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Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried. 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; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

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;

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn her frame divides,
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;
Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress,
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I, with unrivalled strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore !

As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast.
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
Now on the mountain wave on high they ride,
Then downward plunge beneath the involving

tide,

Till one, who seems in agony to strive,
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive;
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew,
And prest the stony beach, a lifeless crew!

WILLIAM FALCONER.

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Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave,
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

With shroud and mast and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.

FELICIA HEMANS.

CASABIANCA.

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Ad- Ан, yes,

miral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile)
after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned,
and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had
reached the powder.]

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say,
If yet my task be done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud.
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy,-Oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,

THE SEA FIGHT.

AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINER.

the fight! Well, messmates, well,
I served on board that Ninety-eight;
Yet what I saw I loathe to tell.

To-night be sure a crushing weight
Upon my sleeping breast, a hell

Of dread, will sit. At any rate,
Though land-locked here, a watch I'll keep,
Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep?

That Ninety-eight I sailed on board;

Along the Frenchman's coast we flew ;
Right aft the rising tempest roared;
A noble first-rate hove in view;
And soon high in the gale there soared

Her streamed-out bunting, - red, white, blue!
We cleared for fight, and landward bore,
To get between the chase and shore.

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The blessed tear was on my cheek,

She smiled with that old smile I know. "Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," Was on my quivering lips, - when lo! All vanished, and a dark, red streak Glared wild and vivid from the foe, That flashed upon the blood-stained water, For fore and aft the flames had caught her. She struck and hailed us. On us fast All burning, helplessly, she came, Near, and more near; and not a mast Had we to help us from that flame. 'T was then the bravest stood aghast, 'T was then the wicked, on the name (With danger and with guilt appalled) Of God, too long neglected, called.

The eddying flames with ravening tongue Now on our ship's dark bulwarks dash, We almost touched, — when ocean rung Down to its depths with one loud crash! In heaven's top vault one instant hung

The vast, intense, and blinding flash!
Then all was darkness, stillness, dread, -
The wave moaned o'er the valiant dead.

She's gone! blown up! that gallant foe!
And though she left us in a plight,
We floated still; leng were, I know,
And hard, the labors of that night
To clear the wreck. At length in tow
A frigate took us, when 't was light;
And soon an English port we gained, -
A hulk all battered and blood-stained.

So many slain, so many drowned!
I like not of that fight to tell.
Come, let the cheerful grog go round!

Messmates, I've done. A spell, ho! spell,
Though a pressed man, I'll still be found
To do a seaman's duty well.

I wish our brother landsmen knew

One half we jolly tars go through.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

ANONYMOUS.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he 's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel,
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there 's nae luck about the house,
There 's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

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Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he 's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair;

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair, And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave:
And gin I live to keep him sae
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there 's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

W. J. MICKLE.

SIR SIDNEY SMITH.

GENTLEFOLKS, in my time, I've made many a rhyme,

But the song I now trouble you with,

Lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, because

The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is ;
The subject's Sir Sidney Smith.

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney,
He'd fight every foe he could meet;
Give him one ship fortwo, and without more ado,
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would,
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet.

Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way,
Till fortune, that changeable elf,
Ordered accidents so, that while taking the foe,
Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did,
Sir Sidney got taken himself.

His captors, right glad of the prize they now had,
Rejected each offer we bid,

And swore he should stay locked up till doomsday; But he swore he 'd be d-d if he did, he did, But he swore he'd be hanged if he did.

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