Chapter XI: Part 11

A prentice I was at Wapping-new-stairs,
And a smart young lad was I;
But that old blackguard old W----d,
He inform’d, and had forty shillings for me.
It was on the last day of February,
In the year of fifty-five:
He had me taken out of bed;
When my friends heard it, lord! how they cry’d.
My mother and my cousin both
They on board of the tender came with speed,
And thro’ the grates to them I talk’d,
It was enough to make any heart to bleed.
My mother and my cousin both,
They in a boat did go ashore.
Then from the Tower we set sail,
For the _Yarmouth_ rideing at the Nore.
In happen’d on a Sunday morning
We arrived at the Nore;
The commodore fir’d his signal gun
For the women all to go ashore.
And when unto the ship I went,
They put me in a great surprize;
There I heard some swearing and some cursing,
And some damning their precious eyes,
To think that the commodore fir’d his signal
For all their wives to go ashore;
There was some crying and some sniffling,
Crying ‘My dear, I shall see you no more.’
Then from the Nore we did set sail,
And unto Spithead we was bound.
It was a pretty sight to see
The lasses lin’d round Portsmouth town.
Then from the _Yarmouth_ I was sent
On board of _Captain_, so-call’d by name;
There I fell sick on board of her,
And to Gosport hospital sent for the same.
There for three long months I stay’d,
And very bad I was indeed;
But I got well and away I went
On board of the _Captain_ with speed.
I had not been on board her long
Before the fleet they all did sail,
From Spithead to St. Helens, boys,
With a fine and pleasant gale.
And when to St. Helens, boys, we came,
The wind at west was very high;
Sir Edward Hawke hove out his signal,
For to come to anchor that very night.
Sir Edward he hove out another signal,
For the captain’s boat to come with speed,
It was for to turn over fifty hands,
On board of the _Ipswich_ indeed.
And when alongside of the _Ipswich_ we came,
I boldly in her jump’d in:
And a-cruizing the Channel I went in her,
And the French dogs we did sweetly trim.
We’d not been out above six weeks
Before the news to us was brought:
Then to take, sink, burn, and destroy
All the French ships we came athwart.
It happen’d on a Sunday morning,
As we was on our starboard tack,
Between the hours of nine and ten,
Three sail of Frenchmen we did take.
We fir’d a shot and hoisted our colours,
Then to let them see what we was;
As soon as they came along side us
They saw we was English boys,
Then straitway they haul’d down their colours,
And unto us they did strike;
And they know’d that they must sink,
If they had offer’d for to fight.
We took five more, which made us eight,
And away to Spithead, boys, we went.
And now, my lads, we’re come to an harbour,
We can go to rest with great content.
So all young men that row in the lighters
Keep yourselves free from a press-gang,
And when ever you come athwart old W----d
For my sake give him a hearty damn.

_BRITAIN’S RESOLUTION TO FIGHT THE FRENCH._

(? 1756)

Come join with me, you Britons bold,
Ne’er let your country be sold;
We’ll let the French to understand,
We’ll fight them both by sea or land,
With hearts of steel and sword in hand,
_Like Britons bold_.

Brave Prince George shall command
Our English [army], boys, by land;
And when we meet our enemy,
We’ll let them know we’ll fight or die,
And quickly make them for to fly
_From Britons bold_.

Brave Anson and Hawke, brave Mostyn and West,
They are all admirals of the best;
And brave Boscawen we’ll not pass by,
For he will either fight or dy,
And from the French he’ll never fly,
_He is a Briton bold_.

In brave Plymouth Harbour near the main,
There’s a hundred sail of French ships we’ve ta’en;
Already, boys, they have a drench,
We have many thousands of the French,
Confin’d in close imprisonment,
_By Britons bold_.

Our Parliament they do agree
That all these ships shall prizes be.
There’s many a thousand pound in gold,
For many a jolly sailor bold,
Who did his enemies controul,
_Like Britons bold_.

Proud Lewis says, we understand,
That he will invade our British land;
But if he dare to show his face
Before Prince George’s royal grace,
We’ll make them glad to quit the place,
_Like Britons bold_.

Come, my boy, and let us go
To fight the proud, insulting foe;
Come, let us finish what’s begun,
And see what is for to be done,
We have oft-times beat them four to one,
_Like Britons bold_.

May God protect us in the field,
Against our enemies’ sword and shield;
Then fear not Charley’s Highland plods,
Nor yet proud Lewis’s wooden gods,
But scourge them with good English rods,
_Like Britons bold_.

God bless great George upon the throne,
And may he now enjoy his own;
May God preserve him day and night,
And let him long enjoy his right,
He is all loyal souls’ delight.
[_Like Britons bold._]

_THE TERRIBLE PRIVATEER._

You sailors all of courage bold,
Now a true story I will unfold;
How we behaved you soon shall hear,
On board the _Terrible_ privateer.

We touch’d at Plymouth, it was for men,
Unto the seas we went again,
And being blest with a pleasant gale,
Hop’d with our enemies to prevail.

We had not long been on the sea,
Before a Frenchman we did see;
He was well rigg’d, and come from France,
Her name was call’d the bold _Valance_.

We crowded all the sail we could,
Our thundering cannons fire we would;
Many a gallant sailor fell,
On board the ship call’d the _Terrible_.

Powder and ball did fly so fast,
Four hours and a half this fight did last,
But a sad misfortune us befell,
On board the ship call’d the _Terrible_.

We boldly gave them gun for gun,
Till the blood out of our scuppers run,
Our captain and our [mate] being slain,
We could no longer the fight maintain.

To board us then they did begin,
And stript us naked to the skin;
They put us all in the hole together,
Where twenty-seven poor souls were smother’d.

They sail’d with us to the first sea port,
And bound us in prison strong;
Where full nine months we did lay,
Before the Carteel did fetch us away.

Here’s a health unto our British fleet,
Grant they with these privateers may meet,
And [have] better luck than the _Terrible_,
And sink those Mounsiers all to hell.

_CAPTAIN DEATH._

The muse and the hero together are fir’d,
The same noble views has their bosom inspir’d;
As freedom they love, and for glory contend,
The muse o’er the hero still mourns as a friend;
So here let the muse her poor tribute bequeath,
To one British hero--’tis brave Captain Death.

The ship was the _Terrible_--dreadful to see!
His crew was as brave and as valiant as he;
Two hundred or more was their full complement,
And sure braver fellows to sea never went.
Each man was determined to spend his last breath
In fighting for Britain and brave Captain Death.

A prize they had taken diminish’d their force.
And soon the brave ship was lost in her course;
The French privateer and the _Terrible_ met,
The battle began all with horror beset:
No heart was dismay’d, each bold as Macbeth,
The sailors rejoiced, so did brave Captain Death.

Fire, thunder, balls, bullets, were soon heard and felt,
A sight that the heart of Bellona would melt;
The shrouds [were] all torn and the decks fill’d with blood,
And scores of dead bodies were thrown in the flood;
The flood, from the time of old Noah and Seth,
Ne’er saw such a man as our brave Captain Death.

At last the dread bullet came wing’d with his fate,
Our brave captain dropt, and soon after his mate;
Each officer fell, and a carnage was seen,
That soon dy’d the waves to a crimson from green;
Then Neptune rose up, and he took off his wreath,
And gave it a triton to crown Captain Death.

Thus fell the strong _Terrible_, bravely and bold,
But sixteen survivors the tale can unfold;
The French were the victors, tho’ much to their cost,
For many brave French were with Englishmen lost.
For thus says old Time, ‘Since Queen Elizabeth,
I ne’er saw the fellow of brave Captain Death.’

_A NEW SONG (ON BLAKENEY AND BYNG)._

Come all you brave Britons wherever you be,
Fill up your glasses to brave Blakeney;
O’er a full flowing bowl our voices shall ring,
Huzza for brave Blakeney, and God save the King.
_Sing tantarara shoot Byng, etc._

Here’s a health to brave Blakeney, so stout and so bold,
Who the fort of St. Philip so bravely did hold;
Had he been reinforced by Admiral Byng,
He’d not yielded St. Philip unto the French King.
_Sing tantarara, etc._

And when that he came unto the British shore,
The bells they did ring and the guns they did roar,
In a full flowing bowl his valour shall ring,
Huzza for brave Blakeney and shoot Mr. Byng.
_Sing tantarara, etc._

I had like to have forgot our brave Captain Carr,
When Admiral Byng call’d a council of war;
He boldly made answer, ‘The King sent all we
To defend fort St. Philip, and help brave Blakeney.’
_Sing, etc._

Then he left Admiral B., and away he did steer,
In spite of the guns of the great Galissionère, [_sic_]
In the fort of St. Philip he landed his men,
And sank the brave _Dolphin_ in the harbour then.
_Sing, etc._

So God save our admirals who are loyal and right,
For their King and country like Blakeney they’ll fight.
And those who are treach’rous in a halter let swing,
Huzza for brave Blakeney, and God save the King.
_Sing, etc._

_THE LETTER OF A CERTAIN ADMIRAL._

Mr. Cleveland, I pray, to their lordships you’ll say
We are glad and rejoice above measure:
When you have read what is writ you, you’ll laugh till it split you,
And so give me joy of my pleasure.

We’d a wind, you must know, as fair as could blow,
And therefore in days just eleven,
We had sail’d from the shore, full ten leagues or more,
And saw nought but the ocean and heaven.

Then seventeen ships came licking their lips.
And crying out, ‘Fee, faw and fum’;
Bigger each than Saint Paul; guns, the devil and all;
And, egad, looking wondrous glum.

But no matter for that, who says pit-a-pat?
We tack’d, and we stood to the weather;
We tack’d quite about, right and left, brave and stout,
And so we were sideways together.

Souls five score and two, maugre all they could do,
We took in a tartan alive;
Six hundred did sail in the vessel so frail,
But our hundred had eat up the five.

But of this by the bye; for now we drew nigh
To each other--quite close--nay, ’tis true;
Six times two of the line, large, grand, bright and fine;
Five frigates! but look’d rather blue.

‘Fair honour,’ quoth I, ‘in thy arms let me die,
And my glory burn clear in the socket’;
Not an ounce more of powder, or a gun a note louder,
So the d[irections] I put in my pocket.

Brave West led the van, I follow’d amain;
Such closing, and raking, and work,
With foresails and braces all flutt’ring in pieces,
’Twould have melted the heart of a Turk.

But the devil, in spite, to blast our delight,
Got aboard the _Intrepid_, his daughter;
Made her jump, fly, and jumble, reel, elbow, and tumble,
And drove us quite out of the water.

And now, being tea-time, we thought it was the time
To talk over what we had done;
So we put on the kettle our tempers to settle;--
And presently set the fair sun.

Our council next day, in seemly array,
Met, sat, and debated the story:
We found that our fleet at last might be beat,
And then, you know, where is the glory?

Moreover, ’twas plain, three ships in the van
Had their glasses and china all broke;
And this gave the balance, in spite of great talents,
Against us--a damnable stroke!

Without fear of reproaches, as sound as your roaches,
Of glory we’ve sav’d our whole stock;
’Twere pity, indeed, to lose it, or bleed,
For a toothless old man and a rock.

_A RUEFUL STORY, ADMIRAL B----G’S GLORY, OR WHO RUN AWAY FIRST._

A New Ballad to the tune of _John, Duke of Marlborough_.

Give ear, ye sons of glory,
Of greater deeds I sing
Than e’er were recorded in story,
All done by great Admiral Byng.
_Sing, sing, O rare Admiral Byng._

It was in the very same sea, sir,
His father’s fleet did swim:
His father fought well, we agree, sir,
But his father was nothing like him.
_Sing, sing, O great Admiral Byng._

At first he came to Gibraltar,
Where he was [for] succours to call;
But wisely his orders did alter,
And took no succours at all.
_Sing, sing, O wise Admiral Byng._

While Portmahon was invaded,
And Blakeney defended the fort,
In the sea for a while he paraded,
And then took a peep at the port.
_Sing, sing, O bold Admiral Byng._

At length he descried the foe, sir,
Whom he bravely determined to beat,
If he cou’d without striking a blow, sir,
Or hurting his Majesty’s fleet.
_Sing, sing, O brave Admiral Byng._

And when the engagement began, sir,
The admiral stuck to his plan;
For he fought without firing a gun, sir,
Or loosing a single man.
_Sing, sing, O rare Admiral Byng._

West gallantly charg’d in the van, sir,
Without dismay or fear;
But Byng, who would not risk a man, sir,
Kept cautiously snug in the rear.
_Sing, sing, great Rear-Admiral Byng._

At length the French run away, sir,
As Frenchmen are apt to do:
But he scorn’d to give them foul play, sir,
So _he_ civilly run away too.
_Sing, sing, generous Admiral Byng._

For behaving so well in the ocean,
At least he deserves well a string;
And if he wou’d sue for promotion,
I hope they will give him his swing.
_Swing, swing, O rare Admiral Byng!_

_ADMIRAL BYNG AND BRAVE WEST._

I said unto brave West, ‘Take the van, take the van,’
I said unto brave West, ‘Take the van.’
I said unto brave West,
‘As you like fighting best,
I in the rear will rest,
Take the van.’

Brave West did boldly act in the van, in the van,
Brave West did boldly act in the van;
As he did boldly act,
I call’d my own ships back;
Else he’d put the French to wrack
Near Mahon.

Oh! woe to cursed gold! ohon! ohon!
Oh! woe to cursed gold! ohon!
Oh! woe to cursed gold;
For Minorca I have sold,
That gallant place of old,
With Mahon!

It’s decreed by the King, I do hear, I do hear,
He’s decreed it the nation to please,
It’s decreed by the King,
I’ll be shot by my marines,
For the misdeed I have deen
On the seas.

_A NEW SONG WRITTEN ON THE ISLE OF AIX._

Tune of _Every Man keep his own Room_.

I am a sailor bold, and press’d to served the King,
I am sent upon an errand some laurels home to bring:
I am now on the coast, boys, where they are to be had,
But alas! I dare not gather them, which makes me raving mad.
_Mad, boys, mad. Alas! I dare not gather them, which makes me
raving mad._

It’s enough to make a dog mad, to see a pudding creep.
If he could not get at it, he’d bark and howl and weep;
Methinks I see the laurels grow and easy to be had,
Alas! I dare not gather them, which makes me raving mad.
_Mad, boys, mad, etc._

My master has a nosegay, but it is not compleat,
Tho’ the royal rose of England is excellently sweet;
The laurel and French lilly in plenty may be had:
Alas! I dare not gather them, which makes me raving mad.
_Mad, boys, mad, etc._

The Derbyshire and Cheshire boys by Henry were sent
To fetch the Flower-de-Luce home, and chearfully they went;
They brought it home to England which made their hearts full glad;
But if their hands had been confin’d they all had been stark mad,
Alas! I dare not gather them, which makes me raving mad.
_Mad, boys, mad, etc._

If I without my errand to England do return,
Alas! I fear in effigy my body they will burn;
The boys will hollow after me, as I do pass along,
And evry Grub-street printer will curse me in a song.
_Song, boys, song. And every Grub-street printer will curse me
in a song._

_BOLD SAWYER._

Come all ye jolly sailors with courage stout and bold,
Come enter with bold Sawyer, he’ll cloath you all in gold;
Repair on board the old _Nassau_,
As fine a ship as e’er you saw,
We’ll make the French to stand in awe;
_She’s mann’d with British boys_.

Commander Keppel with his good design,
Commanded the squadron, five sail of the line,
The _Prince Edward_ of forty guns,
The _Firedrake_ and _Furnace_ bombs,
To take Goree it must be done,
_By true British boys_.

The 29th of October from Spithead we set sail,
Kind Neptune convey’d us with a sweet and pleasant gale,
So steering on the Barbary shore,
Distance about twelve leagues or more,
The wind at west aloud did roar;
_Stand by, ye British boys_.

So, steering on the lee-shore until the break of day,
We spy’d a lofty sail on the Barbary shore to lay,
In great distress she seem’d to be,
Her guns all overboard threw she,
Which prov’d the _Lichfield_ for to be,
_With all her British boys_.

The wind blowing hard, we could give them no relief,
A stretching on the lee shore we touch’d at Teneriff.
So watering the ships at Santa Cruz,
Taking good wine for our ship’s use,
We sold our cloaths good wine to booze,
_Like brave British boys_.

Our ship being water’d and plenty of good wine,
We hoisted up our top-sails and crost the tropic line.
The wind at west the leading gale,
Our gallant ship did sweetly sail;
Steady along she ne’er will fail,
_With all her British boys_.

‘Steady a port! don’t bring her by the lee!
Yonder is the flag-staff at Goree, I do see.’
We brought the city within sight,
Anchor’d in Goree bay that night,
Clear’d our ships ready to fight,
_Like brave British boys_.

Early next morning the _Prince Edward_ of forty guns
Was station’d off the island to cover our two bombs,
The old _Nassau_ she led the van,
With all her jovial fighting men,
The drums did beat ‘to quarter stand,’
_Like brave British boys_.

We sail’d up to their batteries as close as we could lay,
Our guns from the top and poop aloud did play,
Which made the French cry ‘Morbleu!
Diable! what shall we do?
Here comes bold Sawyer and all his crew,
_They’re all British boys_.’

Then, follow’d by the _Dunkirk_ and _Torbay_,
The guns aloud did rattle and shells did play,
Which made the French their batteries shun,
And from their trenches for to run,
The flag was struck, the fight was done,
_O huzza! my British boys_.

The _Nassau_ and _Dunkirk_ and _Torbay_ of renown,
Three as fine ships as belong to the crown,
The only ships that fought so free,
In taking of the isle of Goree,
_They are all British boys_.

Boast not of Frenchmen nor yet of Maclome, [_sic_]
Sawyer’s as big a hero as ever you did hear,
Whilst the shot around him did flee,
In engaging twice the isle of Goree,
As valiant men as ever you see,
_They are all British boys_.

Here’s a health to King George our sovereign majesty,
Likewise to bold Sawyer that fought the French so free,
Our officers and all our crew
Are valiant men as e’er you knew,
So here’s a health to each true blue,
_My brave British boys_.

_CAPTAIN BARTON’S DISTRESS ON BOARD THE LICHFIELD, BEING UNDER SLAVERY SEVENTEEN MONTHS AND FOURTEEN DAYS._

Come all you brave seamen that plows on the main,
Give ear to my story [I’m] true to maintain;
Concerning the _Lichfield_ that was cast away
On the Barbary shore by the dawn of the day.

The tenth of November, the weather being fine,
We sailed from Kingsale, five ships of the line,
With two bombs and two frigates with transports also,
We was bound unto Goree to fight our proud foe.

The 29th of November, by dawn of the light,
We spied land that put us in a fright,
We strove for to weather, but we run quite aground,
The seas mountain high made our sorrow abound.

Our mast we cut away, our wreck for to ease,
And being exposed to the mercy of the seas;
Where one hundred and thirty poor seamen did die,
Whilst we all for mercy most loudly did cry.

Two hundred and twenty of us got on shore;
No sooner we landed but strip’d by the Moors,
Without any subsistence but dead hogs and sheep,
That was drove on shore by the sea from the ship.

For seven days together we thus did remain,
Our bodys quite naked for to increase our pain;
Till some Christian merchant that lives in the land,
[He] sent us relief by his bountiful hand [_sic_],

Unto our fleet the same fate did share, [_sic_]
Then unto Morocco we all marched there,
Where they are captives in slavery to be,
Till old England thought proper for to set them free.

When the black king we all come before,
He stroked his long beard, and by Mahomet he swore,
‘They are all stout and able and fit for the hoe,
Pray to my gardens, pray let them go.’

We had cruel Moors our drivers to be,
By the dawn of the day at the hoe we must be;
Untill four o’clock in the afternoon,
Without any remission, boys, work was our doom.

If that you offer for to strike a Moor,
Straightway to the king they will have you before,
Where they will basternade you till you have your fill,
If that will not do, your blood they will spill.

So now in Morocco we shall remain,
Untill our ambassador cross[es] the main;
Where our ransom he’ll bring, and soon set us free,
And then to Gibraltar we’ll go speedily.

So now, my brave boys, to old England we’re [bound],
We will have store of liquors our sorrow to drown.
We will drink a good health, success never fall [_sic_]
[Bad] cess to the bawd and the whores of Kingsale.

_GILCHRIST [AND] HOTHAM’S BRAVERY: A NEW SONG._

On their taking a large French ship of forty guns after a bloody engagement of three hours, and bringing her into Yarmouth.

You heroes of England, I pray you attend
Unto these new verses, which lately were penn’d;
It’s of a bloody battle, I tell you plain,
Fought by Captain Hotham on the raging main.

His ship she is called _Melampe_ by name,
Of thirty-six guns, a fine frigate of fame;
As he was a cruising one day by great chance,
He espied a frigate belonging to France

Who many rich prizes from England had ta’en,
When Hotham espied her on the raging main.
‘I’m glad that I’ve found her,’ he then did reply;
‘Thou shalt go to England, or else by thee I’ll die.’

The wind being fair, we soon her overtook,
She was full of men, and boldly they look;
She turned then upon us, with abundance of pride,
And instantly gave us a thundering broadside.

We gave them another, as good as they sent;
To take, or be taken, was our full intent.
Their metal was heavy, yet we did not care,
But stood to our quarters, and did them not fear.

Like true British heroes our guns we did play,
‘Fight boldly,’ says Hotham, ‘we shall win the day.
When as she is ta’en, for your valour so rare,
Ev’ry man in the ship shall have his just share.’

The _Southampton_ she then triumphant did ride,
Brave Gilchrist he gave them a warming broadside.
With true British courage our guns we did load,
Which brought down her masts close by the board.

Upon Gilchrist’s shoulder a ball did graze;
But the wound was not fatal, the Lord be prais’d;
And tho’ he was so wounded, he smiling did say,
‘She is so disabled, she can’t run away.’

She struck to us quickly, we boarded her then,
We killed her more than an hundred men;
The father and son they both captains were,
And dy’d of their wounds, for truth we do hear.

Sure valianter captains never drew breath,
Than Gilchrist and Hotham, unless it was Death.
God prosper them both unto their lives end;
By a true loyal subject these verses were penn’d.

_HAWKE’S ENGAGEMENT._

The fourteenth of [Nov]ember, in Torbay as we lay,
Bold Hawke did hoist his flag, sir, and came on board that day.
Kind Neptune did protect us, with a sweet and pleasant breeze,
We hoisted up our topsails, [to cross] the raging seas.

We had not crossed the raging seas full thirty leagues or more,
We spy’d a sail to windward, and down on us she bore.
O then he hail’d our admiral, and thus to him did say:
‘The French fleet’s all sailed out, sir, and bound for Quiberon Bay.’

‘Can you tell me at what distance, and where about they lay?’
‘O yes, kind sir,’ he then replied, ‘it’s thirty leagues to-day.
There’s twenty-two sail of the line to leeward of us do lie,
All clean and tight for action as ever you did see.’

Then up bespoke our captain bold, to Edward Hawke did say:
‘This is the finest news, sir, that’s brought to us this day.’
Then Hawke himself soon mounted upon the lofty yard;
His wings were spread at large, my boys, and after them we steer’d.

The fifteenth of [Nov]ember, the morning being clear,
When twenty-two sail of the line to leeward did appear.
All hands! all hands! did rattle, a glorious sight to see;
Unto the fight prepar’d, my boys, like lions bold and free.

We steer’d unto the French fleet as near as we could ly,
Till twelve of them engaged us, and that most speedily.
They made a bloody battle, the like was never seen;
The first broadside we gave them, boys, we laid them on their beams.

‘Oh! that’s a glorious broadside,’ our admiral replies;
‘Now give them such another, their ships will be a prize.’
Like thunder on the French fleet our cannons they did roar,
We sunk the pride of France, my boys, all on their native shore.

O! don’t you see the pride of France to the depths is going down,
With many a dismal sigh, sir, and many a grievous groan.
Conflans was sore affrighted, he could no longer stay;
The rest of them turn’d tail, my boys, like cowards ran away.

O, then they steer’d for Corjack Bay, where we led them a dance,
It proved to be the fatal blow that sunk the crown of France.
The _Rising Sun_ we burn’d, and the poor _Prince_ likewise,
And two of them we sunk, my boys, and one we made our prize.

So now the fight is over, fill up a flowing bowl;
Whilst we’re upon the raging seas there’s none can us controul.
Here’s a health to all commanders that are loyal just and true,
Likewise unto Sir Edward Hawke, and the _Royal George’s_ crew.

_NEPTUNE’S RESIGNATION._

The wat’ry god, great Neptune, lay
In dalliance soft and amorous play
On Amphitrite’s breast;
When uproar rear’d its horrid head,
The Tritons shrunk, the Nereids fled,
And all their fear confess’d.

Loud thunder shook the vast domain,
The liquid world was wrapt in flame,
The god amazed spoke:
‘Ye winds go forth and make it known
Who dares to shake my coral throne,
And fill my realms with smoke!’

The winds, obsequious at his word,
Sprung strongly up t’ obey their lord,
And saw two fleets a-weigh:
The one, victorious Hawke, was thine;
The other, Conflans’ wretched line,
In terror and dismay.

Appal’d, they view Britannia’s sons
Deal death and slaughter from their guns,
And strike the deadly blow,
Which caused ill-fated Gallic slaves
To find a tomb in briny waves,
And sink to shades below.

With speed they fly and tell their chief
That France was ruin’d past relief,
And Hawke triumphant rode.
‘Hawke!’ cry’d the fair, ‘pray who is he
That dare usurp this power at sea,
And thus insult a god?’

The winds reply: ‘In distant lands
There reigns a king who Hawke commands;
He scorns all foreign force;
And when his floating castles roll,
From sea to sea, from pole to pole,
Great Hawke directs their course.

‘Or when his winged bullets fly
To punish fraud and perfidy,
Or scourge a guilty land,
Then gallant Hawke, serenely great,
Tho’ death and horror round him wait,
Performs his dread command!’

Neptune with wonder heard the story
Of George’s sway and Britain’s glory,
Which time shall ne’er subdue;
Boscawen’s deeds, and Saunders’ fame,
Join’d with brave Wolfe’s immortal name,
Then cry’d, ‘Can this be true?

‘A king! he sure must be a god!
Who has such heroes at his nod,
To govern earth and sea!
I yield my trident and my crown,
A tribute due to such renown!
Great George shall rule for me!’

_HEARTS OF OAK._

(_In Harlequin’s Invasion, sung by Champness, 1759_).

The words by David Garrick. The music by Dr. Boyce.

Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something new to this wonderful year:
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as we sons of the waves?
_Hearts of oak are our ships,
Hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again._

We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay;
They never see us but they wish us away:
If they run, why we follow, and run them on shore,
For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more.
_Hearts of oak, etc._

They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes,
They’ll frighten our women, and children, and beaux;
But should their flat-bottoms in darkness get o’er,
Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore.
_Hearts of oak, etc._

We’ll still make them run and we’ll still make them sweat,
In spite of the Devil and Brussels Gazette.
Then cheer up, my lads, with one voice let us sing,
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and King.
_Hearts of oak, etc._

_THUROT’S DREAM._

The twenty-first of February, as I’ve heard the people say,
Three French ships of war came and anchored in our bay:
They hoisted English colours and landed at Kilroot,
And marched their men for Carrick without further dispute.

Colonel Jennings being there, at that pretty town,
His heart it was a-breaking while the enemy came down;
He could not defend it for the want of powder and ball,
And aloud to his enemies for ‘quarter’ did call.

As Thurot in his cabin lay he dreamed a dream:
That his grandsire’s voice came to him and called him by his name,
Saying, ‘Thurot, your’e to blame for lying so long here,
For the English will be in this night, the wind it bloweth fair.’

Then Thurot started up, and said unto his men:
‘Weigh your anchors, my brave lads, and let us begone;
We’ll go off this very night, make all the haste you can,
And we’ll steer south and south-east, straight for the Isle of Man.’

Upon the next day the wind it blew north-west,
And Elliot’s gallant seamen they sorely were oppressed;
They could not get in that night, the wind it blew so high;
And as for Monsieur Thurot, he was forced for to lie by.

Early the next morning, as daylight did appear,
Brave Elliot he espied them, which gave to him great cheer.
It gave to him great cheer, and he to his men did say:
‘Boys, yonder’s Monsieur Thurot, we’ll shew him warm play.’

The first ship that came up was the _Brilliant_ without doubt,
She gave to them a broadside, and then she wheeled about;
The other two then followed her, and fired another round.
‘Oh, oh! my lads,’ says Thurot; ‘this is not Carrick town.’

Then out cried Monsieur Thurot, with his visage pale and wan:
‘Strike, strike your colours, brave boys, or they’ll sink us--every
man;
Their weighty shot comes in so hot on both the weather and the lee;
Strike your colours, my brave boys, or they’ll sink us in the sea.’

Before they got their colours struck great slaughter there was made,
And many a gallant Frenchman on Thurot’s decks lay dead;
They came tumbling down the shrouds, upon his deck they lay,
While our brave Irish heroes cut their booms and yards away.

* * * * *

And as for Monsieur Thurot, as I’ve heard people say,
He was taken up by Elliot’s men and buried in Ramsey Bay.

Now for to conclude, and put an end unto my song,
To drink a health to Elliot, I hope it is not wrong;
And may all French invaders be served the same way;
Let the English beat the French by land, our Irish boys on sea.

_A NEW SONG ON THE GALLANT BEHAVIOUR OF CAPTAIN O’BRIAN AND CAPTAIN TAYLOR._

A new song on the gallant behaviour of Captain O’Brian, commander of his Majesty’s ship the _Temple_, and Captain Taylor, commander of the _Griffin_, in destroying three privateers and the fortifications on one of the French West India Islands.

Observe this true relation, and listen unto me;
’Tis of a bloody battle, lately fought upon the sea,
By brave Captain O’Brian and his bold English tars,
Commander of that gallant ship, the _Temple_ man-of-war.

The pretty little _Griffin_ did bear her company;
And as they were a-sailing by chance they did espy,
Nigh unto Martinico they did espy there fair,
Three privateers belonging to the French, and after them did steer.

O’Brian said, ‘My English lads, now is the only time
To cool the lofty Frenchmen’s pride as they sail in their prime’;
They answered their captain, ‘We will the Frenchmen scare,
We’ll venture life and limbs with you in the _Temple_ man-of-war.’

The wind it proved fair, and we after them did steer,
And in a little time, brave boys, we did to them draw near;
A broadside then we gave them, which made the Frenchmen stare,
They little dream’d so nigh they’d got the _Temple_ man-of-war.

The pretty little _Griffin_ behaved most manfully,
Like showers of hail from our two ships our fiery balls did fly;
The privateers they all three struck to us immediately,
And from their batteries they fir’d, but could not us come nigh.

We turned [unto] their batteries and briskly fired away,
Until their guns and walls, brave boys, came tumbling in the sea;
Their forces they did run for fear, they were so sorely scar’d,
At the pretty little _Griffin_ bold and the _Temple_ man-of-war.

Then further in the harbour two ships we did espy,
Also a strong grand battery, and at them we let fly.
For four days we did stay there, and every night and morn
We did give them a grand salute, and we fired our evening guns.

Two batteries we did then destroy, and five ships took away,
And brought them safe to Guadaloupe, where now they all do stay.
There is but one [man] kill’d, behold, and five that wounded are,
In the pretty little _Griffin_ bold and the _Temple_ man-of-war.

_A NEW SONG ON THE TAKING OF HAVANNAH._

Give ear, true Britons to my song, and joyful acclamations;
’Tis the noble deeds now done by our own relations.
While Albemarle did command, Pocock and General Keppel:
Let Moro Fort, and Spaniards vaunt if Britons be unable.

Against Havannah we set sail, with a fleet of combination;
Land troops we likewise had on board, to pay off Spain’s aggression.
We moor’d our ships, and landed our troops, the Spaniards came down
raging;
But they found we were true British boys, as we their fury were
swaging.

We chac’d the Spaniards thro’ the woods, and hunted them like mawkin,
And turn’d up hundreds in their fuds, the rest ran homeward quaking.
For though they came in thousands on, our fire would make them
scatter,
But we true Britons kept our ground, while blood did run like water.

The Spaniards judg’d the Moro’s fort the Briton’s strength would
banter,
But when we blew it up i’ the air, they tuned another chanter.
Bold Harvey with three noble ships their walls by sea did batter,
While we bombarded it on land, and did their out-works clatter.

But never was heard such woful thuds as the _Cambridge_ and
_Marlborough_ [did give ’em]
The _Dragon_ fired as brisk as they, but for smoak none could
perceive them.
The _Cambridge_ got her captain shot, and a hundred more beside him,
Brave Harvey then his station quit, for five long hours he try’d
them.

But finding it bomb and cannon proof, we then did give it over,
And sprung a mine below their walls, which split the rocks in
shivers.
Some Spaniards went up with the blast, which made their fellows
wonder,
Such a hideous roar ne’er heard before, it far exceeded thunder.

Then we approach’d upon a breach, our firelocks cock’d and ready,
Where the Spaniards met us for a brush, imploring on their Lady
To aid Velasco a Spaniard bold, a valiant sea commander,
Who vow’d for to defend his fort, while Marza kept up his standard.

O, then began the bloody fray, with bayonets and broad swords
champing,
Through bones and bellies we made our way, and dying men under us
trampling;
Of seven hundred Spaniards here, scarce left alive was eighty,
Velasco by his standard fell, whose deeds were counted mighty.

Then to Havannah we did march, and trenches rais’d like mountains,
Then cut away their water pipes, which supplied them with fresh
fountains,
Our batteries then began to play, with roars aloud like thunder,
Which dash’d their walls and chimnies down, yet loath for to knock
under.

O, then with bombs and fiery balls, threatened their utter ruin,
Which rais’d such cries, as pierc’d the skies, for mercy they were
suing.
[Juan] de Prado to British tars was loath to be subjected,
But brave Albemarle told him his fate was then to be ransacked,

Or buried in the city’s ruin, him and his whole fraternity;
This made him to subjection yield, and so they were disarmed;
All stores and treasures of the place are bought by Briton’s glory,
Seven ships; their arms and everything, and that’s a noble story.

O, then with honour we lin’d their gates, and bravery to our wishing,
And turn’d Don Spaniard from their posts, which they held by
commission;
May our noble King prosper long, and all his brave commanders,
Who bravely led on Britain’s sons, to knock down popish standards.

_LORD ANSON AND HAWKE._

Ye brave _British sailors_, true sons of the main,
Who scorn to submit to the insults of _Spain_,
Leave to landsmen their politick schemes and their talk,
And enter on board the _Lord Anson_ and _Hawke_.

These two noble heroes, whose names our ships bear,
Made the _Spaniards_ to tremble, the _Frenchmen_ to fear;
Secure of success, then, your fortune ne’er balk,
But enter on board the _Lord Anson_ and _Hawke_.

Let the wise politicians of _France_ and of _Spain_,
Threat to take from _Great Britain_ her rule o’er the main;
Their plate ships shall pay for their arrogant talk,
If they come but in sight of the _Anson_ and _Hawke_.

The wages, the ingots, the wealth of Peru,
The Spaniards are getting and hoarding for you;
You shall ride in your coaches, whilst cowards shall walk,
Who durst not engage in the _Anson_ and _Hawke_.

Then aboard, my brave lads, and with hearts stout and true,
The road unto riches and glory pursue;
That your wives may dress fine, and your children may talk
Of your noble exploits in the _Anson_ and _Hawke_.

Here’s a health to King George, and his consort so true,
May their laurels sit pleasing and well on their brow;
To Hutchinson and Dickson, who for courage never baulk,
Then fill up your glasses, boys, to the _Lord Anson_ and _Hawke_.
_Huzza, brave boys, the Lord Anson and Hawke._

_A NEW SONG ON THE BLANDFORD PRIVATEER._

Ye seamen who’ve a mind to go in pursuit of new adventures,
Repair on board the _Blandford_, with Captain Stonehouse enter,
Who cruizing goes to meet his foes, such pastime sure must please us,
We’ll prizes make of all we take; this will to fortune raise us.

Here is our chief encouragement, our ship belongs to Bristol,
Poor Londoners when coming home, they surely will be press’d all:
We’ve no such fear when home we steer with prizes under convoy,
We’ll frolick round all Bristol town, sweet liberty we enjoy.

Why should we here our time delay, in London void of pleasure,
Let’s haste away to Biscay Bay, and ransack there for treasure.
Here we must creep and play bo-peep, to shun the damn’d press
masters,
We live in strife, even die in life, confin’d by catch-pole bastards.

A health to Captain Stonehouse, success attend the _Blandford_,
Five guineas is advanced us, come then let us enter on board;
With the _Blandford’s_ guns we’ll smoak the Dons, their ragged
staff we’ll humble,
Jack Frenchmen too shall cry morbleu, we’ll give them cause to
grumble.

Come fill your flowing glasses, let us drink and be merry;
Take leave of all your lasses, we can no longer tarry;
Girls, never fear, ye soon shall hear of the _Blandford’s_ safe
arrival,
To Bristol town then haste ye down, your sweethearts to revive all.

_THE SAILORS’ DIALOGUE._

Tune, _Gossip Joan_.

TOM.

How goes it, brother Jack? You are grown such a beau now,
Had I but seen your back damn me if I had known you,
Brother Jack.

JACK.

What cheer, old messmate Tom? You look as if you’d cry now;
But I have news from home will make you jump mast high now,
Messmate Tom.

Since our brave towering Hawke has shown the French his talons,
’Twill soon be peace they talk; if so we’ll drink off gallons
To brave Hawke.

TOM.

Huzza! my hearty cock! For this news damn all sorrow,
I’ll pawn my shirt and frock, but I’ll get drunk to-morrow,
Hearty cock!

JACK.

When all the ship are paid we’ll lead a merry life, boy;
Blood! then how we’ll parade with ev’ry one his wife, boy,
When we’re paid.

TOM.

Nay, some will have their pairs, they’ll be so open-hearted;
And brimstones will have chairs, that rather should be carted,
All in pairs,

JACK.

Our proud lieutenants then, those empty flashing sporters,
May pimps turn to great men, companions to their porters,
Not proud then.

TOM.

Our midshipmen now beaux, it makes me laugh to think, boys,
Will cry about old cloaths, and corporals turn link-boys
To those beaux.

JACK.

Amongst the damn’d odd scenes you’ll see in jails and cages
Lieutenants of marines, and doctors’ mates on stages.
Damn’d odd scenes.

TOM.

The steward, dirty slave, that us’d to cheat us daily,
Will still remain a knave, and follow some bum-baily.
Dirty slave!

BOTH.

That day then, jolly buck, we’ll set the taps a-flowing,
And drink ‘rest and great luck’ to Pitt, Hawke, and Boscawen,
Jolly buck!

_DISTRESSED MEN OF WAR._

Says Jack, ‘There is very good news; there is peace both by land
and by sea;
Great guns no more shall be used, for we all disbanded must be.’

Says the admiral, ‘That’s very bad news;’ says the captain, ‘My
heart it will break;’
The lieutenant cries, ‘What shall I do? for I know not what course
for to take.’

Says the purser, ‘I’m a gentleman born; my coat is lined with gold,
And my chest is full of the same, by cheating of sailors so bold.’

Says the doctor, ‘I’m a gentleman too, I’m a gentleman of the first
rank;
I will go to some country fair, and there I’ll set up mountebank.’

Says the steward, ‘I’m sorry it’s peace, for I love my ship as my
life,
And by cheating of honest Jack Tars I have plenty of shiners so
bright.’

Says the carpenter, ‘I have a chest, a chest of very good tools;
I will go to some country fair and there I’ll sell three-legged
stools.’

Says the cook, ‘I will go to that fair, and there I will sell all
my fat.’
Says Jack Tar, ‘If I should meet you there, damn me, I’ll pay you
for that;

‘For don’t you remember the time our topsail stuck close to the tack,
And we all stuck fast in the sheet, for want of some of that fat?’

Says the midshipman, ‘I have no trade; I have got my trade for to
chuse:
I will go to St. James Park gate, and there I’ll set blacking of
shoes;

‘And there I will set all the day, at everybody’s call,
And every one that comes by, “Do you want my nice shining balls?”’

Says Jack, ‘I will take to the road, for I’d better do that than
do worse;
And every one that comes by, I’ll cry, “Damn you, deliver your
purse.”’

_THE SAILOR’S COMPLAINT._

‘You are welcome to London, dear Jack.
What news have you brought us, I pray?’
‘From Portsmouth I have lately come,
And now I am discharg’d from the sea.
I have never a copper, brave boy;
I’ve wages and prize money due.’
‘Damme Jack, truly do say,
You will be hard set to get it, it’s true.’

‘Dear shipmate, I’ve been here a month,
And cannot get mine for the truth;
On board a man-of-war I went
When I was a frolicsome youth.
My king and my country to serve
I fought like a sailor so bold.
Now that the wars are all over
I really cannot get my gold.

‘To a navy officer each day I did go;
I’ve been both hungry and dry.
My money I then did demand.
“You cannot have it,” they cry.
My life I have ventur’d for gold,
My king and my country to serve.
Now the wars are all over
Brave sailors may perish and starve.

‘Suppose that the war should break out,
Then what will Old England do?
Bad usage we plenty receive
By not paying us our due.
They will cavvil from day to day,
“To-morrow you your answer shall have.”’
‘Damme Jack, I really do say,
For I think they are acting the knave.’

‘Then truely I don’t mean to rebel
Again[st] my good king and his laws.
Did he then know my distress
He soon would relieve my just cause;
We should be paid with great speed.
The taverns we[’d] make them to roar,
We[’d] spend it like brave jolly tars;
What else should we do on shore?’

_THE SAILOR’S GARLAND; OR, THE TICKET BUYER’S LAMENTATION._

To the Tune of _Chevy Chase_.

God prosper long our noble King, his fleet and sailors all,
And grant that they their pay may have, and pride may have a fall.

Where courage stout and noble blood within the heart doth reign,
There pity soft for others’ woes doth pant in every vein.

Our gracious King, by pity moved to do his sailors right,
To Parliament did recommend their sad and woful plight.

A usurer in Lothbury, a Jew of high renown,
Hearing the sailors would be paid strait hasted up to town;

All in his hall the clerks amazed and agents, frighted sore,
‘Adieu,’ cried out, ‘for-ty per cent, Adieu--for evermore.’

The Jew he sighed, ‘Alack, my head and heart it acheth much!
But hold,’ says he, ‘I’ve got it now. Pray tell me--won’t they touch?

‘What, pay the Navy all, d’you say? Sure that can never be,
For then much greater men must lose their trades as well as we.

‘A Sanhedrim we straight must call upon a thing so new.
Go summon all, great Shylock first; he’s trusty and true blue.’

While yet he spake, lo at the gate, the head of all the tribe,
Shylock, appear’d, the most expert at counsel or at bribe.

His chatter and his laugh so loud was heard quite to the door;
His belly, of enormous size, came strutting in before.

Soon tawny Shadrach plodded in, whose face and wig contend
Which in their hue most like shall be to Belzeebub the fiend.

Shadrach from father circumcis’d a wight descended sure,
Either from Abraham the Jew or Ismael the Moor.

‘I stopt,’ quoth he, ‘by precedent the pinch-gut halfpenny,
Tho’ tars on short allowance starv’d, and better they than we.’

From Tower Hill with hang-dog look came one would move your pity.
‘What, no more tickets, sir?’ said he; ‘’twill ruin our trading
city.’

Quoth Shylock with a grin, ‘My friends, when ships to Greenland sail
They dexterously throw out a tub to fool the mighty whale.

‘Prompt payment publickly to blame may prove a dangerous scheme;
Another project we’ll propose for to direct the stream.

‘Something, be sure, must needs be paid. Let’s give them two months’
certain:
The other four you friends shall share--with me behind the curtain.

‘Their wages too we must advance some shillings augmentation:
What tho’ it freightage should destroy, that only hurts the nation.

‘As toasted cheese the mouse allures within the trap to venture,
Such baits as these will surely make the heedless seamen enter.

‘When once they’re caught we’ll turn ’em o’er for ever and for ay;
They’ll then be volunteers for life, and we’ll divide their pay.

‘Whilst cent. per cent. our friends can gain we are sure of being
courted,
Nor can the sailors well complain, for they will be transported.’

But these their plots we know our liege will all to nothing bring;
Then sailors may throw up their caps and cry, ‘God save the King.’

_THE SAYLOR’S COMPLAINT; OR, THE TRUE CHARACTER OF THE PURSER OF A SHIP._

To the Tune of _Iantha_, etc.

Of all the curst plagues that e’er Fate did decree
To vex, plague, and punish poor sailors at sea,
There’s none to compare with the purser, that evil
Who’s worse than a jailer, a bum, or a devil,
Sure when he was framed Dame Nature lay dying;
Hell then took a purge, hell then took a purge,
and Pluto sh--t him flying.

As his name foully stinks, so his butter rank doth smell,
Both hateful to sailors, scarce good enough for hell:
The nation allows men what’s fitting to eat,
But he, curse attend him, gives to us musty meat;
With bisket that’s mouldy, hard stinking Suffolk cheese,
And pork cut in pounds, and pork cut in pounds,
for to eat with our pease.

Because it is cut off the best fatted hogs
He thinks it too good for eternal lowsie dogs.
Then our urine to purge, that the men may piss clear,
Instead of what’s better, his petty-warrant beer
Is by him allowed, which makes us complain;
Which he ne’er regards, which he ne’er regards,
so he gets but the gain.

His oatmeal, or grout, known by the name burgooe,
Is fitting for nothing but make a sailor spew:
His bruis, no better than common kitchen-grease,
The sailors are forced to eat with their pease:
Such beef-fat, so nasty, we constantly use,
That’s but fit for the mast, that’s but fit for the mast,
or the greasing of shoes.

When a sailor’s oblig’d to make use of his store
He then must expect to be miserable poor:
For consider what price for their goods we do pay;
He has treble worth of each man, I dare say.
Such dealings as these are not just, I am sure;
Yet such hardships as these, yet such hardships as these
we do daily endure.

Now, since he’s so friendly, I’d give, as ’tis due,
By way of requital, a kind wish, or two:
And first, may his brandy run all o’er the deck,
And he end his days in a rope with aking neck;
Or may he still eat, and be never satisfy’d,
Still craving of more, still craving of more,
but be never cloy’d.

And may he have nothing to drink all the year,
When droughth shall attend him, but petty-warrant beer:
May fate ne’er allow him a candle to his cabbin,
And be in the dark by Old Nick taken napping,
And by him or his agents be bore swiftly away,
To plague, vex, and punish, to plague, vex, and punish,
for ever and aye.