THE NANCY. MAYHAP you have heard, how that, dear as their lives, All true-hearted tars love their ships and their wives; To their duty, like pitch, sticking close till they die, And whoe'er wants to know it, I'll tell 'em for why; One, through dangers and storms, brings me safely ashore, T'other welcomes me home, when each danger is o'er; Both smoothing the ups and the downs of this life; For my ship's call'd the Nancy, and Nancy's my wife. When Nancy, my wife, o'er the lawn scuds so neat, And so light, the proud grass scarcely yields to her feet; So rigg'd out and so lovely 'tan't easy to trace Which is reddest her top-knot, her shoes, or her face: While the neighbours, to see her, forget all their cares, And are pleas'd she is mine, though they wish she was theirs, Marvel not then to think of this joy of my life; As for Nancy, my vessel,---but see her in trim, She seems through the ocean to fly, and not swim; 'Fore the wind, like a dolphin, she merrily plays, She goes any how well, but she looks best in stays. Scudding, trying, or tacking, 'tis all one to she; Mounting high, or low sunk in the trough of the sea; She has sav'd me from many hard squeaks for my life, So I call'd her the Nancy, for Nancy's my wife. When so sweet in the dance careless glides my heart's queen, She sets out and sets in, far the best on the green; So of all the grand fleet my gay vessel's the flow'r, She outsails the whole tote by a knot in an hour, Then they both sait so cheerful through life's varying breeze, All hearts with such pilots must be at their ease; Thus I've two kind protectors to watch me thro life, My good ship the Nancy, and Nancy my wife. Then these hands from protecting them whe shall debar? Ne'er ingratitude lark'd in the heart of a tar; ********* LET FAME SOUND THE TRUMPET. LET Fame sound the trumpet, and cry, to the war! The full tide of honour may flow from the scar, The treasures of autumn let Bacchus display, On science let Sol beam the lustre of day, Let India unfold her rich gems to the view, O give me the friend that I know to be true, What's glory but pride? a vain bubble is fame, What's riches but trouble? and title's a name : DOWN IN A VALLEY. DON'T you remember a poor peasant's daughter, Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. The soft matchless beauties dame nature had given, Were pure as the chrystalline drops of the dew; Which painted sweet innocence, mild as the Hea ven, Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. But, ah! hapless sorrow soon frost-nipp'd her beauty, She droop'd as a blossom, when robb'd of its hue; For love was forc'd to yield to filial duty, Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. JOHN BULL'S WOODEN HORSES. Tune.. Meg of Wapping.' LITTLE Boney don't like us..no matter, who cares? Pull away, pull away, so jolly, The little Powder Monkey may give himself airs, He brags and he writes bulletins all so wise, But he can't gull the lads of the ocean.. He says wooden horses our ships they all be, But they ar'n't to be rode by such jockies as he, His commerce we stop, and his colonies win, What d'ye think of John Bull's wooden horses? Boney so plays his cards, every brother's a king, Pull away, pull away, so brave, boys, But such kings are like cards, for in each suit you bring, For every king there's a knave, boys. But these knaves for their odd tricks will get their desarts, And if Boney in Britain should try land, We'll stand up for Georgey our own king of hearts, Pull away, pull away, say, In honour of cur snug little Island. HENRY. SWEET weeping willow, friend of tears, Shed sympathy which never dies. The eyes he prais'd, must ever weep, The rose must soon this cheek forsake, THE DREAM. As Strephon and Anna one evening were roving, To a small shady grove they repair; Where Strephon in accents, mild, rapt'rous and loving: Address'd thus his beautiful fair: "My Anna, my charmer, when last I reclin'd "On my pillow, and thought of my love; "Methought that our hearts were most fondly en"twin'd, "And gladness sat smiling above. "On the wings of the morning most swiftly we flew "To fam'd Gretna, o'er mountain and vale; "With Aurora's dim light we brush'd off the Dew, "And flew with the breath of the gale. "Our hands were united in Hymen's strong band, "To be cut ne'er asunder again; "Then Bagpipe and Fiddle resound thro' the land, "And we foot it away on the plain. "The lads and the lasses melodiously sing, "To the Violin's musical sounds; "With loud acclamations of joy the plains ring, "And pleasure in each bosom abounds. |