And very often have we heard By thieves, and fires in London. Then, Bill, let us thank Providence HEAVING OF THE LEAD. CHARLES DIBDIN. FOR England when with fav'ring gale The high blue western land appear'd; "By the deep-nine!" And bearing up to gain the port, Some well-known object kept in view; An abbey-tow'r, the harbour-fort, Or beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, "By the mark-seven!" And as the much-loved shore we near, Of faith and love a matchless proof. "Quarter less-five!" Now to her berth the ship draws nigh: We shorten sail-she feels the tideStand clear the cable," is the cry The anchor's gone; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seamen with delight, Proclaim-"All's well!" TRUE COURAGE. CHARLES DIBDIN. WHY, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a wiping? But they that han't pity, why I pities they. Says the captain, says he (I shall never forget it) "If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham; 'Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it. But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb." There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring, But when that he found an old prisoner he'd wounded, He cried over him just all as one as a lamb. That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger, Is nothing at all,-'tis the poor wounded stranger, For however their duty bold tars may delight in, He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb. The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion, Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend. If my maxim's disease, tis 'disease I shall die on,— In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion, But, the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb. SWEET is the ship that under sail, Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can: Sweet to poise the labouring 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 The needle, faithful to the north, A curious lesson teaches man; Let seamanship do all it can; When in the bilboes I was penn'd, And every creature from me ran; None hail'd me-woman, child, or 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, To moan their loss who hazard ran; By manners love to show the man; To sail through life by honour's breeze :'Twas all along of loving these First made me dote on lovely Nan. EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET. I'm a tough true-hearted sailor, Careless and all that, d'ye see, Never at the times a railer What is time or tide to me? All must die when fate shall will it, Every bullet has its billet, Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo, "Life's at best a sea of trouble, Death to me's an empty bubble, Yet I have a tear for woe;" Every bullet has its billet, Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo. Shrouded in a hammock, glory Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo. LIFE'S LIKE A SHIP. From a small volume of Lyrical Poetry, privately printed at the expense of Mr. LIFE's like a ship, in constant motion, Or, if the wayward winds should bluster And learn from Reason how to steer: Should dangers rise, be ever ready To manage well the swelling sails. Trust not too much your own opinion That's a compass will not stray: Let good Discretion guide the rudder, |