XXVI
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,
And 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!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone 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 doffed,
For though his body’s under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.
Charles Dibdin.
XXVII
THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR Jack dances and sings, and is always content,
In his vows to his lass he’ll ne’er fail her;
His anchor’s a-trip when his money’s all spent—
And this is the life of a sailor.
Alert in his duty, he readily flies
Where winds the tir’d vessel are flinging;
Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss’d to the skies,
Still Jack is found working and singing.
‘Long-side of an enemy, boldly and brave,
He’ll with broadside on broadside regale her;
Yet he’ll sigh from his soul o’er that enemy’s grave:
So noble’s the mind of a sailor.
Let cannons road loud, burst their sides let the bombs,
Let the winds a dead hurricane rattle;
The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes,
And laughs at the storm and the battle.
In a Fostering Power while Jack puts his trust,
As Fortune comes, smiling he’ll hail her;
Resign’d still, and manly, since what must be must,
And this is the mind of a sailor.
Though careless and headlong, if danger should press,
And rank’d ’mongst the free list of rovers,
Yet he’ll melt into tears at a tale of distress,
And prove the most constant of lovers.
To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,
Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer,
He’s gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave,
And this is a true English sailor.
Charles Dibdin.
XXVIII
TOM TOUGH
My name, d’ye see, ’s Tom Tough, I’ve seed a little sarvice,
Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow;
I’ve sailed with valiant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jarvis,
And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’
Yet more shall ye be knowing,—
I was coxon to Boscawen,
And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe.
Then put round the grog,—
So we’ve that and our prog,
We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing ‘Yo heave ho!’
When from my love to part I first weigh’d anchor,
And she was sniv’ling seed on the beach below,
I’d like to cotch’d my eyes sniv’ling too, d’ye see, to thank her,
But I brought my sorrows up with a ‘Yo heave ho!’
For sailors, though they have their jokes,
And love and feel like other folks,
Their duty to neglect must not come for to go;
So I seized the capstern bar,
Like a true honest tar,
And, in spite of tears and sighs, sang out ‘Yo heave ho!’
But the worst on’t was that time when the little ones were sickly,
And if they’d live or die the doctor did not know;
The word was gov’d to weigh so sudden and so quickly,
I thought my heart would break as I sung ‘Yo heave ho!’
For Poll’s so like her mother,
And as for Jack, her brother,
The boy, when he grows up will nobly fight the foe;
But in Providence I trust,
For you see what must be must,
So my sighs I gave the winds and sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’
And now at last laid up in a decentish condition,
For I’ve only lost an eye, and got a timber toe;
But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission,
Nor again the anchor weigh with ‘Yo heave ho!’
So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,—
For my boy shall well revenge my wrongs,
And my girl shall breed young sailors, nobly for to face the foe;—
Then to Country and King,
Fate no danger can bring,
While the tars of Old England sing out ‘Yo heave ho!’
Charles Dibdin.
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