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But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbour bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

C. Kingsley.

Ye mariners of England !

That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze;
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the storniy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and miglity Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below.

As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor-flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,
When the storm hath ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.


Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy—my boy?
“What's your boy's name, good wise,
And in what good ship sail'd he ?”
My boy John
He that went to sea--
What care I for the ship, sailor ?
My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea
And not know my John !
I might as well have ask'd some landsman
Yonder down in town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
How's iny boy-my boy ?
And unless you let me know
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass button or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no !
Sure his ship was the Jolly Brilon-
“Speak low, woman, speak low !”

And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John ?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him o'er the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor ?
"That good ship went down.”

How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor,
I never was aboard her.
Be she afloat, or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!-
I say, how's my Jolin ?
“Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”
How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor ?
I'm not their mother-
How's my boy-my boy ? :
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy—my boy ?

S. Dobell.


Arm'd in our island every freeman ;
His navy chanced to capture one

Poor British seaman.
They suffer'd him—I know not how-

Unprison'd on the shore to roam ;
And aye was bent his longing brow

On England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight

Of birds to Britain half-way over;
With envy they could reach the white

Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.
At last, when care had banish'd sleep,

He saw one morning-dreaming--doating, An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating.
He hid it in a cave, and wrought

The livelong day laborious; lurking
Until he launch'd a tiny boat

By mighty working.

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond

Description wretched : such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,

Or cross'd a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt sea-field,

It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarr'd, uncompass’d, and unkeeld,

No sail--no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced

His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd'

The foaming billows;-
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach

His little Argo* sorely jeering;
Till tidings of him chanced to reach

Napoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,

Serene alike in peace and danger;
And in his wonted attitude

Address’d the stranger :“ Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass

On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British lass

Must be impassion’d.” “I have no sweetheart,” said the lad;

“But-absent long from one another Great was the longing that I had

To see my mother." “And so thou shalt,” Napoleon said,

“Ye've both my favor fairly won; A noble mother must have bred

So brave a son."
He gave the tar a piece of gold,

And with a flag of truce commanded
He should be shipp'd to England Old,

And safely landed.

* Argo, argosie, fleet; (satirically spoken).

Our sailor oft could scantly shift

To find a dinner plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparté.

T. Campbell.

Thou that hast a daughter

For one to woo and wed,
Give her to a husband

With snow upon his head : Oh, give her to an old man,

Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor

That sails upon the sea How luckless is the sailor

When sick and like to die,
He sees no tender mother,

Nor sweetheart standing by.
Only the captain speaks to him,-

“Stand up, stand up, young man,
And steer the ship to haven,

As none beside thee can.”
“Thou say'st to me, 'Stand, stand up;'

I say to thee take hold,
Lift me a little from the deck,

My hands and feet are cold.
And let my head, I pray thee,

With handkerchiefs be bound :
There, take my love's gold handkerchief,

And tie it tightly round.
“Now bring the chart, the doleful chart;

See where these mountains meet-
The clouds are thick around their head,

The mists around their feet:
Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe

Within the rocky cleft;
The little anchor on the right,

The great one on the left.

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