Rondeau

Smiling grog is the sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor, His compass, his cable, his log, That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker Though dangers around him Unite to confound him, He braves them and tips off his grog. 'Tis grog, only grog, Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log, The sailor's sheet anchor is grog.

What though he to a friend, in trust, His prize money convey, Who to his bond of faith unjust, Cheats him, and runs away,

What's to be done? he vents a curse 'Gainst all false hearts ashore, Of the remainder clears his purse, And then to sea for more.

There smiling grog, &c.

What though his girl, who often swore To know no other charms, He finds, when he returns ashore, Clasp'd in a rivals arms; What's to be done? he vents a curse, And seeks a kinder she, Dances, gets groggy, clears his purse, And goes again to sea.

To crosses born, still trusting there, The waves less faithless than the fair; There into toils to rush again, And stormy perils brave—what then

Smiling grog, &c.