Page:Tartan plaid.pdf/6

6 Come, the cann, boys, let's be drinking

To our sweethearts and our wives;

Fill it up, about ship wheel it,

Close to th' lips a brimmer join;

Where's the tempest now!—who feels it?—

None—our danger's drown'd in wine.

The Heaving of the Lead.

England, when, with fav'ring gale,

Our gallant ship up channel steer'd—

And, scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear'd;

To heave the lead the seamen sprung,

And to the Pilot cheerly sung,

'By the deep—Nine!'

And, bearing up, to gain the port,

Some well-known object kept in view;

An Abbey-tow'r, a Harbour-fort,

Or Beacon, to the vessel true;

While oft the lead the seamen flung,

And to the Pilot cheerly sung,

'By the mark—Seven!'

And, as the much lov'd shore we near,

With transport we behold the roof,

Where dwelt a friend, or partner dear,

Of faith and love a matchless proof!

The lead once more seamen flung,

And to the watchful Pilot sung,

'Quarter less—Five!'