At length in England landed,
I left the roaring man,
Found all relations stranded,
And went to sea again.

That time bound straight to Portugal,
Right fore and aft we bore;
But, when we made Cape Ortugal,
A gale blew off the shore;
She lay, so did it shock her,
A log upon the main ;
Till, sav'd from Davy's locker,
We put to sea again.

Next in a frigate sailing,
Upon a squally night,
Thunder and lightning hailing,
The horrors of the fight:
My precious limb was lopp'd off,
I, when they eas'd my pain,
Thank'd God I was not popp'd off,
And went to sea again,

Yet still I am enabled

To bring up in life's rear,
Although I'm quite disabled,
And lie in Greenwich tier,
The king, God bless his royalty!
Who sav'd me from the main,
I'll praise with love and loyalty,
But ne'er to sea again,

The Jolly Dyer.

IN this world so extensive how many, to eat,
Will laugh or will cry, will pray, or will cheat,
But for me, I exist quite a different way,

For the better to live, sirs, I dye every day.
Tol lol, &c.

Your doctors may physic, your counsellors talk,
Your pugilists box, your pedestrians walk;
By the death of their friends, undertakers get pelf,
But my living arises from dying myself.

In the noose matrimonial how many are fast,
A knot tied so firm, it for ever must last;
But, with us men of colour, 'tis loosen'd with ease,
For we make our wives dye-whenever we please.

Mankind we distinguish by different hues,
And know, by their colours, Turks, Frenchmen,

or Jews;

Yet we never, like West-India planters, good lack, Would oppress a poor brother, because he's dy'd black.

What are all your great patriots, who gain such applause,

By saying they'd die for their country and laws; Were they to perform all their promises speak, They could only die once, while we dye all the week,

May dying still live, and may trade never die, May our country's colours all colours outvie; May the blessings of Peace, make each honest heart sing,

Success to Old England, and long live the king.

Father and I.

MY mother were dead and sister were married, And nobody at home but Father and I,

So I thought before I longer tarried,

To get a good wife my fortune I'd try; But I swore she the model should be of my mother, For never was a better wife under the sky, So we mounted our nags to find such another, And set out a courting Father and I.

Farmer Chaff have a daughter that famous for breeding,

That do dance and do play, an do sing an do

write,

But she ne'er would talk, she were always a read

ing,

'Bout ravishments, devils, and ghostes in white; Zounds girl says I, at that fun you wont find I, a good one,

At other guests fish you must fry,

For the wife for my money must make a good pudding,

So I wish you a good morning Father and I.

But, lord, Farmers' daughters be as bad as their betters,

For prudence and decencys left in the lurch, They paint faces and pictures, write stories and letters,

Aud look like Ghostes standing up in a church ; Instead of staying at whoam, shirts and table-cloths darning,

Or pickling of cabbage or making a pie,

All the clodpoles are standing astone'd at their larning,

Sad wives for the loikes of Father and I.

As to Lunnon to manage like other folk scorning, They sit down to breakfast, when we went to sup, At midnight they din'd, they sup'd in the morning, And were going to bed at the time we got up; Then so poor (but lord that I'd no heart to make fun on,)

They couldn't afford any covering to buy, So shivering with cold we the girls left in Lunnon, And came back to Country Father and I.

So just as we didn't know what to be a'ter,

Odds wounds cried Father a neighbour O'mine, Died a twelve month ago, left a sister and daughter, And they both can milk cows and make goose

berry wine;

On to see 'em we went, this fell out on a Sunday,
Na look'd shilly, shally, or foolish, or shy,
The licence we bought on the very next Monday,
They were both of them married to Father and 1.

The Wandering Sailor.

THE wandering sailor ploughs the main,
A competence in life to gain ;
Undaunted braves the stormy seas,
To find at last content and ease;

In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er,
To anchor on his native shore.

When winds blow hard, and mountains rolls,
And thunders shake from pole to pole;
Though dreadful waves surrounding foam,
Still flattering fancy wafts him home;

In hopes, when toils and danger's o'er,
To anchor on his native shore.

When round the bowl the jovial crew,
The early scenes of life renew;

Though each his favourite fair will boast,
This is the universal toast:

"May we, when toil and danger's o'er,
Cast anchor on our native shore!".

The Woodman.

"TWAS far remov'd from noise and smoke, Hark! I hear the woodman's stroke,

Who dreams not, as he fells the oak,

What mischief dire he brews;