So the sweet lark, high pois'd in air, O Susan, Susan, lovely dear! My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view, Though battle calls me from thy arms, Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. The The boatswain gave the dreadful word, They kiss'd-she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her less'ning boat unwilling rows to land: Adieu! she cries, and wav'd her lily hand. Y moonlight on the BY green, Where lads and lasses stray, But not to me so sweet 1 The blossoms on the thorn, More fresh than May-day morn: His skin as white as snow, E 3 When When first he talk'd of love, He look'd sae blithe and gay, And cou'd na say him nay. There prove my love and truth; Give me the lad, &c Com friends and relations to go; NOME all hands, ahoy, to the anchor, Poll blubbers and cries-devil thank her! We are in for't; then dam'me, what folly boys Our boatswain takes care of the rigging, -- With a will-ho, &c. of Of the purser this here is the maximSlops, grog, and provision he sacks; How he'd look if you were but to ax him, With the captain's clerk who 'tis goes snacks! O! he'd find it another guess story, That would bring his bare back to the cat, Should his majesty's honour and glory Just only be told about that With a will-ho, &c, The chaplain's both holy and godly, Yet, to my mind, he looks rather oddly Cry'd I, "Which is the way to heav'n now, Sir?" "You dog," says the chaplain, "her arms!" With a will-ho, &c, The gunner's a devil of a bubber; And there's never a swab but the captain With a will-ho, &c. Now fore and aft having abus'd 'em, Jack Jack never was known for a railer; With a will-ho, &c. COME, never seem to mind it, Nor count your fate a curse, However sad you find it, Yet somebody is worse; In danger some must come off short, For tho' bold tars are Fortune's sport, Why, when our vessel blew up, They sunk, some rigging stopt me short, Young Peg of Portsmouth Common, Long side of such a woman I'd led a pretty life. A landsman, one Jem Davenport, And thus, tho' tars, &c. A splinter |