THE TENDER's HOLD

While landmen wander uncontroul'd, And boast the rights of freemen, O! view the Tender's loathsome hold, Where droop your injur'd seamen; Dragg'd by oppression's savage grasp, From every dear connection, Midst putrid air, O! hear them gasp, And mark their deep dejection.

Blush then, ye mean, ye pension'd host, Who wallow in profusion, For you foul cell proves all your boast To be but mere delusion. If freedom be our birth-right, say, Why are not all protected? Why is the hand of ruffian sway 'Gainst seamen thus directed? Is this your proof of Britisn rights? Is this rewarding bravery? O shame! to boast your tars exploits, Yet doom those tars to slavery. Blush then, &c.

O! that ambition's callous train, Who wish to shine in story, Who tinge with blood the earth and main, And call their havoc glory, O! that these scourgers of the world, Who smile at man's undoing, Might from their lordly seats be hurl'd, And taste the cup of ruin. Blush then, &c.

Are Britons free?—ye vaunting crew, Who damn all reformation, Deep in the Tender's Hold, O! view, The guardians of your nation: Yes, view them thus in durance laid, Though void of all transgression, Then say, could Russia's bloody jade Display more soul oppression? Blush then, &c.

But just return'd from noxious skies, And winter's raging ocean, To land the sun-burnt seaman flies, Impell'd by strong emotion; His much loved Kate, his children dear, Around him cling delighted, When lo! the impressing fiends appear, And every joy is blighted! Blush then, &c.

Thus from each soft endearment torn, Here view the seaman languish, His wife, his children left forlorn, The prey of bitter anguish; 'Rest of those arms whose vigorous strength Their shed from want defended, They droop, and all their woes at length Are in a workhouse ended. Blush then, &c.

Mark then, ye minions of a court, Who prate of freedom's blessing, Yet every hell-born war support, And vindicate impressing; A time will come, when things like you, Mere baubles of creation, No more shall make mankind pursue, The work of devastation.

Blush then, ye mean, ye pensioned host, Who wallow in profusion, For you foul cell proves all your beast To be but mere delusion.