None hail'd me-woman, child, or man: But though false friendship's sails were furl'd, Though cut adrift by all the world,


all the world in lovely Nan. I love my duty, love my friend, Love truth and merit to defend,

To moan their loss who hazard ran;
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty with a spotless heart,

By manners love to show the man;
To sail through life by honour's breeze:-
'Twas all along of loving these

First made me doat on lovely Nan.


Poetry and music by CHARLES DIBDIN.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'li hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him too.
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft ; Faithful below he did his duty, But now he's


Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair :
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly ;

Ah, many's the time and oft !
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is


aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom's life has doff'd;
For though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.


Poetry and music by CHARLES DIBDIN.


WI1Y, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a wiping?

, A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way; 'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping;

But they that han't pity, why I pities they. Says the captain, says he (I shall never forget it),

If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham; "Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it;

But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb.” There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring,

IIelter-skelter, to work, pelt away, cut and drive;
Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing;

And as for a foe, why he'd eat him alive.
But when that he found an old prisoner he'd wounded,

That once saved his life as near drowning he swam,
The lion was tamed, and with pity confounded,

He cried over him just all as one as a lamb. That my

friend Jack or Tom I should rescue from danger, Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess, Is nothing at all,—'tis the poor wounded stranger, And the


the more I shall succour distress : For however their duty bold tars may delight in,

And peril defy, as a bugbear, a flam,
Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting,

He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb.


The heart and the eyes, you see, feel the same motion,

And if both shed their drops 'tis all to the same end; And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean

Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.

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If my

maxim's disease, 'tis disease I shall die on,You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn! In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion,

But the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb.


This song is sometimes attributed to Thomas Hood, and at others to Charles Dibdin; but the real author was WILLIAM PITT, Esq., late Master Attendant at Jamaica Dock Yard, and afterwards of Malta, where he died in 1840.

One night came on a hurricane,

The sea was mountains rolling,
When Barney Buntline slew'd his quid,

And said to Billy Bowline :
A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill;
Hark! don't ye

hear it roar now !
Lord help 'em, how I pities them

Unhappy folks on shore now!

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And as for them that's out all day,

On business from their houses,
And late at night returning home,

To cheer their babes and spouses,

you and I, Bill, on the deck
Are comfortably lying;
My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots

About their heads are flying !


and I have oftimes heard
How men are kill'd and undone,
By overturns from carriages,

By thieves, and fires in London.
We know what risks these landsmen run,

From noblemen to tailors;
Then, Bill, let us thank Providence

you and I are sailors.”


This song was written for the operatic farce “Hertford Bridge;"

the music by Wu. SHIELD.

For England when with fav'ring gale

Our gallant ship up Channel steer'd, And, scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear'd; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

"By the deep-nine !"

And bearing up to gain the port,

Some well-known object kept in view; An abbey-tower, the harbour-fort,

Or beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

“ By the mark-seven !"


And as the much-loved shore we near,

With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear,

Of faith and love a matchless proof; The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung,

" Quarter less-five !"

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh:

We shorten sail-she feels the tide“ Stand clear the cable,” is the cry

The anchor's gone; we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night We hear the seaman with delight

Proclaim—“All's well!” EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET.

I'm a tough true-hearted sailor,

Careless and all that, d’ye see,
Never at the times a railer-

What is time or tide to me?
All must die when fate shall will it,

Providence ordains it so:
Every bullet has its billet,

Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo!

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“ Life's at best a sea of trouble,

He who fears it is a dunce;
Death to me's an empty bubble,

I can never die but once.
Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it;

Yet I have a tear for woe:"
Every bullet has its billet,

Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo!
Shrouded in a hammock, glory

Celebrates the falling brave;
Oh, how many, fam'd in story,

Sleep below in ocean's cave!
Bring the can, boyslet us fill it;

Shall we shun the fight? Oh, no!
Every bullet has its billet.-

Man the boat, boys-Yeo, heave yeo!


From a small volume of Lyrical Poetry, privately printed at the expense of Mr. George Fryer, in 1798. This song is ascribed to Carey by Ritson, but published as Dibdin’s in Davy's edition,

LIFE's like a ship, in constant motion,

Sometimes high and sometimes low,
Where every one must brave the ocean,

Whatsoever wind may blow;
If unassail'd by squall or show'r,

Wafted by the gentle gales,
Let's not lose the fav’ring hour,

While success attends the sails.

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