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Various
Old Ballads
HEARTS OF OAK
Come, cheer up, my lads!
'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more
to this wonderful year:
To honour we call you,
not press you like slaves:
For who are so free
as the sons of the waves?
Hearts of oak are our ships,
Gallant tars are our men;
We always are ready:
Steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
We ne'er see our foes
but we wish them to stay;
They never see us but
they wish us away;
If they run, why, we follow,
or run them ashore;
For if they won't fight us,
we cannot do more.
Hearts of oak, etc.
Britannia triumphant,
her ships sweep the sea;
Her standard is Justice—
her watchword, "Be free!"
Then cheer up, my lads!
with one heart let us sing,
"Our soldiers, our sailors,
our statesmen, and king."
Hearts of oak, etc.
David Garrick.
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
I'll sing you a good old song,
Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman,
Who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion
At a bountiful old rate,
With a good old porter to relieve
The old poor at his gate—
Like a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
His hall so old was hung around
With pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords and good old bucklers
That had stood against old foes;
'Twas there "his worship" sat in state,
In doublet and trunk hose,
And quaff'd his cup of good old sack
To warm his good old nose—
Like a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
When winter's cold brought frost and snow,
He open'd his house to all;
And though three-score and ten his years,
He featly led the ball.
Nor was the houseless wanderer
E'er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
He ne'er forgot the small—
Like a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
But time, though sweet, is strong in flight,
And years roll swiftly by;
And autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd
The old man—he must die!
He laid him down quite tranquilly,
Gave up his latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reign'd around,
And tears bedew'd each eye—
For this good old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
Now, surely this is better far
Than all the new parade
Of theatres and fancy balls,
"At home" and masquerade!
And much more economical,
For all his bills were paid,
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade—
Of a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
Anon.
THE BAY OF BISCAY O!
Loud roared the dreadful thunder!
The rain a deluge showers!
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning's vivid powers!
The night, both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day, there she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay O!
Now dashed upon the billow,
Our op'ning timbers creak;
Each fears a wat'ry pillow,
None stop the dreadful leak!
To cling to slipp'ry shrouds,
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay, till the day,
In the Bay of Biscay O!
At length the wished-for morrow
Broke through the hazy sky;
Absorbed in silent sorrow,
Each heaved the bitter sigh;
The dismal wreck to view,
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay, on that day,
In the Bay of Biscay O!
Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent;
When Heaven, all-bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent!
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers!
Now we sail, with the gale,
From the Bay of Biscay O!
Andrew Cherry.
BLACK-EYED SUSAN
All in the Downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came on board:
"Oh! where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among your crew?"
William, who high upon the yard,
Rocked by the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sighed, and cast his eyes below:
The cord glides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast
(If, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear),
And drops at once into her nest:
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.
Oh, Susan! Susan! lovely dear!
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear,
We only part to meet again:
Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
Believe not what the landsmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;
They tell thee—sailors when away
In every port a mistress find!
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
If to fair India's coast we sail,
Thine eyes are seen in diamonds bright;
Thy breath in Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin in ivory so white:
Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet free from harms,
William shall to his dear return:
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosoms spread;
No longer must she stay on board:
They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head.
Her lessening boat, unwilling, rows to land;
"Adieu!" she cried, and waved her lily hand.
J. Gay.
DUNCAN GRAY
Duncan Grey came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost' her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg was deaf' as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may gae to—France for me,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
How it comes let doctors tell.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick—as he grew well,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan couldna be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and cantie baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Burns.