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Year 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 frozen streets in moonshine glitter,
The midnight hour has long been past;
Ah! me, the wind blows keen and bitter,
I sink beneath the piercing blast.
In every vein seems life to languish,

Their weight my limbs no more can bear;
But no one soothes the orphan's anguish,
And no one heeds the orphan's prayer.
Hark! hark, for surely footsteps near me,
Advancing press the drifted snow:
I die for food,-Oh! stranger, hear me,
I die for food, some alms bestow.
You see no guilty wretch before you,
No wanton pleads in feigned despair-
A 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 here,
My name is Caleb Quotem-
I'm painter, glazier, auctioneer,
In short I am factotum,

I make a watch-1 mend the pumps-
(For Plumbers' work my knack is,)
I physic sell-I cure the mumps-

I tomb stones cut-i cut the rumps-
Of little school boy Jackies.

Geography is my delight-
Ballads-epitaphs I write-
Almanacks I can indite-

Graves I dig compact and tight.

At night by the fire, like a good jolly cook,
When my days work is done and all over,
I tipple, I smoke, and I wind up the clock,
With my sweet Mrs. Quotum in clover.
With my amen, gaymen,
Rum Quotem,

Stumps, mumps,
Bumps, rumps,
Morter he thumps;
Joggamy, floggamy-
Sign post daubery-
Split crow, strawberry-
Chimery, rhymery-
Liquorish stickerish-

Frizzle comb

Going a going!-


Song inditing

Epitaph writing-
Steeple sound

Corpse to the ground

Windsor soap

Physic to the Pope

Home hop,

Shut up shop

Punch bowl crockery,

Wind up clockery.

Many small articles make up a sum,
I dabble in all-I'm merry and rum,
And 'tis heigho! for Caleb Quotem, O;


Young Henry was as brave a youth
As ever graced a martial story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth,
She sigh'd for love and he for glory.

With her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story;
Till war, their honest joys to blight,
Called him away from love to glory.
Brave Henry met the foe with pride,
Jane followed-fought, ah! hapless story;
In man's attire, by Henry's side,
She died for love, and he for 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;
But when the fight's begun,
Each serving at his gun,

Should any thought of them come o'er our mind,
We think but should the day be won,
How 'twill cheer,

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,'

Each serving at his gun,

hould any thought of her come o'er your mind, Think only should the day be won, How 'twill cheer,

Her heart to hear,

That her own true sailor he was one.


The streamlet that flow'd round her cot,
All the charms of my Emily knew:
How oft has my course been forgot,
While it paus'd her dear image to view.

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.


Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast,
Poor Jack's mizen top sail is laid to the mast:
He'll never turn out, or will more heave the lead,
He's now all aback, nor will his sails shoot a head;
Yet the worms gnaw his timbers, his vessel's a

When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck.

ecure in his cabin, he'd moor'd in the grave, For hears any more the loud roar of the wave;

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