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Whilst they reel on the keel,
And the stormy winds do blow,
And the stormy winds, &c.
Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismay'd:
Whilst we have bold adventurers,
We ne'er shall want a trade,
Our merchants will employ us,

To fetch them wealth, we know;
Then be bold, work for gold,

When the stormy winds do blow,
When the stormy winds, &c.
Then here's a health to Nelson,
And to his gallant tars,

Then may these British heroes bold
Despise both wounds and scars,
Make France, and Spain, and Holland,
And all their foes to know,
Britain reigns o'er the main,
While the stormy winds do blow,
While the stormy winds, &c.


Deep in a vale a cottage stood,
Oft sought by travellers weary,
And long it prov'd the blest abode,
Of Edward and of Mary.

For her he chas'd the mountain goat,
O'er Alps and glaciers bounding,
For her the chamois he would shoot,
Dark horrors all surrounding.

But ev'ning come,
He sought his home,
And anxious lovely woman:
She hail'd the sight,
And e'vry night,
The cottage rung,
As they sung,
O! dulce, dulce, domum.

But soon, alas! this scene of bliss, Was chang'd to prospects dreary; For war and honour rous'd each Swiss, And Edward left his Mary.

To bold St. Gothard's height he rush'd 'Gainst Gallia's foes contending; And by unequal numbers crush'd, He died bis land defending. The ev'ning come, He sought not home, Whilst she, distracted woman, Grown wild with dread; Now seeks him dead; And hears the knell, That bids farewell, To dulce, dulce domum.


It blew great guns when gallant Tom
Was taking in a sail;

When squalls came on in sight of home,
That strengthened to a gale.
Broad sheets of vivid lightning glar'd,
Reflected by the main,

And even gallant Tom despaired
To see his love again.

The storm came on, each rag aboard
Was into tatters rent;

The rain through every crevice poured:
All feared the dread event.

The pumps were choked, the awful doom, Seem'd sure at every strain,

Each tar despair'd, e'en gallant Tom,
To see his love again.

The leak was stopped, the winds grew dull,
The billows ceased to roar ;

And the torn ship almost a bull,

In safety reached the shore.
Crowds ran to see the wond'rous sights;
The storm had rag'd in vain ;

And gallant Tom with true delight
Beheld his love again.

My lodging is in Leather Lane,

A parlour that's next to the sky;
'Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy;
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel from Scrubbina the fair;
O! she lives by the scouring of pots,

In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.
O! was I a quart, pint, or gill.

To be scrubbed by her delicate hands,
Let others possess what they will
Of learning and houses and lands.

-But ah! should she false hearted prove, Suspended I'll dangle in air,

A victim to delicate love,

In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.

STUDY AND PLEASURE. With study to fill up our leisure,

Let ancient philosophers preach; "Tis better to fill it with pleasure,

Both nature and sympathy teach. Believe me, the man is mistaken,

Who in books only finds his delight, No study to pleasure can waken,

Like studying eyes that are bright. If by physiognomy learning,

The mind through the features to trace, Grave brows of philosopher's spurning, I'd study in woman's sweet face.


Adieu! adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue,
The night wind moans, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee;
My native land, good night!

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to-
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves,
And, when ye fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves,
My native land, good night.


Be mine, dear maid; my faithful heart, Can never prove untrue;

'Twere easier far from life to part, Than cease to live for you.

My soul gone forth from this lone breast,
Lives only, love, in thine;

There is its only home of rest,
It's dear, its chosen shrine.

Then turn thee not away, my dear,
Oh! turn thee not away, love;
For by the light of truth I swear,

To love thee night and day, love.

'Tis not mine eye thy beauty loves,
Mine ear thy tuneful voice;
But 'tis my heart, thy heart approves,
A life enduring choice.

The lark shall first forget to sing,
When morn unfolds the east,
Ere I by change or coldness wring
Thy fond confiding breast.

Then turn thee not away, my dear, &c.


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