BALLAD. (A sailor's life's a life of woe)

A sailor's life's a life of woe, He works now late now early, Now up and down, now to and fro, What then he takes it cheerly: Blest with a smiling can of grog, If duty call, Stand, rise, or fall, To fate's last verge he'll jog:

The cadge to weigh, The sheets belay, He does it with a wish; To heave the lead, Or to cat-head The pond'rous anchor fish: For, while the grog goes round, All sense of danger drown'd, We despise it to a man:

We sing a little, and laugh a little, And work a little, and swear a little, And fiddle a little, and foot it a little, And swig the flowing can.

If howling winds and roaring seas Give proof of coming danger, We view the storm, our hearts at ease, For Jack's to fear a stranger; Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly, Where now below We headlong go, Now rise on mountains high:

Spight of the gale We hand the sail, Or take the needful reef, Or man the deck To clear some wreck, To give the ship relief: Though perils threat around, All sense of danger's drown'd, We despise it to a man.

We sing a little, &c.

But yet think not our fate is hard, Though storms at sea thus treat us, For coming home, a sweet reward! With smiles our sweethearts greet us! Now too the friendly grog we quaff, Our am'rous toast, Her we love most, And gayly sing and laugh:

The sails we furl, Then for each girl The petticoat display; The deck we clear, Then three times cheer, As we their charms survey; And then the grog goes round, All sense of danger drown'd, We despise it to a man:

We sing a little, &c.