But when maim'd and in want I gain'd Plymouth harbour,

And Nancy beheld my unfortunate plight, Next morning she married Tom Halyard of Dover, And bade me no more venture into her sight. Now I stray, lame and helpless, through fam'd London city,

Imploring kind strangers some aid to impart, ́ Give an alms to a sailor, kind masters, in pity, Depriv'd of an eye, of an arm, and his heart,

Death of the Stag.

BRIGHT dawns the day with rosy face,
And calls the sportsman to the chase.
With musical horn salute the gay morn,
These jolly companions to cheer,
With enliv'ning sounds encourage your hounds
To rival the speed of the deer.

If you'd find out his lair, to the woodlands repair;
Hark! hark! he's unharbour'd, they cry:
Then fleet o'er the plain we gallop amain;
All, all is a triumph of joy.

O'er hills, heaths, and woods, through forests and floods,

The stag flies as swift as the wind;

The valley resounds with a chorus of hounds,

That chant in a concert behind.

Adieu to old Care, pale Grief, and Despair;.
We ride in oblivion of fear;

All sorrow and pain we leave to the train,
Sad wretches that lag in the rear.

Lo, the stag stands at bay, the pack 's at a stay, They eagerly seize on their prize;

The welkiu resounds with a chorus of hounds, Shrill horns wind his knell, and he dies.

My Friend and Pitcher. THE wealthy fool with gold in store Will still desire to grow richer, Give me but these, I ask no more,

My charming girl, my friend and pitcher

CHORUS.

My friend so rare, by girl so fair,

With these what mortal can be richer! Give me but these, a fig for Care,

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher,

From morning sun I'd never grieve

To toil a hedger or a ditcher,

If that when I come home at eve

I might enjoy my friend and pitcher !

Tho Fortune ever shuns my door,

I know not what 'tis can bewitch her; With all my heart--can I be poor

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher ?

Love and Glory.

YOUNG Henry was as brave a youth,
As ever grac'd a martial story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth;
She sigh'd for love, and he for glory.

With her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story;
Till war, their honest joys to blight,
Call'd him away from love to glory.

Brave Henry met the foe with pride,

Jane follow'd, fought-ah! hapless story! In man's attire, by Henry's side,

She died for love, and he for glory.

Bill Bobstay.

TIGHT lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so sightly

As honest Bill Bobstay, so kind and so true; He'd sing like a mermaid, and foot it so lightly, The forecastle's pride, the delight of the crew; But poor as a beggar, and often in tatters

He went, though his fortune was kind without end.

For money, cried Bill, & them there sort of matters, For money, cried Bill, & them there sort of matters, What's the good on't, d'ye see, but to succour a friend,

There's Nipcheese the purser, by grinding and squeezing,

First plund'ring, then leaving the ship like a rat, The eddy of fortune stands on a stiff breeze in, And mounts, fierce as fire, a dog-vane in his hat, My bark, though hard storms on life's ocean should rock her,

Though she roll in misfortune, and pitch end for end,

No never shall Bill keep a shot in the locker, When by handing it out he can succour a friend. For money, &c.

Let them throw out their wipes, and cry, Spite of the crosses,

And forgetful of toil that so hardly they bore: That"Sailors at sea earn their money like horses, To squander it idly like asses ashore."

Such lubbers their jaw would coil up, could they measure,

By their feeling, the gen'rous delight without

end,

That gives birth in us tars to that truest of pleasure,
The handling our rhino to succour a friend.
For money, &c.

Why, what's all this nonsense, they talk of, and pother,

Allabout rights of men, what a plague are they at? If they means that each man to his messmate's a brother,

Why, the lubberly swabs,ev'ry fool can tell that.

The rights of us Britons we know's to be loyal, In our country's defence our last moments to spend ;

To fight up to the ears to protect the blood royal, To be true to our wives-and to succour a friend. For money, &c.

Putriotic Song.

WHEN Freedom was banish'd from Greece and

from Rome,

And wander'd neglected in search of a home,
Jove willing to fix her where long she might stand,
Turn'd the globe round about, and reviewed each
land,

With nice circumspection, he view'd the whole ball,
And weigh'd in its balance the merits of all;
Then quickly determin'd that England alone,
Was the best place adapted for Liberty's throne,

Merry Momus insisted no place was more fit,
Than the Island of Freedom for true attic wit,
And Venus declar'd, if 'twas pleasing to Jove,
She could like to make England the empire of love;
Mars boldly stepp'd forward from his mistress's
side,

And swore that with arms he would Britons provide;

When Bacchus declar'd that each heart cheering juice,

For the use of true Englishmen he would produce.