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Then to it like lions perhaps we may go,
What then, do we whine at a scar?

No-we sing and we fight 'till we take her in tow,
All on board of a man of war.

As for this thing and that, which the lubbers on shore,

Wou'd fain make our lasses believe,
Why, d'ye see, its palaver, my girl, nothing more,
So Nan, pretty Nan, do not grieve.
No danger can ever our courage affright,
Or shake the true love of a tar,

For wherever steering we still feel delight,
All on board of a man of war.

I

WAS call'd knowing Joe by the boys of our town,

Old dad taught me wisely to know folk; Cod! I was so sharp, when they laughing came down,

I ax'd, how dost do? to the show folk;

I could chant a good stave, that I know'd very well;

No hoy of my age could talk louder!

Crack a joke, tip the wink, or a droll story tell;
Of my cleverness too, none were prouder:
So, thinks I, its better nor following the plough,
To try with these youths to queer
low folk;
Their measter I met, so I made my best bow,
Spoken. How do'st do, Sir, says I.-I'se a mighty
notion of turning actor man I be main lissom

and wrestles and boxes very pretty-dances a good jig-and can play the very devil! Ax't a pleace, so join'd with the show folk.

This pleace that I got, I detarmin'd to keep,
But odzookers! they all were so drollisli !
Kings, coblers, and tailors! a prince or a sweep!
And stared so at I-I look'd foolish!

Their daggers and swords, Cod! they handled so cute,

And their leadies were all so bewitching! When I thought to be droll, I was almost struck

mute

As the bacon rack that hangs in our kitchen. They ax'd me to say, how, the coach was at door, When were seated above and below folk; Feggs! I was so shamefac'd, I flopp'd on the floor! Spoken. A kind of sort of giddiness seiz'd me all over! the candles danc'd the hays! t'were as dimmish as a Scotch mist! I dropped down dead as a shot!

And swounded away 'mong the show folk!

They laugh'd so and jeer'd me, as never were seen! All manner of fancies were playing:

One night I was sent for to wait on a Queen, Spoken.]-I believe it were Queen Hamblet of Dunkirk.

(Not thinking the plan they were laying,) My leady she died on a chair, next her spouse, While with pins me behind they were pricking! All at once I scream'd out! lent her grace such a douse,

That

That alive she was soon, aye, and kicking The people all laugh'd at and hooted poor I, And the comical dog did me so joke! That I made but one step without bidding good bye, Spoken.-From their steage, Cod! I never so much as once look'd behind me--tumbled over a barrel of thunder-knock'd down a hail storm —spoilt a bran new moon-roll'd over the sea --and darted like lightning through the infernal region;

And so took my leave of the show folk.

L

IKE Etna's dread volcano see the ample

forge,

Large heaps upon large heaps of jetty fuel gorge While, Salamander like, the pond'rous anchor lies, Glutted with vivid fire thro' all its pores that flies. The dingy anchorsmiths to renovate their strength. Stretch'd out in death-like sleep, are snoring at their length,

Waiting the master's signal, when the tackle's

force

Shall, like split rocks, the anchor from the fire divorce;

While, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang, In deaf'ning concert shall their pond'rous hammers clang;

And into symmetry the mass incongruous beat, To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant British fleet.

Now, as more vivid and intense each splinter flies, The temper of the fire the skilful master tries;

Aud,

And, as the dingy hue assumes a brilliant red, The heated anchor feeds that fire on which it fed. The huge sledge hammers round in order they

arrange,

And waking anchor-smiths await the look'd-for change;

Longing with all their force the ardent mass to

smite,

When issuing from the fire array'd in dazzling white;

And as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang, To make in concert rude their pond'rous hammers clang;

As the mis-shapen lump to symmetry they beat, To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant British fleet.

The preparations thicken; with forks the fire they goad;

And now twelve anchor-smiths the heaving bellows load;

While arm'd from ev'ry danger, and in grim array, Anxious as howling demons waiting for their prey; The forge the anchor yields from out its fiery maw, Which, on the anvil prone, the cavern shouts hurraw!

And now the scorch'd beholders want the power to gaze,

Faint with its heat, and dazzl'd with its powerful

rays;

While as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang, To forge Jove's thunderbolts, their pond'rous hammers clang;

And

And, till its fire's extinct, the monstrous mass they beat,

To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant British fleet.

TIGHT lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so sightly,

As honest Bill Bobstay, so kind and so true: He'd sing like a mermaid, and foot it so lightly, The forecastle's pride, the delight of the crew. But poor as a beggar, and often in tatters

He went, tho' his fortune was kind without end; For money, cried Bill, and them there sort of matters,

What's the good on't, d'ye see, but to succour a friend?

There's Nipcheese, the purser, by grinding and squeezing,

First plundering, then leaving the ship like a rat; The eddy of fortune stands on a stiff breeze in, And mounts, fierce as fire, a dog-vane in his hat. My bark, though hard storins on life's ocean should rock her,

Tho' she roll in misfortune, and pitch end for end, No, never shall Bill keep a shot in the locker, When by handing it out he can succour a friend.

For money, &c

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