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afford to pye any coat at all. I kiff you tree shillings for te plack coat. Nonsense, ket away, I vant to talk to diss laty bout the kishen stuff: vell, vell, I kiff you fife, but den you mosse kiff me that shoe, that handkerchief, dat stocking. Ah, dat is for pretty girl, good morning my lofe, I fish you great luck vid de kishen stote. So I trick all de fat again and again, Till by dat time I come to Rosemary-Lane, Like a snow-ball, still bigger and bigger I crows, While loudly I cry, shoes, hats, and old cloaths.

So I tink no sin

To take 'em in;
Shoe, stocking, every ting make my own,

As I trick de fat,

One, two, three hat,
I look like the pope with my triple crown.

Spoken.] Ah Monsieur le Valet! vat you got tiss morning! Ah, vat de breeches, de small cloaths, de inexpressible ? Ah, tis de breeches de fine dashing fellow stare de laty de face, knock down de 'fatchmen, get his nose pull a little some time, ferry bad stain in the front; ah nothing coot put de pocket; ferry coot pocket, coot as new. Never ket no money to put in um, and so never fare um ore. Stay, let me look de faiscoat. Vat it tiss? oh, it is de tayler bill; damme so long my arm; tiss is te fay: te youn chentlemen alfay sell his cloaths afore he pay for um. Vel, I give you tree sixpence. Oh, Moses, you must stand my friend, i fant a guinea. A kinny! yes, I got my master fatch, I take to te fatch-maker, I kiff you for little pawn, I kot an appointment this evening; tam fine girl, Moses. Fell, fell, I take de fatch. Dam fool! vortey, fifty pone, I ket all his kuts out before he come home again; but, pon my soul you ferry great rogue, pawn your master fatch! you must not keep company with man of my character. So I tricks all de flats again, and again, Till, by dat time I kets to Rosemary-Lane,

Like a snow-ball, still bigger and bigger I crows, As loudly I cries, shoes, hats, and old cloaths.

For de last ting of all

On the dasher I call.
Dat take genteel airing on the highway,

He take in a fright,

I soon set him right,
So of de business secretly we talk afay.

Spoken.] Fell, you kot goot booty ? O fine booty Ah vat is tiss? Áh, fill you have a sup, Moses ? 'I rop an old maid. I ax her for te watch, she kif me te pocket pistol; tam good brandy, Moses, haf a sup? Ahan is tiss all? All? Oh no, I make mistake, and ko into nudder chentilman hose stid my own; make free with a few spoon, waiter, candlestick, all tiss. is ferry cuot; te silvers he fill melt done, make into ferry fine vite soup. Vat you ax for altogether? fife kinny, Moses, fife kinny! I kiff dirty shilling. Tam your dirty shilling, I font have it. Ferry fell, ferry fell, stay, be sone fone out; ket hang. Oh te tam shew dog, he fill peach. Vat you say dare, I say, Moses? I belief you niosse have it, tam shoe villain. Ah, dat is right, go on

and prosper.

So I tricks all de flats, again and again,
Till by dat time I kits to Rosemary Lane,
Like a snow-ball still bigger and bigger I crows,
As loudly I cries, shoes, hats, and old cloaths.


ALBION, THE PRIDE OF THE SEA. MY boys, would you know how our ship got her

name, You speedily shall know that from me, When ready to launch, she was christen’d by

The Albion...the Pride of the Sea,

All her crew lads of mettle,
'Midst the cannon's loud rattle,

A dread lion in battle,
Is Albion---the Pride of the Sea.
As she dash'd from the dock to embrace her own

wave, She sprang with a heart full of glee, And cry’d, let none man but the true British

brave-The Albion---the Pride of the Sea.

All her crew, &c.
Wþen, glorious to view, as she swam on the main,

This, this is my throne, exclaim'd she :
And the sceptre, my boys, we e'er will sustain
Of Albion---the Pride of the Sea.

All her crew, &c.
What honour to her fame and vict'ry have paid,

To history go, and you'll see, That the world has been sway'd and shall ever be

sway'd By Albion---the Pride of the Sea.

All her crew, &c.

HEAVING OF THE LEAD. FOR England when, with fav’ring gale,

Our gallant ship up Channel steer'd, And, scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear’d; To heave the lead, the seaman sprung, And to the pilut 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 seamen flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

“ By the mark---seven!” And as the much-lov'd shore we near,

With transport we beheld the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear,

of faith and love a matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman fung! And to the watchful pilot sung,

“ Quarter less---five ! Now to her birth the ship draws nigh;

We shorten sail.--she feels the cide-.. “ Stand clear the cable is the cry--

The anchor's gone z we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seamen with delight,

Proclaim, “ All's well !”

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THE CHRISTIAN SAILOR. COME, never seem to mind it,

Nor count your fate a curse,
However sad you find it,

Yet, somebody is worse :
In danger some may come off short,

Yet why should we despair,
For though bold tars are fortune's sport,

They still are fortune's care. Why when our vessel blew up,

A fighting that there Don, Like squibs and crackers Alew up

The crew, each mother's son; They sunk: some rigging stop'd me short,

While twirling in the air, And thus, if tars, &c,

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Young Peg, of Portsmouth Common,

Had like t'have been my wife ;
Longside of such a woman

I'd led a pretty life :
A landsman, one Sam Davenport,

She convoy'd to Horn Fair,
And thus, if tars, &c.
A splinter knock'd my nose off;

My bowsprit's gone, I cries :
Yet well it kept their blaws off,

Thank God, 'twas not my eyes ;
Chance if again it sends that sort,

Let's hope I've had my share,
Though thus bold tars, &c.
Soarce with these words I'd outed,

Glad for my eyes and limbs,
When a cartrige burst, and douted

Both my two precious glims;
Well, then they're gone! I cry'd, in short,

Yet fate my life did spare,
And thus, though tars, &c.
I'm blind, and I'm a cripplc,

Yet cheerfully would sing, Were my disasters triple,

'Cause why? ---'Twas for my king: Besides each christian's exhort,

Pleas'd, will some pity spare;
And thus, though tars are fortune's sport,

They still are fortune's eare.


WHEN Bibo went down to the regions below,
Where Lethe and Styx round eternity flow,
He wak'd in the boat, and would be row'd back,
For his soul it was thirsty, and wanted some sack;.

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