HE

HEN, farewell, my trim-built wherry !
Oars, and coat, and badge, farewell!

Never more at Chelsea Ferry

Shall your Thomas take a spell.

But, to hope and peace a stranger,
In the battle's heat I go;
Where, expos'd to ev'ry danger,

Some friendly ball shall lay me low.

Then, mayhap, when homeward steering,

With the news my messmates come, Even you, my story hearing,

With a sigh may cry poor Tom!

My daddy was a tinker's son,

And I'm his boy, 'tis ten to one!
Here's pots to mend! was still his cry,
Here's pots to mend! alond bawl I.
Have ye tin pots, kettles, or cans,
Coppers to solder, or brass pans?
Of wives my dad had near a score,
And I have twice as many more:
And what's as wonderful as true,

My daddy was the lord (upon my soul he was) the
Lord knows who!

Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan,

For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

Once I in budget snug had got
A barn-door capon and what not.
Here's pots to mend ! I cry'd along,
Here's pots to mend ! was still my song.
At village wake-oh! curse his throat,
The cock crow'd out so loud a note,
The folk in clusters flock'd around,
They seiz'd my budget, in it found
The cock, a gammon, pease and beans,
Besides a jolly tinker (yes, by the Lord) a tinker's
ways and means.

Tan ran tan, &c.

Like dad, when I to quarters come,
For want of cash the folks I hum.

Here's kettles to mend: bring me some beer,
The landlord cries," you'll get none here!
You tink'ring dog, pay what you owe."
In rage I squeeze him 'gainst the door,
And with his back rub off the score.
At his expense we drown all strife,

For which I praise the landlord (could not do less than praise) the landlord's wife.

Tan ran tan, &c.

YE sportsmen draw near, and ye sports

women too,

Who delight in the joys of the field,

Mankind, though they blame, are all eager as you, And no one the contest will yield.

Н

His lordship, his worship, his honour, his grace, A hunting continually go;

All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward, huzza, Tally ho.

The lawyer will rise with the first of the morn,
To hunt for a mortgage or deed;

The husband gets up at the sound of the horn,
And rides to the common full speed;

The patriot is thrown in pursuit of his game;
The poet too often lies low,

Who, mounted on Pegasus, flies after fame,
With hark forward, huzza, Tally ho.

While, fearless, o'er hills and o'er woodlands we sweep,

Though prudes on our pastime may frown, How oft do they decency's bounds overleap, And the fences of Virtue break down! Thus public or private, for pension, for place, For amusement, for passion, for show, All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward, huzza, Tally ho.

"TIS

IS said we vent'rous die hard, when we leave the shore,

But this is all a notion

Bold Jack can't understand,
Some die upon the ocean,
And some upon the land;
Then since 'tis clear,

Howe'er we steer,

No man's life's under his command;
Let tempests howl,

And billows roll,

And dangers press:

Of those in spite, there are some joys
Us jolly tars to bless,

For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
To drink to Poll and Bess.

One seaman hands the sail, another heaves the log,

The purser swops
Our pay for slops,

The landlord sells us

grog:

Then each man to his station,

To keep life's ship in trim,

What argufies noration?

The rest is Fortune's whim;
Cheerly my hearts,

Then play your parts,

Boldly resolve to sink or swim

The mighty surge

May ruin urge,

And dangers press:

Of those in spite, &c.

For all the world's just like the ropes aboard a ship,

Each man's rigg'd out,

A vessel stout,

To take for life a trip:

The

The shrouds, the stays, and braces,
Are joys, and hopes, and fears,
The halyards, sheets, and traces,
Just as each passion veers;
And whim prevails,
Direct the sails,

As on the sea of life he steers:
Then let the storm

Heaven's face deform,

And dangers press:

Of those in spite, &c.'

WHI

HILE beams the bright morn, How sweet sounds the horn, For the chace while the hunters prepare! Tally ho is the sound

Which re-echoes around,

When pursuing the hart or the hare.

Tantivy, tantivy, my boys, let's away, While health gives new charms to the sport of the day.

Each woodland and hill,
Each river or rill,

Enlivens the sweet smiling scene:

Each meadow is grac 'd

By Nature's own taste,

And the hunters, like spring, drest in green.

03

Tantivy, &c.

The