Page:Babes in the wood (1).pdf/8

 But yet my soul, my heart, my mind,

are Mary, moor'd with thee:

For though thy sailor's bound afar,

still love shall be his leading star.

Should landmen flatter when we're sail'd,

O doubt their artful tales;

No gallant sailor ever fail'd,

if Cupid fills his sails;

Thou art the compass of my soul,

which steer my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in every port we meet,

more fell than rocks or waves:

But sailors of the British fleet,

are lovers and not slaves:

No foes our courage shall subdue,

although we've left our hearts with you

There are our cares, but if your kind,

we'll scorn the dashing main,

The rocks, the billows and the wind,

the powers of France and Spain.

Now Britain's glory rests with you,

Our sails are full—sweet girls adieu,