Each girl, giv'à over, betray'd by her lover, ROM the east breaks the morn; The wild heath, and the mountain so high; The steed neighs to the sound, Our forefathers, so good, Age and youth urg'd the chase, Hence of noble descent, Hills and wilds we frequent, Where the bosom of nature's reveal'd; Though in life's busy day Man of man makes a prey, Still let ours be the prey of the field. With the chase in full sight, How How our mutual sensations refine! Now to horse, my brave boys! 10, patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, A tight water-boat, and good sea-room give me, And t'ent to a little I'll strike. Though the tempest top-gallant-mast smack smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck! stow the yards! and bowse every thing tight! And under the reef'd foresail we'll scud. Avast! nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft, To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day, But But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see, For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! I said to our Poll (for, d'ye see, she would cry), Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? And if to old Davy I should go, dear Poll, For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, D'ye mind me, a sailor should be ev'ry inch And with her brave the world, without off'ring to finch, From the mo nent the anchor 's a-trip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs; For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's iny friend's; And as for my life, 'tis my king's, E'en when my time comes, ne'er believe me s☛ soft, As with grief to be taken aback; That same little cherub that sits up aloft, Will look out a good berth for poor Jack! AIL, Burgundy! thou juice divine l The praises giv'n to other wine, Of poignant wit, and rosy charms, Care of its sting, &c. Bright Phoebus, on the parent-vines With that same warmth our brain inspires, With that, &c. eye From thee my Chloe's radiant Her beauteous bosom heaves. O! with what nervous heat! Worthy the fair, &c. The The stoic, prone to thought intense, A cheerful gaiety dispense, And make him taste a friend. His brow grows clear, he feels content, And then concludes his time well spent And then, &c. E'en beaux, those soft amphibious things, Quite lost to the delight that springs Forgets his cue and stiff grimace; Forgets his cue, &c. HARK! the din of distant war, Pale death ascends his ebon car, A doubtful fate the soldier tries, Perhaps return'd, He's crown'd with vict'ry's laurel. How |