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THE JOLLY BUCCANEER. Ín the good ship Revenge, how we've spank'd through

the ocean, She's flush to our purpose, you ne'er saw the like; Balls and bullets whiz by, but ne'er cause an emotion, Till we're bowled down, boys, we never will strike,

Thus success and seaman's cheer

Glads the jolly Buccaneer. Fond of change, in all weathers and climates we're

roving, Now a sort of hard tustle, and now a soft booze: With the girls and a fiddle, sometimes kind and loving, See popped off a messmate, and step in his shoes.

Still success,

&c. Well stored now with plunder, at nine knots we're

steering, To where copper fair ones will greet us on shore; There we'll laugh, quaff, and sing, and with kissing and

swearing, Our cargoes see out, then to sea, boys, for more.

Still success,


THE LAST WHISTLE. WHETHER sailor or not, for a moment avast, Poor Jack's mizen-topsail is laid to the mast; He'll never turn out, or will more heave the lead, He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot a-head; Yet, though worms gnaw his timbers, his vessel a

wreck, When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck Secure in his eabin, he's moored in the grave, Nor hears any more the loud roar of the wave; Pressed by death he is sent to the tender below, Where lubbers and seamen must every one go;

Yet though worms, &c.

With his frame a mere hulk, and his reck’ning on

At last he dropt down to mortality's road;
With Eternity's ocean before him in view,
He cheerfully piped out my messmates adieu;

Yet though worms, &c.

Go patter to paper sculls, saps, d'ye see,

With your time-serving cant, and the like;
A clear head, a true heart, and sound bottom for me,

And to no such palaver I'll strike, For, in dove-like disguise, though the hawk or the kite

May cajole the whole pigeon-house brood, Little time will discover how close he can bite

When they find he plucks pigeons for food; Then avast, have a care, when you veer out advice,

The right capstern you're winding it from, For, unless to your windpipe your heart you can splice, You may pipe till you're dumb for poor

I, for pelf, might pretend that I'd found out the way

How to lend a lame conscience a crutch,
And such lingo launch out, both to coil and belay,

That, you'd think me, good lord, a non-such;
Full of sweet little maxims, touched up to a T,

About matters aloft and below,
And of cherubs perched up, like magpies in a tree,

On the maintop, to take us in tow:
But of what's done above stairs no knowledge I claim,

Nor can I overhaul what's to come;
And the tale of a prophet, when profit's his aim,

Is the tale of a tub to Poor Tom.
When I hear Doctor Stuffgut intemperance decry,

While his table, from skies, earth and sea,

Is decked out with dainties,—sure that's all my eye,

And his flock, too, what flats they must be,
To be gulled by a thumb-cushion swab, one and all,

When if service that moment was o'er,
He'd soon turn his back on St. Peter and Paul

For the haunch of a buck or a boar;
As the cherubs for him are the loaves and the fish,

And for those at the mouth he will foam;
But with Benjamin's mess let him pile up his dish,

A brown biscuit, well earned, for Poor Tom.
Since life's but a span, to improve every inch,

Let the tongue from the heart never trip, And, though, poverty's gripe the best cable may pinch,

Never once let the sheet-anchor slip; And, as to fine stories, to answer fine ends,

'Tis no matter who tells or who sings, The best little cherub a mortal befriends

Is a conscience that guilt never stings; So when, like poor Davy, wash'd off from the deck,

My old hulk I at last must pack from, With the best birth in view, let me spring from the

wreck, And the Cape of Good Hope for Tom.

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear

The main-mast by the board,
My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear,

And love well stor’d,
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,

The roaring wind, the raging sea,
In hopes, on shore, to be once more

Safe moored with thee.
Aloft while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along,
And the surge roaring from below

Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song:

Blow high, blow low, &c. And on that night, when all the crew

The memory of their former lives, O’er flowing cans of flip, renew,

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think of thee,

And as the ship rolls through the sea The burthen of my song shall be,

Blow high, Blow low, &c.

NAUTICAL PHILOSOPHY. ONE night came on a hurricane

The sea was mountains rollingWhen Barney Buntline turned his quid,

And cried to Billy Bowline“ There's a sou’-wester coming Billy, Don't


hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pities them

Unhappy folks on shore now. Fool-hardy chaps as lives in towns,

What dangers they are all in-
At night lie quaking in their beds,

For fear the roof will fall in
Poor creatures, how they envies us,

And wishes, I've a notion,
For our good luck in such a storm,

To be upon the ocean.
Now, as to them that's out all day

On business from their houses,
And late at night are walking home,

To clicer their babes and spouses While you and I, upon the deck,

Are comfortably lying,


My eyes! what tiles and chimney tops, About their their heads are flying! you

and I, have often heard, How folks are ruined and undone, By overturns in carriages,

By thieves and fires in LondonWe've heard what risks all landsmen run,

From noblemen to tailors, Then Billy let's bless Provinence

That you and I are sailors."

THE MARINER’S GRAVE. I REMEMBER the night was stormy and wet, And dismally dash'd the dark wave,

While the rain and the sleet

Cold and heavily beat On the mariner's new-dug grave. I remember 'twas down in a darksome dale, And near to a dreary cave,

Where the wild winds wail

Round the wanderer pale,
That I saw the Mariner's grave.
I remember how slowly the bearers trod,
And how sad was the look they gave,

As they rested their load,

Near its last abode, And gazed on the Mariner's grave. I remember no sound did the silence break, As the corpse to the earth they gave,

Save the night-bird's shriek,

And the coffin's creak
As it sunk in the Mariner's grave.
I remember a tear that slowly slid

Down the cheek of a messmate brave,

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