THE VETERANS. ICK DOCK, a tar at Greenwich moor'd, And all to have his jeer and flout, For the grog once in, the wit's soon out, Cried, How, good master Lobster, did you lose your claw? Was't that time in a drunken fray, Or t'other, when you run away? But hold you, Dick, the poor soul has one foot in the grave; 'Fore slander's wind too fast you fly; D'ye think it fun ?-you swab, you lie! Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave. Old Hannibal, in words as gross,— By the information on your nab, In some scrimmage or other, why they crack'd shell: And then, why, how you hobbling go On jury-mast, your timber toe, your A nice one to find fault, with one foot in the grave; But halt, old Hannibal, halt, halt! Distress was never yet a fault, Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave. If Hannibal's your name, d'ye see, As sure as they Dick Dock call me, You boldly plunged in, saved me, and pleased all the crew; If that's the case, then cease our jeers; When boarded by the same Mounseers, You, a true English lion, snatch'd me from the grave, Cried, "Cowards, do the man no harm, Damme don't you see he's lost his arm?" Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave. Then broach a can before we part, A friendly one, with all our heart: And as we put the grog about, we'll cheerly sing, At land and sea may Britons fight, The world's example and delight, And conquer every enemy of George our King: 'Tis he that proves the hero's friend, His bounty waits us to our end, Though crippled and laid up, with one foot in the grave; Then tars and soldiers, never fear, You shall not want compassion's tear; Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave. BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. LOW high, blow low, let tempests tear My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, To be once more Safe moor'd with thee! Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges 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 And drink their sweethearts and their wives, Blow high, blow low, &c. NOTHING LIKE GROG. PLAGUE of those musty old lubbers, Who teach us to fast and to think, And patient fall in with life's rubbers, With nothing but water to drink! A can of good stuff, had they twigg'd it, Would have set them for pleasure agog; And spite of the rules Of the schools, the old fools Would have all of 'em swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog. My father, when last I from Guinea To drink." Says I, " Father, your health!" So I pass'd round the stuff-soon he twigg'd it— And it set the old codger agog; And he swigg'd, and mother, And sister, and brother, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, One day, when the chaplain was preaching, And, while he our duty was teaching, As how we should never get drunkI tipp'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, Which soon set his rev'rence agog; And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog. Then trust me, there's nothing like drinking I've constantly swigg'd it and swigg'd it, POOR TOM. HEN farewell, my trim-built wherry! Shall your Thomas take a spell. But to hope and peace a stranger, Then, mayhap, when homeward steering Even you, the story hearing, With a sigh may cry-Poor Tom! |