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It fell on the lid,

And soon was hid,
For clos'd was the Mariner's grave.
Now o'er his lone bed the briar creeps,
And the wild flow’rs mournfully wave,

And the willow weeps,

And the moon-beam sleeps,
On the Mariner's silent grave.


A JOLLY comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea; When I forget thee, to my hand false may the cutlass

be! And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken down in

shame, If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge thy

name! Up, up, my lads! his memory? we'll give it with a

cheerNed Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake pri


Poor Ned! he had a heart of steel, with neither flaw

nor speck: Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quarter

deck; He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian

dame, And Spanish planters crossed themselves at whisper of

his name; But now, Jamaica girls may weep-rich Dons securely

smile His bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch Indian 'S blood! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own mother


The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a

grave! With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the cane, No need would he have had to cruise in tropic climes

again; But some are born to sink at sea, and some to hang on

shore, And Fortune cried, God speed! at last, and welcomed

Ned no more. "Twas off the coast of Mexico-the tale is bitter brief, The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fasť upon

à reefUpon a cutting coral-reef, scarce a good league from

land, But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged up

on the strand; His boats were lost before Cape Horn, and, with an

old canoe, Even had he numbered ten for one, what could Ned

Bolton do?

Six days and nights the vessel lay upon the coral-reef, Nor favoring gale, nor friendly flag brought prospect of

relief; For a land breeze, the wild one prayed, who never

prayed before, And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip and

swore, The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not

venture near, Too well they knew the mettle of the daring privateer!

A calm! a calm! hopeless calm! the red sun burning

high, Glared blisteringly and wearily in a transparent sky;

the song,

The grog went round the gasping crew: and loudly rose The only pastime at an hour when rest seemed far too

long, So boisterously they took their rouse upon the crowded

deckThey looked like men who had escaped, not feared, a

sudden wreck,

to sea

Up sprung the breeze the seventh day-away! away! Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters

free; Their battle-flag these rovers bold then hoisted topmast

high, And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce defying cry. “ One last broadside!" Ned Bolton cried-deep boom

ed the cannon's roar, And echo's hollow growl returned an answer from the


The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad tumul

tuous cheer, Ceased not, so long as ocean spared the shattered pri

vateer, I saw her-I-she shot by me like lightning, in the

gale, We strove to save, we tacked, and fast we slackened

all our sailI knew the wave of Ned's right hand-farewell! you

strive in vain! And he, nor one of his ship’s crew, e’er entered port



Thy cruise is over now

Thou art anchored by the shore,
And never more shalt thou

Hearthe storm around the roar;
Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.

Now around thee sports the whale
And the porpoise snuffs the gale,
And the night winds make their wail,

As they pass.
The sea-grass round thy bier

Shall bend beneath the tide,
Nor tell the breakers near,

Where thy manly limbs abide;
But the granite rock thy tomb shall be.

Though the edges of thy grave
Are the combings of the wave-
Yet unheeded they shall rave

Over thee.

At the calling of all hands,

When the judgment signals spread-
When the islands, and the lands,

And the seas give up their dead,
And the south and the north shall come.

When the sinner is betrayed,
And the just man is afraid,
Then may Heaven be thy aid,

Poor Tom.



I SEE them on their winding way,
About their ranks the moonbeams play;
Their lofty deeds, and daring high,
Blend with the notes of victory;
And waving arms, and banners bright,
Are glancing in the mellow light.
They're lost and gone—the moon is past,
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast,
And fainter, fainter, fainter still,
The march is rising o'er the hill.

I see them, &c.
Again, again, the pealing drum,
The clashing horn-they come, they come,
Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep,
In long and glittering files they sweep;
And nearer, nearer, yet more near,
Their soften'd chorus meets the ear.
Forth, forth, and meet them on their

way, The trampling hoofs brook no delay; With thrilling fife, and pealing drum, And clashing horn—they come, they come.

How stands the glass around?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys,

How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound.

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