O'er stile, o'er hedge, I help'd the maid
Her brimming pail to bear;
And chas'd the goblin from the glade,
And sung to banish fear:
For dark it grew, we scarce could see.
Belov'd, I swear, the maid shall be,
For ever and for aye by me!
Her mother rav'd: "So late!" she cry'd:
The damsel hung her head.
Good mother, hear, nor rashly chide;
I'd fain thy daughter wed:
Consent our mutual bliss to see.
Belov'd, I swear, the maid shall be,
For ever and for aye by me!"
THE JUNCTION OF BACCHUS AND VENUS,
By T. C. Rickman.
I'M a vot'ry of Bacchus, his godship adore,
And love at his shrine gay libations to pour;
And Venus, blest Venus, my bosom inspires,
For she lights in our souls the most sacred of fires:
Yet to neither I swear sole allegiance to hold;
My bottle and lass I by turns must enfold;
For the sweetest of junctions that mortals can prove,
Is of Bacchus, gay god, and the goddess of love.
When fill'd to the fair, the brisk bumper I hold;
Can the miser survey with such pleasure his gold!
The ambrosia of gods no such relish can boast,
If good port fill your glass, and fair Kitty's your toast,
And the charms of your girl more angelic will be,
If her sofa's encircl'd with wreaths from his tree;
For the sweetest of junctions that mortals can prove,
Is of Bacchus, gay god, and the goddess of love..
All partial distinctions I hate from my sonl; -
O give me my fair one! and give me my bowl;
Bliss reflected from either, will send to my heart,
Ten thousand sweet joys which they can't have apart!
Go try it, ye smiling and gay-looking throng,
And your hearts will in unison beat to my song,
That the sweetest of junctions that mortals can prove,
Is of Bacchus, gay god, and the goddess of love.
I SING THE SEAMAN'S PRAISE.
Sung at the Anacreontic Society.
I SING the British seaman's praise,
A theme renown'd in story:
It well deserves more polish'd lays,
O'tis your boast and glory;
When mad brain war spreads death around,
By them you are protected,
But when in peace the nation's found,
These bulwarks are neglected.
Then O protect the hardy tar,
Be mindful of his merit,.
And when again you're plung'd in war,
He'll shew his daring spirit.
When thickest darkness covers all,
Far on the trackless ocean;
When lightnings dart, when thunders roll,
And all is wild commotion.
When o'er the bark the white topt waves,
With boist'rous sweep, and rolling,
Yet coolly still the whole he braves,
Untam'd amidst the howling.
When deep immers'd in sulph'rous smoak,
He seeks a glowing pleasure,
He loads his guns, he cracks his joke,
Elated beyond measure;
Tho' fore and aft the blood-stain'd deck,
Should lifeless trunks appear,
Or should the vessel float a wreck,
The sailor knows no fear.
Then O protect, &c.
When long becalm'd on southern brine,
Where scorching beams assail him,
When all the canvass hangs supine,
And food and water fail him;
Then oft he dreams of Britain's shore,
Where plenty still is reigning,
They call the watch, his rapture's o'er,
He sighs, but scorns complaining.
Then O protect, &c.
Or burning on that noxious coast,
Where death so oft befriends him,
Or pinch'd by hoary Greenland frost,
True courage still attends him.
No time can this eradicate,
He glories in annoyance;
He fearless braves the storm of fate,
And bids grim death defiance.
Then O protect, &c.
Why should the man who knows no fear,
In peace be e'er neglected;
Behold him move along the pier,
Pale; meagre, and dejected.
Behold him begging for employ,
Behold him disregarded;
Then view the anguish of his eye,
And say, are tars rewarded.
Then O protect, &c.
To them your dearest rights you owe,
In p
peace then would you starve them?
What say ye Britain's sons? Oh, no,
Protect them, and preserve them.
Shield them from poverty and pain,
"Tis policy to do it;
Or when war shall come again,
O Britons ye may rue it.
Then O protect, &c.
A POOR helpless wand'rer, the wide world before me, When the harsh din of war forc'd a parent to roam, With no friend save kind heaven to protect and watch o'er me,
I, a child of affliction, was robb'd of a home!
And thus with a sigh I accosted each stranger—
"O, look with compassion on poor orphan Bess! Your mite may relieve her from each threat'ning danger
And the soft tear of pity can soothe her distress."
To the rich by whom virtue's too often neglected,
I tell my sad story and crave for relief:
But wealth seldom feels for a wretch unprotected-
'Tis poverty only partakes of her grief!
Ah, little they think that the thousands they squander
On the play-things of folly, and fripp'ries of dress,
Would relieve the keen wants of the wretched who
wander,
While the soft tear of pity would soothe their distress!
Tho' bereft of each comfort, poor Bess will not languish :
Since short is life's journey, 'tis vain to lament;
And he who still marks the deep sigh of keen anguish
Hath plac'd in his bosom the jewel Content.
Then, ye wealthy to-day, think-ah, think ere to
The frowns of misfortune upon you may press; Then, turn not away from a poor orphan's sorrow, When the soft tear of pity can soothe her distress!
THE CHRISTIAN SAILOR.
COME, never seem to mind it,
Nor count your fate a curse,
However sad you find it,
Yet, somebody is worse:
In danger some may come off short,
Yet, why should we despair,
For, though bold tars are fortune's sport,
They still are fortune's care,
Why, when our vessel blew up,
A fighting that there Don,
Like squibs and crackers flew up
The crew, each mother's son;
They sunk:-some rigging stopp'd me short,
While twirling in the air,
And thus, if tars, &c.
Young Peg of Portsmouth-Common
Had like t' have been my wife;
Longside of such a woman
I'd led a pretty life:
A landsman, one Sam Davenport,
She convoy'd to Horn-fair,
And thus, if tars, &c.
A splinter knock'd my nose off;
My bowsprit's gone! I cries:
Yet well it kept their blows off,
Thank God, 'twas not my eyes;
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