me, As once it did fall out I ow'd my life to you: Split from my hawse, once when it was dark, And nearly swallow'd by a shark,

Who boldly plung'd in, sav'd me, and pleas'd all the crew."