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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 ORPHAN'S PRAYER.
The frozen streets in moonshine glitter,
Their weight my limbs no more can bear;
Then mark my frame with anguish trembling,
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,
I make a watch-1 mend the pumps-
I tomb stones cut-i cut the rumps-
Geography is my delight-
Graves I dig compact and tight.
At night by the fire, like a good jolly cook,
Going a going!-
Corpse to the ground
Physic to the Pope
Shut up shop
Punch bowl crockery,
Wind up clockery.
Many small articles make up a sum,
LOVE AND GLORY.
Young Henry was as brave a youth
With her his faith he meant to plight,
When 'tis night and the midwatch is come,
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,'
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,
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.
ecure in his cabin, he'd moor'd in the grave, For hears any more the loud roar of the wave;