BALLAD. (A sailor's love is void of art)

A sailor's love is void of art, Plain sailing to his port, the heart, He knows no jealous folly:

'Twere hard enough at sea to war With boisterous elements that jar— All's peace with lovely Polly.

Enough that, far from sight of shore, Clouds frown, and angry billows roar, Still is he brisk and jolly:

And while carousing with his mates, Her health he drinks—anticipates The smiles of lovely Polly.

Should thunder on the horizon press, Mocking our signals of distress, E'en then dull melancholy

Dares not intrude:—he braves the din, In hopes to find a calm within The snowy arms of Polly.