"Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, And wap them into our ship's side, They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, And they wrapp'd them round that gude But still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords And mony was the feather bed The ladies wrang their fingers white, O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! 76 80 84 88 92 96 And lang, lang may the maidens sit O forty miles off Aberdeen, "T is fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord 100 704 ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 8 12 His last sea fight is fought, It was not in the battle; His sword was in its sheath, When Kempenfelt went down Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! 16 20 24 And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. 28 1782. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main: But Kempenfelt is gone, And he and his eight hundred William Cowper. 32 36 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, While the stormy winds do blow; Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. 10 20 1801. With thunders from her native oak, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, Thomas Campbell. 30 40 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND THE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. 8 |