Dibdin's Museum, &c, SONG

Poor Jack, whose gay heart kept his spirits aloft, And ever gave mirth its full due, Who sadness despised, nor to grief was so soft, Which made him the life of the crew: Having weather'd the tempests of ocean and fate, Disdaining all hardships and fear; Hastened home to his Poll, with his true-hearted mate, To be laid up in pleasure's snug tier. With a good store of shiners his chest was supply'd, Says he, "Now I'm on the right tack; "For that cherub on whom I so often rely'd, "Has home, safe and sound brought poor Jack."

To his heart Poll he pressed, the glad moment was fixt, When tow'rds church he would take her in tow; And there the good Chaplain should soon name the text, That would splice 'em together, you know: To his messmates, elated, he mention'd the morn, And forecastle jokes went around; "As how that, they hop'd he'd not double Cape Horn, "Or on jealousy's shoals run aground; "But snug, at the helm, he'd all dangers defy, "Laugh at those who'd his comforts attack, "And the sweet little cherub aloft would espy "Waving ensigns of joy o'er poor Jack."

That night which was nam'd by her sailor the last, Poll should sleep in her hammock alone; He resolv'd with his shipmates in glee should be past, And mirth in his countenance shone: He troll'd the blythe stave, drank a health to all round, Good liquor had cherish'd his soul; When a seaman a signal from beauty did sound, Which call'd him away to his Poll: "Avast, friend, adieu! for a moment we part, "Poll commands me, about I must tack; "For she's the sweet cherub that reigns in the heart, "Of our friend and companion poor Jack."

But scarce from the cabbin of friendship he flew, 'Ere the sky formed a picture so dread; The rain beat aloud; and the winds fiercely blew, And thunder roll'd over his head: For his messmates at sea, how his bosom did swell, He sigh'd more than once for their fate; Blue lightning flash'd around him, the kind victim fell, His soul fled to death's calm retreat. The cherub, who ever to virtue is near, Bore it hence through a clear lucid track; Yet gaz'd on his dust, and dropt a salt tear, To deprive his sweet Poll of Poor Jack.