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, 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? Ah, 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 coot; 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 mosse have it, tam shoe villain. Ah, dat is right, go on and prosper. So I tricks all de flats, again and again, 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 Fame-- The Albion---the Pride of the Sea. CHORUS. All her crew lads of mettle, 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. When, glorious to view, as she swam on the main,. 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, The high blue western land appear'd; "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, "By the mark---seven!" And as the much-lov'd shore we near, "Quarter less---five! Now to her birth the ship draws nigh; We shorten sail---she feels the tide... "Stand clear the cable is the cry-- The anchor's gone; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seamen with delight, Proclaim, "All's well!" THE CHRISTIAN SAILOR. COME, never seem to mind it, Yet, somebody is worse: In danger some may come off short, For though bold tars are fortune's sport, Why when our vessel blew up, Like squibs and crackers flew 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. Young Peg, of Portsmouth Common, A landsman, one Sam Davenport, A splinter knock'd my nose off; Soarce with these words I'd outed, Well, then they're gone! I cry'd, in short, And thus, though tars, &c. I'm blind, and I'm a cripple, 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, BIBO. WHEN Bibo went down to the regions below, But Charon replied, "You were drunk when you dy'd, "For you ne'er felt the pain that to death is ally'd,” “Take me back,” cried old Bibo, "I mind not the pain, "For if I was drunk, let me die once again." "Forget," reply'd Charon, "these regions of strife, Drink of Lethe divine, 'tis the fountain of life: Where the soul is new born, and all past is a dream, E'en the gods themselves sip of the care drowning stream," "The gods!" reply'd Bibo, "drink water who will, At length grim old Cerberus began his loud roar, Says Charon, "I tell you, 'tis vain to rebel, For you are banish'd from earth, and now are in hell;" That's a truth," cry'd old Bibo, "I know by this sign, 'Tis a hell upon earth to be wanting of wine." BEGONE, DULL CARE. BEGONE, dull care, I pr'ythee begone from me, « Begone, dull care, thou and I shall never agree; Long time thou hast been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill, But I'faith, dull care, Thou never shall have thy will. Too much care will make a young man look grey, And too much care will turn an old man to clay; |