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EACH BULLET HAS ITS COMMISSION.
DAHAT argufies pride and ambition ?
NP Soon or late death will take us in tow;

Each bullet has got its commission, e

And when our time's come we must go. Then drink and sing—hang pain and sorrow,

The halter was made for the neck;
He that is now alive and lusty-to-morrow

Perhaps may be stretch'd on the deck.

There was little Tom Linstock of Dover

Got kill'd, and left Polly in pain : Poll cried, but her grief was soon over, And then she got married again.

Then drink, &c.

Jack Junk was ill-used by Bet Crocker,

And so took to guzzling the stuff, Till he tunıbled in Old Davy's locker, And there he got liquor enough.

Then drink, &c.

For our prize-money then to the proctor,

Take of joy while 'tis going our freak; For what argufies calling the doctor When the anchor of life is a-peak ?

Then drink, &c.

JACK RATLIN.

ACK RATLIN was the ablest seaman,

None like him could hand, reef, and steer;
No dangerous toil but he'd encounter

With skill, and in contempt of fear.
In fight a lion; the battle ended,
· Meek as the bleating lamb he'd prove:

Thus Jack had manners, courage, merit;
Yet did he sigh—and all for love.

The song, the jest, the flowing liquor,
For none of these had Jack regard :
He, while his messmates were carousing,
High sitting on the pendant-yard,
Would think upon his fair one's beauties,
Swear never from such charms to rove;
That truly he'd adore them living,
And, dying, sigh-to end his love.

The same express the crew commanded,
Once more to view their native land,
Among the rest, brought Jack some tidings,
Would it had been his love's fair hand!
Oh, fate! her death defaced the letter;
Instant his pulse forgot to move;
With quiv'ring lips, and eyes uplifted,
He heaved a sigh-and died for love!

SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES.

WAS Saturday night, the twinkling stars IEDY Shone on the rippling sea;

No duty call’d the jovial tars, AS P The helm was lash'd a-lee;

The ample can adorn'd the board,

Prepared to see it out,
Each gave the girl that he adored,

And push'd the grog about.

Cried honest Tom, my Peg I'll toast,

A frigate neat and trim,
(All jolly Portsmouth's favourite boast)

I'd venture life and limb,
Sail seven long years, and ne'er see land,

With dauntless heart and stout,
So tight a vessel to command;

Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried little Jack, my Poll

Sailing in comely state,
Top-gan't sails set, she is so tall,

She looks like a first-rate;
Ah! would she take her Jack in tow,

A voyage for life throughout,
No better berth I'd wish to know;

Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried I, my charming Nan,

Trim, handsome, neat, and tight;
What joy so fine a ship to man,

She is my heart's delight!
So well she bears the storms of life,

I'd sail the world throughout,
Brave ev'ry toil for such a wife;

Then push the grog about.

Thus to describe Poll, Peg, or Nan,

Each his best manner tried,
Till summon’d by the empty can,

They to their hammocks hied :
Yet still did they their vigils keep,

Though the huge can was out,
For, in soft visions, gentle Sleep

Still push'd the grog about.

YO, HEAVE, HO!
HE boatswain calls, the wind is fair,

The anchor heaving,
OM Our sweethearts leaving,
wa We to duty must repair,

Where our stations well we know.
Cast off halliards from the cleets,
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 a-peak,

Lest the ship striving,

Be on it driving,
That we the tapering yards must seek,

And back the foretop-sail, well we know.
A pleasing duty! From aloft
We faintly see those charms, where ost,
When returning,
With passion burning,
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 weigh,

The breeze so willing

The canvass filling,
The press'd triangle cracks the stay,

So taught to haul the sheet we know.
And now in trim we gaily sail,
The massy beam receives the gale;
While freed from duty,
To his beauty
(Left on the lessening 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 !

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