Ben Block

I WAS press'd while a rowing so happy— No matter, 'twas childish to grieve; So to drown care with grog I got nappy, Yet sigh'd my sweet Kitty to leave; But what hurt me most were those ninnies, On whom I had thought to depend, For I wish'd to raise Kate a few guineas, But found I had got ne'er a friend.

When aboard, why I troubled a shipmate A note to my sweetheart to write, Which in doing he somehow a slip made, His own tale of love did indite! So when I at Battersea landed, (He'd patter'd her so to his end) I learnt he my frigate commanded, And found I had got ne'er a friend.

When again on the salt seas in motion, The ill-humour'd winds loudly roar, And friendship I found on the ocean, As scant as I left it on shore: We were wreck'd—but my tale little matters, While messmates to Davy descend, I escap'd but was poor, all in tatters, And found I had got ne'er a friend.

Yet still to all fear was I stranger, In battle (where death tips the grin) Was expos'd to the heat of each danger, 'Till a musket-ball splinter'd my fin: Well, away to the cock-pit I hobble, Where so many customers tend, Then the surgeon, to save further trouble, Lopp'd it off, damme,—not like a friend.

But now ev'ry comfort's imparted, I find, I laid in Greenwich snug dock, My messmates are true, honest hearted, And each wishes well to Ben Block: The rear of my life glides on cheerly In a calm here my moments I'll end, I have fought for my King late and early, And, bless him, the King is my friend.