The faith which to my friend I swore,
As a civil oath I view;

But to the charms which I adore,
'Tis religion to be true.

Then if to one I false must be,
Can I doubt which to prefer,-
A breach of social faith to thee,
Or sacrilege to love and her?

T. DIBDIN.

DOWN BY YON BANKS.

-DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Madame Storace.

BRAHAM.

OH, I first saw the youth who to me came a-wooing, Down by yon banks where the waves gently flow; 'Twas there his soft language, my coyness subduing, First taught me the sweets of affection to know.

'Twas there he sung gaily, my fancy entrancing, Till scarce we perceiv'd how the night was advancing;

The moon-beams so gay on the wave tops were dancing,

Ah! down by yon banks where the waves gently flow.

I strove not to listen; but how could I grieve him,
Down by yon banks where the waves gently flow:
He swore he would die, if I did not believe him;
And this is no time to kill sailors, you know.

At parting, he look'd, and he heav'd such a sigh too,
I really believe I'd a tear in my eye too;

And if he can forget it, I can't say that I do,
Down by yon banks where the waves gently flow.

KNIGHT.

TOM STARBOARD.

GOULDING, LONDON.

MAZZINGHI.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

TÓM Starboard was a lover true,
As brave a tar as ever sail'd;
The duties ablest seamen do,

Tom did, and never yet had fail'd.
But wreck'd, as he was homeward bound,
Within a league of England's coast,
Love sav'd him sure from being drown'd,
For all the crew but Tom were lost.

His strength restor'd, Tom hie'd with speed,
True to his love as e'er was man ;
Nought had he sav'd, nought did he need,
Rich he in thoughts of lovely Nan.
But scarce five miles poor Tom had got,
When he was press'd ;-he heav'd a sigh,
And said, tho' cruel was his lot,

Ere flinch from duty he would die.

In fight Tom Starboard knew no fear;
Nay, when he lost an arm, resign'd,
Said, love for Nan, his only dear,

Had sav'd his life, and Fate was kind.

The war being ended, Tom return'd;
His lost limb serv'd him for a joke;
For still his manly bosom burn'd

With love-his heart was heart of oak!

Ashore in haste Tom nimbly ran,

To cheer his love, his destin'd bride;
But false report had brought to Nan,
Six months before, that Tom had dy'd.
With grief she daily pin'd away;
No remedy her life could save;
And Tom arriv'd-the very day
They laid his Nanny in the grave!

ΑΝΟΝ.

WHAT, THO' FATE FORBIDS, ETC.

KELLY, LONDON.

KELLY.

Sung by Mrs Mountain.

WHAT, tho' Fate forbids me offer
Golden gifts, from Fortune's store;
All I have to Love I proffer;

Fortune cannot offer more.

What, tho' bright the jewel treasure,
Which Peruvian mines supply;
Brighter still are tears of pleasure,
Sparkling in Affection's eye.

Hymen, in his power for ever,

Fain the God of Hearts would hold;

Binding oft, oh! vain endeavour,
Love with interest, chains of gold.

H

Soon their weight his strength o'erpowers,
Soon they crush the petty elf;

Love can bear no chains but flowers,
Light and blooming like himself.

COBB.

THE SAPLING OAK.

DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Cook.

STORACE.

THE sapling oak, lost in the dell,

Where tangled brakes its beauties spoil,
And every infant shoot repel,

Droops, hopeless, o'er th' exhausted soil.
At length the woodman clears around,
Where'er the noxious thickets spread;
And, high reviving o'er the ground,
The forest monarch rears its head.

DIBDIN.

TRUE COURAGE.

DIEDIN, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Dibdin.

-DIBDIN.

WHY what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a-wiping; A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way: 'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping; But they that ha'n't pity, why I pities they. Says the captain, says he, (I shall never forget it) "If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from "the sham,

""Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it;

"But, duty appeas'd, 'tis in mercy a lamb."

There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring,

Helter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive; Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing;

And as for a foe, why he'd eat him alive:

But when that he found an old pris'ner he'd wounded,
That once sav'd his life as near drowning he swam,
The lion was tam'd, and, with pity confounded,
He cry'd over him just the same as a lamb.

That my friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger,

Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess, Is nothing at all; 'tis the poor wounded stranger,— And the poorer the more shall I succour distress: For however their duty bold tars may delight in,

And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam,—

Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting, He'll feel more, by compassion, when turn'd to a lamb.

The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion,

And if both shed their drops, 'tis all to the same

end;

And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean

Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.

If my maxim's disease, 'tis disease I shall die on;

You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn!