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Come let us reckon what workes are our's,

Forts, bulwarks, barricadoes,
Mounts, gabions, parrapits, countermurs,

Casemates and pallisadoes.

The bear, the dog, the fox, the kite,

That stood fast on the Kover;
They chas'd the Turk in a day and night,

From Scandaroon to Dover.

Field-pieces, muskets, groves of pikes,

Carbines and canoneers-a;
Squadrons, half moons, with rankes and files,

And fronts, and vans, and reers-a.

A health to brave land-soldiers all,

Let cans a piece goe round-a ;
Pell-mell let's to the battaile fall,

And lofty musick sound-a.

THE MARINER'S CHORUS.

The following is taken from an opera, printed at London in 1659,

and entitled “ The History of Sir Francis Drake."

Winds may whistle and waves dance to 'em,
Whilst merchants cry out such sport will undo 'em,

And the master aloud bids, “ Lee the helm, lee !"
But we shall now fear nor the rocks nor the sand,
Whilst calmly we follow our plunder at land,

When others in storms seek prizes at sea.

ADMIRAL BENBOW.

This favourite old sea song is in a collection of penny song books, formerly belonging to Ritson, and, with music, in Dale's Collection. See Chappell's National Airs, p. 97. The ballad is not strictly accurate in its details.

O, we sail'd to Virginia, and thence to Fayal,
Where we water'd our shipping, and then we weigh'd all ;
Full in view of the seas, boys, seven sails we did espy;
O, we manned our capstan, and weigh'd speedily.

The first we came up with was a brigantine sloop,
And we ask'd if the others were big as they look'd;
But turning to windward as near as we could lie,
We found there were ten men of war cruizing by.

Oh! we drew up our squadron in very nice line,
And boldly we fought them for full four hours' time;
But the day being spent, boys, and the night coming on,
We let them alone till the very next morn.

The very next morning the engagement prov'd hot, And brave Admiral Benbow receiv'd a chain shot; And when he was wounded, to his merry men he did say, “ Take me up in your arms, boys, and carry me away.”

Oh! the guns they did rattle, and the bullets did fly,
But Admiral Benbow for help would not cry;
Take me down to the cockpit, there is ease for my smarts,
If my merry men see me it will sure break their hearts.

The very next morning, by break of the day,
They hoisted their top sails, and so bore away ;
We bore to Port Royal, where the people flocked much,
To see Admiral Benbow carried to Kingston Church.

Come all you brave fellows, wherever you've been,
Let us drink to the health of our king and our queen,
And another good health to the girls that we know,
And a third in remembrance of brave Admiral Benbow.

THE ROYAL TRIUMPH :

OR, THE UNSPEAKABLE JOY OF THE THREE KINGDOMS, FOR THE GLORIOUS VICTORY OVER THE FRENCH, BY THE ENGLISH AND DUTCH FLEETS ; TO THE JOY AND COMFORT

OF ALL TRUE SUBJECTS.

Tune is, Let the soldiers rejoyce.

This is taken from a printed copy preserved in the Bagford Col. lection of Ballads, in the British Museum. It may be well to mention here, in case the reader may wish to examine the original, that I refer to three volumes of ballads under the press-mark 643 m, which, as I am informed by Mr. Rimbault, were collected by Bagford, the celebrated typographer and collector of title-pages.

VALIANT Protestant boys,

Here's millions of joys,
And triumph now brought from the ocean;

For the French mighty fleet,

Now is shatter'd and beat, And destruction, destruction, boys, will be their portion.

Here's the Jacobite crew,

Now believe me, 'tis true,
Invited the French to this nation ;

Who was crossing the seas,

With the Teague Rapparees, True cut-throats, true cut-throats, upon my salvation.

But alas they did find

A true Protestant wind,
Which five weeks or longer it lasted ;

Till the most royal fleet

And the Dutch both compleat, They with thunder, with thunder, this project soon

blasted.

On the nineteenth of May,

The French fleet made way,
To make of our courage a tryal ;

They suppos d we'd ne'r fight,

But they won't in the right, For we show'd them, we show'd them, we were true and

loyal.

Our Admiral's bold,

With their brave hearts of gold,
They fell on like brave sons of thunder ;

And their chain-shot let fly,

As the fleet they drew nigh, Where they tore them, and rent them, and tore them Our squadron true-blew,

asunder.

Fought their way through and through,
At length in Lob's Pound, boys, we got ’um;

Where we gave the proud French

Such a fiery drench, That we sent them, we sent them, straight down to the

bottom.

Such a slaughter we made,

While the loud cannons play'd,
Which laid the

poor

Monsieurs a bleeding;
Nay, their chief admirall,

We did bitterly maul,
And have taught him, have taught him, I hope, better

breeding

Our brave Admiral,

Being stout Dellaval,
Whose actions all men may admire;

For the French Rising Sun,

Was not able to run, Which with seven, with seven more ships he did fire.

Valiant Rook sail'd straightway

Where a French squadron lay,
Close amongst the rocks then for shelter;

But we fell on Gillore,

And we fir'd twelve more, Thus we fir'd and burn'd the French fleet helter-skelter.

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