Classic Poem

In David 's psalms, an oversight,
Byles found one morning at his tea:
Alas! why did not David write
A proper psalm to sing at sea?

Thus ruminating, on his seat,
Ambitious thoughts at length prevail'd;
The bard determin'd to compleat
The part in which the prophet fail'd.

A while he paus'd, and strok'd his muse;
Then, taking up his tuneful pen,
Wrote a few stanzas for the use
Of his sea-faring bretheren.

The task perform'd, the bard content,
(Well chosen was each flowing word)
On a short voyage himself he went,
To hear it read and sung on board.

What extasies of joy appear!
What pleasure and unknown delights
Thrill the vain poet's soul to hear
Others repeat the things he writes.

Most aged Christians do aver
(Their credit sure we may rely on)
In former times, that after prayer,
They us'd to sing a song of Zion .

Our modern parson having pray'd,
(Unless loud fame our faith beguiles)
Sat down, took out his book and say'd,
Let's sing a song of Mather Byles .

As soon as he began to read,
Their heads th' assembly downward hung;
Yet he with boldness did proceed,
And thus he read, and thus they sung.

THE HYMN

With vast amazement we survey
The wonders of the deep:
Where mack'rel swim, and porpoise play,
And crabs and lobsters creep.

Fish of all kinds inhabit there,
And throng the dark abode;
There haddock, hake and flounders are,
And eels, and perch, and cod.

From raging winds and tempests free,
So smooth, that, as you pass,
The shining surface seems to be
A piece of Bristol glass.

But when the winds tempestuous rise,
And foaming billows swell,
The vessel mounts above the skies,
Then lower sinks than hell.

Our brains the tott'ring motion feel,
And quickly we become
Giddy as new-dropt calves, and reel
Like Indians drunk with rum.

What praises then are due, that we
Thus far are safely got;
Amarriscoggin tribe to see,
And tribe of Penobscot !