Shrouded in a hammock, glory
Celebrates the falling brave;
Oh, how many, famed in story,
Sleep below in ocean's cave!
Bring the can, boys-let us fill it;

Shall we shun the fight? Oh, no!
Every bullet has its billet-

Man the boat, boys.-Yo, heave yo!

THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION.

WILLIAM PITT, Esq.

Late Master Attendant at Jamaica Dock-yard. He died at Malta, 1840. This song is sometimes attributed to Hood, sometimes to Charles Dibdin.

NE night came on a hurricane,
The sea was mountains rolling,

When Barney Buntline slew'd his quid
And said to Billy Bowline:

"A strong nor'-wester's blowing, Bill,
Hark! don't ye hear it roar now!
Lord help 'em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore now!

Fool-hardy chaps as live in towns,
What danger they are all in,
And now lie quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof should fall in:
Poor creturs, how they envies us,
And wishes, I've a notion,
For our good luck, in such a storm
To be upon the ocean!

"And as for them that's out all day,
On business, from their houses,
And late at night returning home

To cheer their babes and spouses';
While you and I, Bill, on the deck
Are comfortably lying,

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots
About their heads are flying!

"Both you and I have ofttimes heard
How men are kill'd and undone,

By overturns from carriages,

By thieves and fire, in London.

We know what risks these landsmen run,
From noblemen to tailors,

Then, Bill, let us thank Providence
That you and I are sailors."

THE LAND, BOYS, WE LIVE IN.

From the "Myrtle and the Vine," Vol. II. Music by W. REEVE.

INCE our foes to invade us have long been preparing,

'Tis clear they consider we've something worth sharing,

And for that mean to visit our shore; It behoves us, however, with spirit to meet 'em, And though 'twill be nothing uncommon to beat 'em, We must try how they'll take it once more. So fill, fill your glasses, be this the toast givenHere's England for ever, the land, boys, we live in! So fill, fill your glasses, be this the toast givenHere's England for ever, huzza.

Here's a health to our tars on the wide ocean ranging,
Perhaps even now some broadsides are exchanging-
We'll on shipboard and join in the fight;
And when with the foe we are firmly engaging,
Till the fire of our guns lulls the sea in its raging,
On our country we'll think with delight:
So fill, fill your glasses, &c.

On that throne where once Alfred in glory was seated,
Long, long may our king by his people be greeted;
Oh! to guard him we'll be of one mind.
May religion, law, order be strictly defended,
And continue the blessings they first were intended,
In union the nation to bind!

So fill, fill your glasses, &c.

THE MID-WATCH.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.-Music by W. LINLEY.

HEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is

come,

And chilling mists hang o'er the
darken'd main,

Then sailors think of their far-distant home,
And of those friends they ne'er may see again;
But when the fight's begun,
Each serving at his gun,

Should any thought of them come o'er your mind,
Think only should the day be won,

How 'twill cheer

Their hearts to hear

That their old companion he was one.

Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind

Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind, And sighs to think how it may fare with you; Or, when the fight's begun,

You, serving at your gun,

Should any thought of her come o'er your mind,
Think only, should the day be won,
How 'twill cheer

Her heart to hear
That her old companion he was one.

COME, BUSTLE, BUSTLE.

From the "Convivial Songster," 1782.

JOME, bustle, bustle, drink about,
And let us merry be;

Our can is full, we'll see it out,
And then all hands to sea.

And a sailing we will go, will go,
And a sailing we will go.

Fine miss at dancing-school is taught
The minuet to tread,

But we go better when we've brought

The fore-tack to cat-head.

And a sailing, &c.

The jockey's call'd to horse, to horse,
And swiftly rides the race;
But swifter far we shape our course
When we are giving chase.
And a sailing, &c.

When horns and shouts the forest rend
The pack the huntsmen cheer;
As loud we holloa when we send
A broadside to Mounseer.
And a sailing, &c.

With gold and silver streamers fine,
The ladies' rigging show;
But English ships more grandly shine,
When prizes home we tow.
And a sailing, &c.

What's got at sea, we spend on shore
With sweethearts and with wives,
And then, my boys, hoist sail for more,
Thus sailors pass their lives.

And a sailing they do go, do go,
And a sailing they do go.

"TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING.

GAY.-From the "What d'ye call it."

WAS when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclined.

Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look;

Her head was crown'd with willows

That trembled o'er the brook.