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The topsail yard point to the wind, boys,

See all clear to reef each course; Let the foresheet go, - don't mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse.

Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get,
Reef the mizzen, see all clear;
Hand up, each preventer-brace set!
Man the foreyards, cheer, lads, cheer!

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes blue lightnings flash.

One wide water all around us,

All above us one black sky; Different deaths at once surround us :

Hark! what means that dreadful cry?

The foremast 's gone! cries every tongue out, O'er the lee twelve feet 'bove deck;

A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out, Call all hands to clear the wreck.

Quick the lanyards cut to pieces;

Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; Plumb the well, the leak increases, Four feet water in the hold!

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,
We our wives and children mourn;
Alas! from hence there's no retreating,
Alas! to them there's no return!

Still the leak is gaining on us!

Both chain-pumps are choked below: Heaven have mercy here upon us!

For only that can save us now.

O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys, Let the guns o'erboard be thrown; To the pumps call every hand, boys, See our mizzen-mast is gone.

The leak we've found, it cannot pour fast; We've lightened her a foot or more;

Up and rig a jury foremast,

She rights! she rights, boys! wear off shore.

GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And 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.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more
And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

TOM BOWLING.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he 'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful, below, he did his duty;
But now he's gone aloft.

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!

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When a squall, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,

And the lowering thunder grumbled,

And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle-dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;

And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up, and hastens For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt and moaned and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them ;
And they called in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorrored;
And, shrieking and bewildering,

The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang
"Allah! Illah!

Mashallah Bismillah!"

As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
Who thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up,

(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins ;)

And each man moaned and jabbered in

His filthy Jewish gabardine,

In woe and lamentation,

And howling consternation.

And the splashing water drenches

Their dirty brats and wenches;

And they crawl from bales and benches,

In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the white squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,

And which all will well remember,
On the 28th September ;

When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"
And looked at Captain Lewis,

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