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Ye daughters of old Albion's isle!
Where'er I go, where'er I stray, O Charity's sweet children ! smile,
To cheer a pilgrim on his way.
FAINT and wearily the way-worn traveller, Plods uncheerily, afraid to stop; Wand'ring drearily, a sad unraveller
Of the mazes tow'rd the mountain's top: Doubting, fearing, while his course he's steering,
Cottages appearing as he's nigh to drop; Oh! how briskly then the way-worn traveller Treads the mazes tow'rd the mountain's top.
Though so melancholy a day has pass'd by,
Twould be folly now to think on't more; Blithe and jolly he the cag holds fast by,
As he's sitting at the goat-herd's door. Eating, quaffing, at past labours laughing,
Better far, by half, in spirits than before; Oh ! how merry then the rested traveller
Seems, while sitting at the goat-herd's door.
FOR me my fair a wreath has wove,
A bee within a damask rose
Had crept, the nectar'd dew to sip; But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,
And fixes on Louisa's lip.
There tasting all the bloom of spring,
TV ungrateful spoiler left his sting,
SWEET is the ship, that, under sail,
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man:
The needle, faithful to the north,
A curious lesson teaches man;
Let seamanship do all it can;
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
When in the bilboes I was pemTd,
And ev'ry creature from me ran;
None hail'd me—woman, child, nor man; But though false friendship's sails were furl'd, Though cut adrift by all the world,
I'd all the world in lovely Nan.
I love my duty, love my friend,
To mourn their loss who hazard ran.
By manners love to show the man;
First made me doat on lovely Nan.
STILL the lark finds repose
Though surrounded with thorn.
Never robb'd of their ease,
They are thoughtless and free; But no more gentle peace
Shall e'er harbour with me.
Still in search of delight,
Ne'er tormented by pride,
A SAILOR'S life's a life of woe,
We despise it to a man;
If howling winds and roaring seas
Give proof of coming danger,
For Jack's to fear a stranger.
Bless'd Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly—
And now below
We headlong go,
Spite of the gale
We hand the sail,
Or man the deck,
To clear some wreck,
Though perils threat around,
But yet think not our case is hard,
Though storms at sea thus treat us, For, coming home, a sweet reward!
With smiles our sweet-hearts greet us: Now too the friendly grog we quaff,
And am'rous toast
Her we love most, And gaily sing and laugh:
The sails we furl,
Then, for each girl, The petticoat display:
The deck we clear,
Then three times clieer,' As we their charms survey:
And then the grog goes round, &c.
WE bipeds made up of frail clay,