The Sailor's Farewel
[Dr. John Ogilvie?]
The Poetical Register and Repository of Fugitive Poetry, I (1802),
Hark! the holla that calls us away!
Tom, fill up a bumper in haste:
While the ship lies unmoor'd in the bay,
Let us drink to the days that are past.
Let us drink, jolly boys, ere we part,
To our mates that carouse on the shore;
To the Friend, whom we lodge in our heart;
To the Nymph whom we prize as our store.
Adieu to the hut in the vale,
To the secret recess of the grove;
To old Ned, with October so stale;
To Molly the maid of my love;
To the joys of the feast, and the glass,
Where Beauty displays all her charms;
To the song, and the buxom young lass
That melts at the sound in your arms.
See the mainsail that floats on the wind.
Hark! they heave up the anchor! Yee ho!
Our friends stand assembled behind;
While the shores all re-echo—hillo!
Let the heart of each Briton rejoice,
At the shouts that resound from the main;
'Tis the Spirit of England, brave boys,
That swells in the slow-rolling strain.
Farewel to our dear native home,
And our sweet little pastures of yore;
O'er the wide-spreading ocean we roam,
And may see the old hamlet no more.
Yet the heart of a sailor can feel
For his friend's, for his country's repose;
To these it presents the smooth peel,
And the rough oak beneath,—to their foes.
Free Lords of the Ocean we steer,
In commerce supreme, as in war;
To the Nations we speak without fear,
Let the Monsieurs contend—if they dare.
We'll bring, with your monkeys so gay,
In frolic akin, as in face,
Some spruce little Frenchman to play,
And give each—the fraternal embrace!
Ye breezes, blow fair from the land!
—Thou Power on all nature impress'd,
Who hold'st the wild winds in thine hand;
O smooth the rough billows to rest!
They fill the loose sails as they glide:
The landscape recedes from the view:
In our broad wake, we furrow the tide,
—Ye shores of Old England, adieu!