Then oft he dreams of Britain's shore,

Where plenty still is reigning;
They call the watch—his rapture o'er,
He sighs, but scorns complaining.

Then, oh! protect, &c.
Or burning on that noxious coast,

Where death so oft befriends him, Or pinch’d by hoary Greenland's frost,

True courage still attends him;
No clime can this eradicate,

He glories in annoyance,
He fearless braves the storms of fate,
And bids grim death defiance.

Then, oh! protect, &c. Why should the man who knows no fear

In peace be then neglected ? Behold him move along the pier,

Pale, meagre, and dejected !
Behold him begging for employ!

Behold him disregarded !
Then view the anguish in his eye,
And say, are tars rewarded ?

Then, oh! protect, &c.
To them your dearest rights you owe;
In

peace then would you starve them ? What say ye, Briton's sons ? Oh no!

Protect them and preserve them. Shield them from poverty and pain,

'Tis policy to do it; Or, when grim war shall come again, Oh! Britons, ye may rue it!

Then, oh! protect, &c

HEAVING OF THE LEAD.

From the Operatic Farce of “ Hertford Bridge.”

Music by W. SHIELD.

OR England, when, with fav'ring gale,

Our gallant ship up channel steerd, And scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear'd; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

By the deep—Nine.

And, bearing up to gain the port,

Some well-known object kept in view;
An abbey tower, a 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,

With transport we behold the roof
Where dwells a friend, or partner dear,
Of faith and love a matchless proof!

The lead once more the seaman flung,
And to the watchful pilot sung,

Quarter-less-Five.

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh,

We take in sail—she feels the tide;
Stand clear the cable, is the cry;
The anchor's gone, we safely ride.

The watch is set, and through the night
We hear the seaman, with delight,

Proclaim, All's well!

SLINGING THE BOWL.

OW happy are we now the wind is abaft,
The boatswain he pipes, hand both the

sheets aft,
Steady, steady, steady, it blows a fresh

gale, We soon shall reach port if the wind does not fail, Then drink about, Tom, although the ship roll, We'll save the rich liquor, by slinging the bowl.

We've sail'd to the Indies and bump back again,
Have weather'd the storm, plough’d deeply the main,
Steady, steady's the word, see our rigging's all tight,
For to hand, reef, or steer is a sailor's delight,
Then drink about, Tom, although the ship roll,
We'll save the rich liquor, by slinging the bowl.
See our canvas is spread and how trimly we fly,
The ocean reflecting the clouds in the sky,
Steady, steady's the word, 'bout ship, helm a-lee,
When the storm sings round us, how busy are we,
Then drink about, Tom, although the ship roll,
We'll save the rich liquor, by slinging the bowl.

Furl the sails, my brave boys, we are safe in the

Downs, A can of stout grog all a sailor's fears drowns, Steady, steady's the word, let the cannon loud tell, We've brought a fine cargo, are return’d, and all

well. Then drink about, Tom, although the ship roll, We'll save the rich liquor, by slinging the bowl.

THE DEATH OF NELSON.

S. J. ARNOLD, from the Opera of “ The Americans."

Music by John BRAHAM.

WAS in Trafalgar's Bay,
We saw the Frenchmen lay,

Each heart was bounding then;

We scorn'd the foreign yoke,
Our ships were British oak,

Hearts of oak our men.
Our Nelson mark'd them on the wave,
Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,

Nor thought of home or beauty;
Along the line this signal ran :-
“ England expects that every man

This day will do his duty.”
And now the cannon roar,
Along the affrighted shore;

Our Nelson led the way.
His ship the Vict'ry named,
Long be that Vict'ry famed,

For vict'ry crown'd the day.

But dearly was that conquest bought,
Too well the gallant hero fought

For England, home, and beauty;
He cried, as ’midst the fire he ran,
“ England expects that every man

This day will do his duty.”

At last the fatal wound,
Which spread dismay around,

The hero's breast received ;
“Heaven fights on our side,
The day's our own,” he cried;

“Now long enough I've lived;
In honour's cause my life was pass’d,
In honour's cause I fell at last,

For England, home, and beauty.”
Thus ending life as he began,
England confess'd that every man

That day had done his duty.

TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.

By the EARL OF DORSET, in 1665, written at sea during

the first Dutch war, the night previous to an engagement.

O all you ladies now at land,

We men at sea indite;
But first would have you understand

How hard it is to write;
The Muses now and Neptune too
We must implore to write to you.

With a fa, la, la, la, la.