Imágenes de página



I SAILED from the Downs in the Nancy,

My jib how she smack'd through the breeze; She's a vessel as tight, to my fancy,

As ever sail'd on the salt seas.
So, adieu ! to the white cliffs of Britain,

Our girls, and our dear native shore;
For if some hard rock we should split on,

We shall never see them any more. But sailors were born for all weathers,

Great guns let it blow high, blow low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar,

I verily thought she'd have sunk; For the wind so began for to alter,

She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk. The squall tore the mainsail to sħivers,

Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries; Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers,

As through the rude tempest she flies.

The storm came on thicker and faster,

As black just as pitch was the sky; When truly a doleful disaster

Befell three poor sailors and I:

Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail,

By a blast that came furious and hard, Just while we were furling the mainsail,

Were every soul swept from the yard.

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried Peccavi;

As for I, at the risk of my neck,
While they sunk down in peace to old Davy,

Caught a rope and so landed on deck:
Well, what would you have ? we were stranded,

And out of a fine jolly crew
Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed

But I, and I think twenty-two.

After thus we at sea had miscarried,

Another guess-way sat the wind;
For to England I came and got married,

To a lass that was comely and kind :
But whether for joy or vexation,

We know not for what we were born; Perhaps I may find a kind station,

Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn. For sailors were born for all weathers,

Great guns let it blow high, blow low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.


HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft ; Faithful below he did his duty, And now he's



Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare ;
His friends were many, and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair.

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah! many's the time and oft ; But mirth is turn’d to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall


Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands
Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom's life has doff'd;
For though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.


Sweet is the ship that under sail
Spreads her bosom to the gale:

Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;
Sweet to poise the labouring oar,
That tugs us to our native shore,

When the boatswain pipes the barge to man:

Sweet sailing with a fav’rite breeze;
But, oh! much sweeter than all these,

Is Jack's delight,-his lovely Nan.

The needle, faithful to the north,
To show of constancy the worth,

A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle, time may rust,-a squall
Capsize the binnacle and all,

Let seamanship do all it can:
My love in worth shall higher rise,-
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize

My faith and truth to lovely Nan.

When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
For serving of a worthless friend,

And ev'ry creature from me ran;
No ship, performing quarantine,
Was ever so deserted seen:

None hailed me,-woman, child, nor man: But though false friendship's sails were furld, Though cut adrift by all the world,

I'd all the world in lovely Nan.

I love my duty, love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend, -

To mourn their loss who hazard ran;
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty and a spotless heart, -

By manners love to show the man: To sail through life by honour's breeze, 'Twas all along of loving these

First made me doat on lovely Nan.


Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear

The mainmast by the board;
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,

And love well stor’d,
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,
The roaring winds, the raging sea,

In hopes on shore,

To be once more
Safe moor'd with thee.

Aloft, while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge 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

The mem'ry of their former lives
O'er flowing cans of flip renew,
And drink their sweethearts and their wives,

I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee;
And as the ship rolls through the sea,
The burthen of my song shall be,–

Blow high, blow low, &c.

« AnteriorContinuar »