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THE JOLLY BUCCANEER. In the good ship Revenge, how we've spank'd through
the ocean, She's flush to our purpose, you ne'er saw the like; Balls and bullets whiz by, but ne'er cause an emotion, Till we're bowled down, boys, we never will strike,
Thus success and seaman's cheer
Glads the jolly Buccaneer. Fond of change, in all weathers and climates we're
roving, Now a sort of hard tustle, and now a soft booze: With the girls and a fiddle, sometimes kind and loving, See popped off a messmate, and step in his shoes.
Still success, &c. Well stored now with plunder, at nine knots we're
steering, To where copper fair ones will greet us on shore; There we'll laugh, quaff, and sing, and with kissing and
swearing, Our cargoes see out, then to sea, boys, for more.
Still success, &c.
THE LAST WHISTLE. WHETHER sailor or not, for a moment avast, Poor Jack's mizen-topsail is laid to the mast; He'll never turn out, or will more heave the lead, He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot a-head; Yet, though worms gnaw his timbers, his vessel a
wreck, When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck Secure in his cabin, he's moored in the grave, Nor hears any more the loud roar of the wave; Pressed by death he is sent to the tender below, Where lubbers and seamen must every one go;
Yet though worms, &c.
With his frame a mere hulk, and his reck’ning on
Yet though worms, &c.
With your time-serving cant, and the like;
And to no such palaver I'll strike, For, in dove-like disguise, though the hawk or the kite
May cajole the whole pigeon-house brood, Little time will discover how close he can bite
When they find he plucks pigeons for food; Then avast, have a care, when you veer out advice,
The right capstern you're winding it from, For, unless to your windpipe your heart you can splice,
You may pipe till you’re dumb for poor Tom.
How to lend a lame conscience a crutch,
That, you'd think me, good lord, a non-such;
About matters aloft and below,
On the mainiop, to take us in tow:
Nor can I overhaul what's to come;
Is the tale of a tub to Poor Tom.
While his table, from skies, earth and sea,
Is decked out with dainties, sure that's all my eye,
And his flock, too, what flats they must be,
When if service that moment was o'er,
For the haunch of a buck or a boar;
And for those at the mouth he will foam;
A brown biscuit, well earned, for Poor Tom.
Let the tongue from the heart never trip, And, though, poverty's gripe the best cable may pinch,
Never once let the sheet-anchor slip; And, as to fine stories, to answer fine ends,
'Tis no matter who tells or who sings, The best little cherub a mortal befriends
Is a conscience that guilt never stings; So when, like poor Davy, wash'd off from the deck,
My old hulk I at last must pack from, With the best birth in view, let me spring from the
wreck, And the Cape of Good Hope for Tom.
BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW
The main-mast by the board,
And love well stor’d,
The roaring wind, the raging sea,
Safe moored with thee.
The whistling winds that scud along,
Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song:
Blow high, blow low, &c. • And on that night, when all the crew
The memory of their former lives, O’er flowing cans of flip, renew,
And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think of thee,
And as the ship rolls through the sea The burthen of my song shall be,
Blow high, Blow low, &c.
The sea was mountains rolling-
And cried to Billy Bowline-
Don't ye hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore now. Fool-hardy chaps as lives in towns,
What dangers they are all in-
For fear the roof will fall in-
And wishes, I've a notion,
To be upon the ocean.
On business from their houses,
To cheer their babes and spouses,
Are comfortably lying,
My eyes! what tiles and chimney tops,
About their their heads are flying! Bill, you and I, have often heard,
How folks are ruined and undone, By overturns in carriages,
"By thieves and fires in LondonWe've heard what risks all landsmen run,
From noblemen to tailors,
That you and I are sailors."
THE MARINER’S GRAVE. I REMEMBER the night was stormy and wet, And dismally dash'd the dark wave,
While the rain and the sleet
Cold and heavily beat On the mariner's new-dug grave. I remember 'twas down in a darksome dale, · And near to a dreary cave,
Where the wild winds wail
Round the wanderer pale,
As they rested their load,
Near its last abode,
Save the night-bird's shriek,
And the coffin's creak
Down the cheek of a messmate brave,