ERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty,

But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turn’d to melancholy,

For To is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom's life has doff'd,
For, though his body's under batches,

His soul is gone aloft.



JOULD you hear a sad story of woe,

That tears from a stone might provoke ? 'Tis concerning a tar, you must know,

As honest as e'er biscuit broke: His name was Ben Block, of all men

The most true, the most kind, the most brave; But harsh treated by Fortune, for Ben

In his prime found a watery grave.

His place no one ever knew more;

His heart was all kindness and love; Though on duty an eagle he'd soar,

His nature had most of the dove;
He loved a fair maiden named Kate;

His father, to int’rest a slave,
Sent him far from his love, where hard fate

Plunged him deep in a watery grave.

A curse on all slanderous tongues !

A false friend his mild nature abused, And sweet Kate of the vilest of wrongs,

To poison Ben's pleasure, accused :That she never had truly been kind;

That false were the tokens she gave; That she scornd him, and wish'd he might find

In the ocean a watery grave.

Too sure from the cankerous elf,

The venom accomplish'd its end;

Ben, all truth and honour himself,

Suspected no fraud in his friend.
On the yard, while suspended in air,

A loose to his sorrows he gave,-
Take thy wish, he cried, false, cruel fair,

And plunged in a watery grave.


HE tar's a jolly tar that can hand, reef,

and steer, That can nimbly cast off and belay, Who in darkest of nights finds each

halliard and gear, And dead reck’ning knows well and leeway:

But the tar to please me

More jolly must be,
He must laugh at the waves as they roar;

He must rattle,
And in battle
Brave danger and dying,

Though bullets are flying,
And fifty things more:

Singing, quaffing,
Dancing, laughing,
Take it cheerily,

And merrily,
And all for the sake of his girl ashore.

The tar's a jolly tar who his rhino will spend,

Who up for a messmate will spring,

For we sailors all think he that's true to his friend Will never be false to his king :

But the tar to please me

More jolly must be,
He must venture for money galore;

Acting duly,
Kind and truly,
And nobly inherit

A generous spirit,
A prudent one more:

Singing, laughing,
Dancing, quaffing,
Take it cheerily

And merrily,
And save up his cash for his girl ashore.

The tar's a jolly tar who loves a beauty bright,

And at sea often thinks of her charms,
Who toasts her with glee on a Saturday night,
And wishes her moor'd in his arms:

But the tar to please me

More jolly must be,
Though teased at each port by a score;

He must, sneering
At their leering,
Never study to delight 'em,

But scorn 'em and slight 'em,
Still true to the core :

Singing, laughing,
Dancing, quaffing,
Take it cheerily

And merrily,
And constant return to his girl ashore.


EN BACKSTAY loved the gentle Anna,

Constant as purity was she,
Her honey words, like succ'ring manna,

Cheer'd him each voyage he made to sea. One fatal morning saw them parting,

While each the other's sorrow dried, They, by the tear that then was starting,

Vow'd to be constant till they died.

At distance from his Anna's beauty,

While howling winds the sky deform, Ben sighs, and well performs his duty,

And braves for love the frightful storm. Alas, in vain !—the vessel batter'd,

On a rock splitting, open’d wide; While lacerated, torn, and shatter'd,

Ben thought of Anna, sigh’d, and died.

The semblance of each charming feature,

That Ben had worn around his neck, Where art stood substitute for nature,

A tar, his friend, saved from the wreck. In fervent hope, while Anna, burning,

Blush'd as she wish'd to be a bride, The portrait came

ne-joy turn’d to mourningShe saw, grew pale, sunk down, and died.

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