If, chance, his mate's shrill voice he hear, The noblest captain in the British fleet O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds, my mind shall be Believe not what the landsmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In ev'ry port a mistress find. Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so; Tho' battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, The boatswain gave the dreadful word; They kiss'd-she sigh'd-he hung his head. Her less'ning boat, unwilling, rows to land: Adieu! she cries, and wav'd her lily hand. I ANON. JUST LIKE LOVE. PRESTON, LONDON. Sung by Mr Brabam. JUST like love is yonder rose,— Cull'd to bloom upon the breast, Just like love. And when rude hands the twin-buds sever, Just like love. DAVY. OLD TOWLER. O'KEEFE. -LONGMAN AND CO. LONDON. SHIELD. Sung by Mr Incledon. BRIGHT chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn; The-lowing herd now quits the lawn, The lark springs from the corn. Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng; Arise, the burden of their song, With a hey ho chevy, Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy, &c. The cordial takes its merry round, With a hey ho chevy, Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy, &c. THE SWEET LITTLE GIRL, ETC. BY A LADY. LONGMAN AND CO. LOND. HOOKE. Sung by Master Phelps. MY friends all declare that my time is mis-spent, I ask no more wealth than dame Fortune has sent, The rose on her cheek's my delight, No lily was ever so white As the sweet little girl that I love. Tho' humble my cot, calm Content gilds the scene; And a palace I'd quit for a dance on the green The sweet little girl, &c. No ambition I know but to call her my own, PEARCE. HEAVING OF THE LEAD. PRESTON, LONDON. Sung by Mr Incledon. FOR England when, with favʼring gale, Our gallant ship up Channel steer'd, And, scudding under casy 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-tow'r, an 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 ! » -SHIELD And as the much-lov'd shore we near, Of faith and love a matchless proof. "Quarter less-five! Now to her birth the ship draws nigh; The anchor's gone-we safely ride. Proclaim, "All's well!" COBB. AH! COULD MY FAULT'RING, ETC. GOULDING, LONDON. Sung by Mrs H. Johnstone. MAZZINGH AH! could my fault'ring tongue impart The injur'd ne'er in vain address'd, Ah! could my fault'ring tongue, &c. |