It happens on the midnight watch,
That mony a sang is sung, or catch,
Or story to pass off the time,
In prose, or sing-enticing rhyme.
Be ye frae commonwealth or nation,
Troth ye maun sing there in rotation;
Each in his turn must gie's a touch,
The bleak, cauld night awa to hitch.
Blyth Johnny Bull, a jovial blade,
Rais'd a discourse on the slave-trade,
He did not hesitate to curse
The enemies of Wilberforce,
As cannibals, devoid of seeling,
Who love in human flesh to deal — in;
I wept, too, when I did behold
Them cramm'd by hundreds in the hold;
Then such a stench and smell it raises,
That smites the ship's crew with diseases
No clothing, and but poorly sed,
Wishing for death to shift their shade.
Some jump off deck to our sea-lawyers,
Who cut them up like dock-yard sawers:
And the poor souls that do survive,
The planters torture while they live'
With flogging, pinching, hot coals burning,
That for pale death they oft are yearning.
If I should never yearn a penny,
I'll spurn all captains bound for Guinea:
They'll leave us where destruction rages,
And cheat poor seamen of their wages;
Into their purse our money a' — bobs,
Which makes them proud as Indian Nabobs.
Quo' Sawney, " Thir chiels are nae canny,
Wha buy an' sell the sons o' Guinea;
The sons o' Ham are sons o' Adam ,
Wha takes their part I'll ay applaud them.
But I can tell, to Britain's shame,
We have just sic a trade at hame;
For Highland men are drove forsain
To em'grate frae Ross, Sky, and Lorn,
A' for the greed o' Highlan' lairds,
Wha spend their cash on whores and cards,
An' get their purse right gaily yarkit,
At Lunnon city and Newarket;
While our brave clans, the plume o' war,
Pale want and famine thus do share;
Or get themselves like slaves indented,
To go to regions unfrequented;
Lord send this traffic was prevented!
Now since were crackin' o' base knay'ry,
We our ain selves repine in slav'ry:
When war comes, we are sore harass'd,
Like Turks and Highlanders we're press'd,
And kick'd about by every viper,
Tho', like the Dutch, we pay the piper:
Like the silk-worm, we spin our strength out,
A very dreary lang life's length out.
If a' should gang to the mishanter,
Like poets, we maun pay the printer,
Wha trudge about in coat thread-bare,
T' enrich a scurvy stationer,
Wha for ae meal wad not be caution,
To save anither frae starvation.
Now de'il ane thrives but racing jockies,
An' lib'd Italian sun-burnt cockies;
Pimps, whores, an' bawds, an' gambling cullies,
Quacks, messengers, an' Jew-built bullies.
Tho' till't they never serv'd an indenture,
They'll mak' their fortune at a venture.
When poor's a rat, or a kirk-mouse,
Vile navy-harpies us abuse,
An' vex us for month, year an' day,
While mony knavish plan they lay
To keep our prize-money and pay. "
Pat' cried, " Hear, lads, what's come to pass;
Our Sandy's countryman Dundass,
Has made for jolly tars an act,
That they their wages can exact:
If we're in any port in Britain,
These villains dare not keep us waitin. "
The watch, for joy, gave three huzzas,
" Long live Bill Pitt, and good Dundass. "
Our noble captain came up in a trice,
And said, " My jovial lads, splice the main brace . "
Boatswain sings .
Tune — Wolfe's Lament .
Come splice the main brace,
'Twill rouse your spirits up, brave boys;
While rolling on the feas,
Let's splice the main-brace.
Even in in this long carouse
No storm did e'er assuage our joys:
For sweet grog we will bouse,
When Bourbon we do souse,
Quite lifeless tars would be,
Unless they splic'd the main-brace.
Britannia's walls of wood,
The haughty foe could never face,
We're an insipid brood,
Who man her walls of wood.
But with fam'd grog so good,
To moisten well the old main brace,
Our sails we then will croud,
To humble Spain the proud:
St George and victory! while grog inspires our blood.
What tho' we get some wounds,
When we're engag'd off Teneriffe,
Although I got some wounds,
When we took the Galleons,
In gold our view abounds,
By which we will splice the main-brace.
For two three thousand pounds
May well cure all our wounds,
When splicing of the old main-brace in Plymouth sounds.
The wheelman cried, It's just now struck
The welcome hour of four o' clock;
Our boatswain's mate did pipe wi' joy,
" The larboard-watch, — up man and boy! "
Now grog and lopscourse fill'd our stamacks,
And sleep refresh'd us in our hammacks.
That mony a sang is sung, or catch,
Or story to pass off the time,
In prose, or sing-enticing rhyme.
Be ye frae commonwealth or nation,
Troth ye maun sing there in rotation;
Each in his turn must gie's a touch,
The bleak, cauld night awa to hitch.
Blyth Johnny Bull, a jovial blade,
Rais'd a discourse on the slave-trade,
He did not hesitate to curse
The enemies of Wilberforce,
As cannibals, devoid of seeling,
Who love in human flesh to deal — in;
I wept, too, when I did behold
Them cramm'd by hundreds in the hold;
Then such a stench and smell it raises,
That smites the ship's crew with diseases
No clothing, and but poorly sed,
Wishing for death to shift their shade.
Some jump off deck to our sea-lawyers,
Who cut them up like dock-yard sawers:
And the poor souls that do survive,
The planters torture while they live'
With flogging, pinching, hot coals burning,
That for pale death they oft are yearning.
If I should never yearn a penny,
I'll spurn all captains bound for Guinea:
They'll leave us where destruction rages,
And cheat poor seamen of their wages;
Into their purse our money a' — bobs,
Which makes them proud as Indian Nabobs.
Quo' Sawney, " Thir chiels are nae canny,
Wha buy an' sell the sons o' Guinea;
The sons o' Ham are sons o' Adam ,
Wha takes their part I'll ay applaud them.
But I can tell, to Britain's shame,
We have just sic a trade at hame;
For Highland men are drove forsain
To em'grate frae Ross, Sky, and Lorn,
A' for the greed o' Highlan' lairds,
Wha spend their cash on whores and cards,
An' get their purse right gaily yarkit,
At Lunnon city and Newarket;
While our brave clans, the plume o' war,
Pale want and famine thus do share;
Or get themselves like slaves indented,
To go to regions unfrequented;
Lord send this traffic was prevented!
Now since were crackin' o' base knay'ry,
We our ain selves repine in slav'ry:
When war comes, we are sore harass'd,
Like Turks and Highlanders we're press'd,
And kick'd about by every viper,
Tho', like the Dutch, we pay the piper:
Like the silk-worm, we spin our strength out,
A very dreary lang life's length out.
If a' should gang to the mishanter,
Like poets, we maun pay the printer,
Wha trudge about in coat thread-bare,
T' enrich a scurvy stationer,
Wha for ae meal wad not be caution,
To save anither frae starvation.
Now de'il ane thrives but racing jockies,
An' lib'd Italian sun-burnt cockies;
Pimps, whores, an' bawds, an' gambling cullies,
Quacks, messengers, an' Jew-built bullies.
Tho' till't they never serv'd an indenture,
They'll mak' their fortune at a venture.
When poor's a rat, or a kirk-mouse,
Vile navy-harpies us abuse,
An' vex us for month, year an' day,
While mony knavish plan they lay
To keep our prize-money and pay. "
Pat' cried, " Hear, lads, what's come to pass;
Our Sandy's countryman Dundass,
Has made for jolly tars an act,
That they their wages can exact:
If we're in any port in Britain,
These villains dare not keep us waitin. "
The watch, for joy, gave three huzzas,
" Long live Bill Pitt, and good Dundass. "
Our noble captain came up in a trice,
And said, " My jovial lads, splice the main brace . "
Boatswain sings .
Tune — Wolfe's Lament .
Come splice the main brace,
'Twill rouse your spirits up, brave boys;
While rolling on the feas,
Let's splice the main-brace.
Even in in this long carouse
No storm did e'er assuage our joys:
For sweet grog we will bouse,
When Bourbon we do souse,
Quite lifeless tars would be,
Unless they splic'd the main-brace.
Britannia's walls of wood,
The haughty foe could never face,
We're an insipid brood,
Who man her walls of wood.
But with fam'd grog so good,
To moisten well the old main brace,
Our sails we then will croud,
To humble Spain the proud:
St George and victory! while grog inspires our blood.
What tho' we get some wounds,
When we're engag'd off Teneriffe,
Although I got some wounds,
When we took the Galleons,
In gold our view abounds,
By which we will splice the main-brace.
For two three thousand pounds
May well cure all our wounds,
When splicing of the old main-brace in Plymouth sounds.
The wheelman cried, It's just now struck
The welcome hour of four o' clock;
Our boatswain's mate did pipe wi' joy,
" The larboard-watch, — up man and boy! "
Now grog and lopscourse fill'd our stamacks,
And sleep refresh'd us in our hammacks.