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. THE LAST WHISTLE. WHETHER Sailor or not, for a moment avast, Yet, though worms gnaw his timbers, his vessel a wreck, When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck With his frame a mere hulk, and his reck'ning on board, At last he dropt down to mortality's road; With Eternity's ocean before him in view, He cheerfully piped out-my messmates adieu; Yet though worms, &c. wwwwwwwroo POOR TOM. Go patter to paper sculls, saps, d'ye see, For, in dove-like disguise, though the hawk or the kite I, for pelf, might pretend that I'd found out the way And such lingo launch out, both to coil and belay, And of cherubs perched up, like magpies in a tree, But of what's done above stairs no knowledge I claim, And the tale of a prophet, when profit's his aim, When I hear Doctor Stuffgut intemperance decry, Is decked out with dainties,-sure that's all my eye, He'd soon turn his back on St. Peter and Paul As the cherubs for him are the loaves and the fish, Since life's but a span, to improve every inch, So when, like poor Davy, wash'd off from the deck, With the best birth in view, let me spring from the wreck, And the Cape of Good Hope for Tom. BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring wind, the raging sea, Aloft while mountains high we go, 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 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. NAUTICAL PHILOSOPHY. ONE night came on a hurricane- Fool-hardy chaps as lives in towns, Now, as to them that's out all day 160 NAVAL SONGS. My eyes! what tiles and chimney tops, F Now An On 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, That I saw the Mariner's grave. I remember how slowly the bearers trod, As they rested their load, Near its last abode, And gazed on the Mariner's grave. I remember no sound did the silence break, And the coffin's creak As it sunk in the Mariner's grave. I remember a tear that slowly slid Down the cheek of a messmate brave, |