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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,
Where rival flowers in union, meet}
As oft she kiss'd this gift of love,
Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.

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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,
Wak'd by the rip'ning breath of May,

TV ungrateful spoiler left his sting,
And with the honey flew away.

SWEET is the ship, that, under sail,
Spreads her wide bosom to the gale;
Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can:
Sweet to poise the lab'ring oar
That tugs us to our native shore,

When the boatswain pipes the barge to man:
Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze;
But, oh! much sweeter than all these
Is Jack's delight—his lovely Nan.

The needle, faithful to the north,
To show of constancy the worth,

A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle time may rust—a squall
Capsize the binnacle and all,

Let seamanship do all it can;
My love in worth shall higher rise:
No time shall rust, nor squalls capsize]

My faith and truth to lovely Nan.

When

When in the bilboes I was pemTd,
For serving of a worthless friend,

And ev'ry creature from me ran;
No ship, performing quarantine,
Was ever so deserted seen;

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,
Love truth and merit to defend,

To mourn their loss who hazard ran.
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty and a spotless heart,

By manners love to show the man;
To sail through life by honour's breezej—
*Twas all along of loving these,

First made me doat on lovely Nan.

STILL the lark finds repose
In the full-waving corn,
And the bee on the rose,

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

S

Still in search of delight,
Ev'ry pleasure they prove,

Ne'er tormented by pride,
Or the slights of fond love.

A SAILOR'S life's a life of woe,
He works now late, now early;
Now up and down, now to and fro,
What then—he takes it cheerly:
Bless'd with a smiling can of grog,
If duty call,
Stand, rise, or fall,
To fate's last verge he jog;
The cadge to weigh,
The sheets belay,
He does it with a wish
To heave the lead,
Or to cat-head
The pond'rous anchor fish;
For, while the grog goes rpund,
Al l sense of danger's drown'd;

We despise it to a man;
We sing a little, and laugh a little,
And work a little, and swear a little,
And fiddle a little, and foot it a little,
And swig the flowing can!

If howling winds and roaring seas

Give proof of coming danger,
We view the storm with hearts at ease,

For Jack's to fear a stranger.

Bless'd Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly—

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And now below

We headlong go,
Now rise on mountains high;

Spite of the gale

We hand the sail,
Or take the needful reef;

Or man the deck,

To clear some wreck,
To give the ship relief:

Though perils threat around,
All sense of danger's drown'd, &c.

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,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We all may be wretched to-morrow.

For

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