Rise, pointed rocks, arise, Assaulted by the foaming surge; Sailors your flinty sides despise, When friendship, love, and honour urge. Roar, thundering cannons, roar, Death-dealing bullets whistle round; Let cowards wish themselves on shore, A British Sailor loves the sound. THE PLOUGHMAN'S DITTY; Being an Answer to the Question, What have the Poor to Lose? To the Tune of-He that has the best Wife. BECAUSE I'm but poor, And slender's my store. That I've nothing to lose is the cry, Sir; Let who will declare it, I vow I can't bear it, I give all such praters the lie, Sir. Tho' my house is but small, Wou'd sure be a greater distress, Sir; Shall my garden so sweet, On Saturday night With my wages to run home the faster; I've a dear little wife, I've my Church ton to save, In defence of a Church that's the best, I've a King too, God bless him, British laws for my guard, What I have to protect, Then doubt if to fight I shall choose, Sit; King, Church, Babes, and Wife, Laws, Liberty, Life, Now tell me I've nothing to lose, Sir. Then I'll beat my ploughshare To a sword or a spear, And rush on these desperate men, -Sir; Like a lion I'll fight, That my spear, now so bright, Mày soon turn to a ploughshare again, Sir. Traveller. TO BONAPARTE. Sure Nappy you've a cruel heart, And most unfeeling soul, For not content to bone a part, You mean to bone the whole : But build not Castles in the air, Nor let vain hopes deceive, For Daddy John has set a snare, Where none can take French leave! THE END, |