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fear his grave dash the billows, the winds loudly
Yon ash, struck with lightning, points out his cold bed,
Where Will Watch, the bold smuggler, that fam'd lawless fellow,
Once fear'd, now forgot, sleeps in peace with the dead.
THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.
Their weight my limbs no more can bear;
No wanton pleads in feigned despairA famish'd orphan kneels before you, Oh, grant the famish'd orphan's prayer! Perhaps you think my tale dissembling, Of virtuous sorrow feign a tale, Then mark my frame with anguish trembling, My hollow eyes, and features pale. E'en then my story proves ideal,
Too well these wasted limbs declare,
My wants at least are not unreal
Then stranger, grant the Orphan's prayer. He's gone! no mercy man will shew me, In prayers no more I ll waste my breath: Here on the frozen earth I'll waste my breath: And wait in mute despair for death. Farewell! thou cruel world to-morrow
No more in scorn my heart will tear, The grave will shield the child of sorrow,
And heaven will hear the Orphan's prayer. But thou, poor man, the beggar scorning, Unmov'd who saw me kneel for bread. Thy heart shall ache to hear that morning That morning found the beggar dead. And while the room resounds with laughter," My famish'd cry thy mirth shall scare; And often shalt thou wish hereafter,
Thou hadst not scorn'd the Orphan's prayer.
I'm parish clerk and sexton bere,
I'm painter, glazier, auctioneer,
I make a watch-1 mend the pumps-
I physic sell-I cure the mumps-
Geography is my delight-
At night by the fire, like a good jolly cook,
Going a going!-
Corpse to the ground
Physic to the Pope
Shut up shop-
Many small articles make up a sum,
LOVE AND GLORY.
And told her many a gallant story;
Called him away from love to glory.
When 'tis night and the midwatch is come,
And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main Then sailors think of their far distant home,
And of those friends they ne'er may see again;
Should any thought of them come o'er our mind
Their hearts to hear,
That their old companion he was one.
Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind
Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind,
And sighs to think, how it may fare with you!
Oh! when the fight's begun,
hould any thought of her come o'er your mind,
Her heart to hear,
That her own true sailor he was one.
The streamlet that flow'd round her cot,
Believe me, the fond silver tide,
Knew from whence it deriv'd its fair prize, For silently swelling with pride,
It reflected her back to the skies.
THE LAST WHISTLE.
Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast,
When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck.
Secure in his cabin, he'd moor'd in the grave, Nor hears any more the loud roar of the wave;