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Tom breathed, ere they began to fight,

To heaven a prayer, for love a sigh! Yard arin and yard arm, now they go,

While clouds of smoke obstruct the view Soon yielding, strikes the crippled foe, But poor Tom Halliard is laid low,

And sighs, in death, Sweet Poll adieu. The news was like the thunder dread

To Poll-Ah me! 'twas sad to see;
And from that hour her senses fled,

A frantic wanderer is she.
Oft on the rocky beach she'll stray,

Where fancy paints her love so true,
As, on that morning, forced away,
Which was to bring their wedding-day,

He faintly sighed: Sweet Poli, adieu.

THE WORN OUT TAR. THE ship was now in sight of land,

And crowds from shore with joy did hail her: The happy hour was now at hand,

When each sweet lass would see her sailor How gallantly she ploughs her way,

To England's shore returning back; And every heart is light and gay,

Except the heart of honest Jack. For he was old, his frame was worn,

His cheek had lost its manly hue; Unlike his glory's rising morn,

When big with hope, his fancy grew. Yet was his heart as firm and true,

In his loved country's cause, as warm As when he cheered his gallant crew

To face the foe or brave the storm.

How happy is the sailors life,

From coast to coast to roam;
In every port be finds a wife,
In every land a home.

He loves to range,

He's no where strange,
He ne'er will turn his back

To friend or foe;

No, masters, no;
My life for honest Jack.

He loves to range, &c. If saucy foes dare make a noise,

And to the sword appeal,
We'll out, and quickly larn ’em boys,
With whom they have to deal.

We know no craft,

But fore and aft
Lay on our strokes amain;

Then if they're stout,

For t’other bout,
We'll drub 'em o'er again.

We know no craft, &c. Or fair or foul let fortune blow,

Our hearts are never dull;
The pocket that to-day ebbs low,
To-morrow shall be full.

For if so be,

We want, d’ye see,
A p!uck of this here stuff,

In India

And Americ-a
We're sure to find enough,

For if so be, &c.

Poor Savage compared a lost friend to the eye,

When losing, by accident, t’other
Soon wept itself blind, thus poor Bob would descry

The duty friends owe to each other;
Now he may be right, yet as I think he's wrong:

I'll tell ye dear messmates, my notion,
Though, perhaps, 'twould do better in prose than in

song, Were not we jolly tars from the ocean, So my notion is this, a true lad being dead,

Who through life acts the man we first find him, Leaving grief to the women, a tear or two shed,

'Tis to cherish the wife left behind him. Sam Tempest, you know, when he saw his Poll

weep, Thought as how as her heart was a-breaking: But scarce had the tar been three nights on the

deep, When Miss Poll her fond Sam was forsaking,

So 'tisn't the tears your fine feelings may shed, Which prove that a man does his duty, Like preaching advice, when a shipmate wants

brcad, Such fellows give all but their booty.

So my notion's this, &c. For what the world kindness and tenderness eall,

Are but the false colors to pity;
She's an angel; but those, why they're nothing at all

But shoals to betray the unwitty.
A true friend, my lads, like the oak in our ship,

Should be mellow'd by age to prove steadv;
Then, too tough to warp, if luck gives you the slip,

To serve you he'll ever prove ready,
So my notion's this, such a one being dead,

Who through life, &c.


The wind blew a blast from the northward,

When we steered from the Cape of Good Hope, The sky looked quite pitchy and wayward,

And the sea o'er our weather bow broke. The boatswain piped all hands to bail her,

And I came down the back stay so glib;
For I am a forecastle sailor,

You may see by the cut of my jib.
Start my timbers, cried Ned Junk of Dover,

Plump to me, as I landed on deck,
With us it will scon be all over,

For the Guardian must quick go to wreck; Well, well, we sha'n't live to bewail her,

Cried I, and I patted his rib;
Come-work like a forecastle sailor,

If I don't, the gale shiver my jib.
We were running at nine knots an hour:

When 'bout two leagues to leeward we spied, An island of ice like a tower,

And on it our ship quickly hied; But now 'twas no use for to bail her,

The water gained on her so glib;
So each like a true hearted sailor,

Waited for to shiver his jib.
Some took to the boat, do you mind me,

While some on the vessel's deck stood,
Cried I, may old Davy Jones find me,

If I sail from my captain so good. Now Providence helped us to bail her,

And we managed to patch up her rib; Safe arrived is each true hearted sailor,

To rig up his weather beat jib.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him too;
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,

And now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair.
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah! many's the time, and oft!
But mirth is turn’d to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.
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 doff'd,
For though his body's under hatches,

His soul is

gone aloft.

Now the rage of battle ended,

And the foe for mercy call,
Death no more in smoke and thunder

Rode upon the vengeful ball;
Yet, what brave and loyal heroes

Saw the sun of morning bright Ah! condemn’d by cruel fortune,

Ne'er to see the star of night.

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