What then? all's a hazard: come, don't be so soft;
Perhaps I may laughing come back,

For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!"

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch

All as one as a piece of the ship,

And with her brave the world without offering to flinch,
From the moment the anchor's atrip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,
Naught's a trouble from duty that springs,

For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,
And as for my life, 'tis the king's:

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft

As for grief to be taken aback,

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft

Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!

Yo, HEAVE, Ho!

The boatswain calls, the wind is fair,

The anchor heaving,

Our sweethearts leaving,

We to duty must repair,

Where our stations well we know.

Cast off halyards from the cleats,

Stand by well, clear all the sheets;
Come, my boys,

Your handspikes poise,

And give one general huzza!
Yet sighing, as you pull away,

For the tears ashore that flow:

To the windlass let us go,

With yo, heave, ho!

The anchor coming now apeak,

Lest the ship, striving,

Be on it driving,

That we the tap'ring yards must seek,

And back the fore-topsail well we know.

A pleasing duty! From aloft

We faintly see those charms, where oft,
When returning,

With passion burning,

VOL. XX.-4

We fondly gaze, those eyes that seem,
In parting, with big tears to stream.
But come! lest ours as fast should flow,
To the windlass once more go,
With yo, heave, ho!

Now the ship is under way,

The breeze so willing

The canvas filling,

The pressed triangle cracks the stay,

So taught to haul the sheet we know.

And now in trim we gayly sail,

The massy beam receives the gale;
While freed from duty,

To his beauty

(Left on the less'ning shore afar)

A fervent sigh heaves every tar;

To thank those tears for him that flow,
That from his true love he should go,
With yo, heave, ho!

GRIEVING'S A FOLLY.

Spanking Jack was so comely, so pleasant, so jolly,

Though winds blew great guns, still he'd whistle and sing, For Jack loved his friend, and was true to his Molly, And, if honor gives greatness, was great as a king. One night as we drove with two reefs in the mainsail, And the scud came on low'ring upon a lee shore, Jack went up aloft for to hand the topg'ant sail A spray washed him off, and we ne'er saw him more: But grieving's a folly,

Come let us be jolly;

If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.

Whiffling Tom, still of mischief or fun in the middle,
Through life in all weathers at random would jog;
He'd dance, and he'd sing, and he'd play on the fiddle,
And swig with an air his allowance of grog:
'Longside of a Don, in the "Terrible" frigate,

As yardarm and yardarm we lay off the shore,

In and out whiffling Tom did so caper and jig it,

That his head was shot off, and we ne'er saw him more: But grieving's a folly,

Come let us be jolly;

If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.

Bonny Ben was to each jolly messmate a brother,
He was manly and honest, good-natured and free;
If ever one tar was more true than another

To his friend and his duty, that sailor was he:
One day with the davit to weigh the kedge anchor,
Ben went in the boat on a bold craggy shore-
He overboard tipped, when a shark and a spanker
Soon nipped him in two, and we ne'er saw him more:
But grieving's a folly,

Come let us be jolly;

If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.

But what of it all, lads? shall we be downhearted

Because that mayhap we now take our last sup? Life's cable must one day or other be parted,

And Death in safe moorings will bring us all up: But 'tis always the way on't-one scarce finds a brother Fond as pitch, honest, hearty, and true to the core, But by battle, or storm, or some damned thing or other, He's popped off the hooks, and we ne'er see him more! But grieving's a folly,

Come let us be jolly;

If we've troubles on sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.

HONESTY IN TATTERS.

This here's what I does - I, d'ye see, forms a notion
That our troubles, our sorrows and strife,

Are the winds and the billows that foment the ocean,

As we work through the passage of life.

And for fear on life's sea lest the vessel should founder,

To lament and to weep, and to wail,

Is a pop gun that tries to outroar a nine-pounder,

All the same as a whiff in a gale.

Why now I, though hard fortune has pretty near starved me,

And my togs are all ragged and queer,

Ne'er yet gave the bag to the friend who had served me,

Or caused ruined beauty a tear.

Now there t'other day, when my messmate deceived me,
Stole my rhino, my chest, and our Poll,

Do you think in revenge, while their treachery grieved me,
I a court-martial called ?—Not at all.

This here on the matter was my way of arg'ing

"Tis true they han't left me a cross;