Despairing he wept and he sigh'd,
We found him all weak and forlorn;
No mother his milk to provide,
No wife to make bread of his corn.
Then let us in pity unite,
To soften his woes if we can, What tho' he be ugly and white, My comrades he still is a man.
A favourite Scotch Song, written by R. Burns.
JUST where yon burn trots thro' the broom,
Amang the birks sae mony, O,
Where gowans glint and blue bells bloom,
And lintwhites sing fac bonny, O,
A lass there lives right sair to see
Wi' gracefu' air enchanting, O,
Whase rose-bud cheek and sparkling e'e
Ha'e set this heart a panting, O.
Her presence mak's me cheery, O,
Her absence mak's me weary, O,
'Tis my delight, baith day and night,
To gaze upo' my deary, O.
I'd leave the town and a'its pride,
The seat o'vice and slander, Ø,
At eve yon burnies flow'ry side
Wi' my sweet lass to wander, O.
Let fortune shun my lowly cot,
And wealthy sauls frown on me, O,
The fickle jade I'd mind her not,
Wou'd Annie smile upon me, 0 :
Her presence mak's me cherry, Ö, &c.
Ye painted prudes. wi' a'your art,
In silk and siller flaunting, O,
Whase costly claise aft hides a heart
Where modesty is wanting, O.
My Annie scorns your
And, sweet as May-day morning, O, Bright health blooms on her cheerfu' face, In spite of a' your scorning, O.
Her presence mak's me cheery, O, &c.
THE wind blew hard, the sea ran high,
The dingy scud drove 'cross the sky;
All was safe lash'd, the bowl was slung,
When, careless, thus Ned Haulyard sung:
A sailor's life's the life for me,
He takes his duty merrily;
If winds can whistle, he can sing;
Still faithful to his friend and king.
He gets belov'd by all the ship,
And toasts his girl, and drinks his flip.
"Down topsails! boys, the gale comes on."
To strike top-gallant yards they run;
And now, to hand the sail prepar'd,
Ned cheerful sings upon the yard:
A sailor's life, &c.
A leak! a leak! come, lads, be bold,
"There's five feet water in the hold."
Eager on deck see Haulyard jump!
And hark! while working at the pump,
A sailor's life, &c.
And see! the vessel nought can save;
She strikes, and finds a watʼry grave!
Yet Ned, preserv'd, with a few more,
Sings, as he treads a foreign shore,
A sailor's life, &c.
And now unnumber'd perils past,
On land as well as sea-at last,
In tatters, to his Poll and home,
See honest Haulyard singing come:
A sailor's life, &c.
Yet, for poor Haulyard what disgrace!
Poll swears she never saw his face!
He damns her for a faithless she,
And, singing, goes again to see:
A sailor's life, &c.
OLD ENGLAND's WOODEN WALLS.
THRO' winds and waves in days that are no more,
I held the helm, and ne'er ran foul of shore;
In pitch-dark nights, my reck'ning prov'd so true,
I rode out safe the hardest gale hat blew:
And when, for fight, the signal high was shown,
Thro' fire and smoke old Boreas straight bore down.
But now my timbers are not fit for sea—
Old England's wooden walls the toast shall be.
From age to age, as ancient story shows,
We rul'd the deep in spite of envious foes;
And still aloft, through worlds combin'd, we rise,
Now all at home are splic'd in friendly ties.
In loud broadsides we'll tell both France and Spain,
We're own'd by Neptune sov'reigns of the main.
Oh, would my timbers now were fit for sea!
Yet England's wooden walls my toast shall be.
In June ninety-four the heroes of Britain arose,
And triumphantly conquered their Gallican foes.
Eight sail of their line to our arms made a bow,
And grac'd the atchievement of great Earl Howe.
Hearts of Oak, &c.
The same fortunate month in the ninety and five,
The Republican wolves swore they'd eat us alive;
But gallant Lord Bridport lent Monsieur a knock,
And silenc'd the crow of the Gallican cock.
In the year ninety-seven, on St. Valentine's day,
The Dons thought their numbers our fleet would dismay;
But ere the day clos'd, in the temple of fame,
Emblazon'd with glory, was Jarvis's name.
O! had I seven mouths, like the fam'd river Nile,
Of a Syren the song, of Apollo the stile,
On the triumph of Egypt for ever I'd dwell,
While Nelson and glory the chorus should swell.
With the treasures, the ships, and the legions of France,
To cherish rebellion the wretches advance;
But Warren made Monsieur exclaim with an-ah!
By gar, we've enough of your Erin go Bragh!
The broom the proud Dutchman had hoisted of yore,
Bold Duncan has strucki to insult us no more;
He sinks like the navies of France and of Spain,
And the broom of Britannia shall long sweep the main.
Hearts of Oak, &c.
COME, come, my jolly lads! the wind's abaft,
Brisk gales our sails shall crowd :--
Come, bustle, bustle, bustle, boys!
Haul the boat;--the boatswain pipes aloud :
The ship's unmoor'd,
All hands on board;
The rising gale
Fills ev'ry sail?
The ship's well mann'd and stor❜d.
Then sling the flowing bowl-
Fond hopes arise
The girls we prize-
Shall bless each jovial soul;
The can, boys, bring,
We'll drink and sing,
While foaming billows rot.
Though to the Spanish coast we're bound to steer, We'll still our rights maintain;
Then bear a hand, be steady, boys,
Soon we'll see Old England once again:
From shore to shore,
While cannons roar,
Our tars shall show
The haughty foc
Britannia rules the main,
Then sling the flowing bowl, &c.
A FRIEND, A BOTTLE, AND BOWL.
THOUGH Venus and Bacchus may boast of their
Our senses to charm, and rank care to devour;
But as things sans a finish are not quite the ton,
So's a friend and a bottle without a good song.
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