And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, But mirth is turned to melancholy, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed, For, though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. Dibdin. XXXIX THE DESERTER IF sadly thinking, With spirits sinking, My cares compose, From sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow Would end my woes. But as in wailing There's nought availing, And Death unfailing Will strike the blow, Then for that reason, To joy a stranger, My course I've run; No more a rover, My griefs are over, My glass runs low; And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go! XL Curran. THE ARETHUSA COME, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, While English glory I unfold, Huzza for the Arethusa! She is a frigate tight and brave, Her men are staunch To their fav'rite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, 'Twas with the spring fleet she went out The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie, Not a sheet, or a tack, Or a brace, did she slack; Though the Frenchman laughed and thought it stuff, But they knew not the handful of men, how tough, On board of the Arethusa. On deck five hundred men did dance, On board of the Arethusa. Our captain hailed the Frenchman, 'Ho!' To our Admiral's lee!' 'No, no,' says the Frenchman, 'that can't be !' "Then I must lug you along with me,' Says the saucy Arethusa. The fight was off the Frenchman's land, And now we've driven the foe ashore To his fav'rite lass; A health to our captain and officers true, XLI Prince Hoare. THE BEAUTY OF TERROR TIGER, tiger, burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? XLII Blake. DEFIANCE FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie: M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Oh, what is death but parting breath?— On monie a bloody plain I've dared his face, and in this place |