ALL in the Downs the fleet lay moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came on board-

Oh! where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among your crew.
William, who high upon the yard

Rocked with the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sighed, and cast his eyes below.

The cord glides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

C Susan, Susan, lovely dear!

My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear-

We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee!

Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;
They'll tell thee sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find;

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go !

If to far India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white:

Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Though battle calls me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return;
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosoms spread,
No longer must she stay on board;

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. The lessening boat unwilling rows to land; Adieu! she cried, and waved her lily hand.

STAND TO YOUR GUNS.

STAND to your guns, my hearts of oak,
Let not a word on board be spoke;

Victory is ours, 'mid fire and smoke,

Be silent and be ready.

Ram home the guns and sponge them well Let us be sure the balls will tell;

The cannon's roar shall sound their knell : Be steady, boys, be steady.

When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew?
To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stayed,
For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made.

Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mal.
With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall,
In silence I stood, your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.

Why should Sall, or should Susan, than me be more prized?

For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised.
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake,
Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog too I'll make.

HURRAH FOR THE SEA.

BY WILLES JOHNSON.

YOUR poets may sing of the pleasures of home,
Of the land and a bright sunny sky;
Give me the rough ocean, with bosom of foam,
And a bark, when in chase, that will fly :
Though aloft to the clouds on the billow we soar,
And then sink to the valley below,

We danger defy 'mid the hurricane's roar,

And reck not how hard it may blow!

Then, hurrah for the sea, boys! hurrah for the sea!
The mariner's life is the life for me.

The dear ones we love, when our pockets are lined,
Help to spend all our rhino on shore,

And when empty, "Up anchor!" we're sure soon to find
A prize that will furnish them more.

All friends we avoid as we roam on the wave:
The sail which we welcome's a foe;

And should Death heave us to, there's a ready-made grave,
And down to the bottom we go!

Then hurrah for the sea, boys! hurrah for the sea!

A mariner's life is the life for me!

THE STORM.

BY G. A. STEVENS.

CEASE, rude Boreas, blustering railer!
List, ye landsmen, all to me;
Messmates, hear a brother sailor

Sing the dangers of the sea;
From bounding billows first in motion,
When the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest-troubled ocean,

Where the seas contend with skies.

Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling: "By topsail-sheets and haulyards stand, Down top-gallants, quick, be hauling,

Down your staysails, hand, boys, hand! Now it freshens, set the braces,

The lee topsail-sheets let go;
Luff, boys, luff! don't make wry faces,
Up your topsails nimbly clew."

Now all you, on down beds sporting,
Fondly locked in beauty's arms,
Fresh enjoyments, wanton courting,
Safe from all but love's alarms:
Round us roars the tempest louder,

Think what fears our minds enthral;
Harder yet, it yet blows harder;

Hark! again the boatswain's call!— "The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys, See all clear to reef each course; Let the foresheet go-don't mind, boys, Though the weather should prove worse Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get, Reef the mizen, see all clear, Hands up, each preventer-brace set, Man the foreyard! Cheer, lads, cheer!"

Now the dreadful thunder rolling,

Peal on peal, contending, clash.
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes blue lightnings flash:

One wide water all around us,
All above us one black sky,
Different deaths at once surround us ;-
Hark! what means that dreadful erv {
"The foremast's gone!" cries every tongue out,
"O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck;
A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out--
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick the lanyards cut to pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold'
Plumb the well, the leak increases,

Four feet water in the Hold!

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn:
Alas! from aence there's no retreating;
Alas! from hence there's no return.
Still the leak is gaining on us;

Both chain-pumps are choked below;
Heaven have mercy here upon us!
For only that can save us now.
O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys!
Let the guns o'erboard be thrown;
To the pump come every hand, boys!
See, our mizen-mast is gone!

The leak we've found, it can not pour fast;
We've lightened her a foot or more;

Up and rig a jury foremast:

She rights! she rights, boys! we're off shore'

Now once more on joys we're thinking,

Since kind Fortune saved our lives; Come, the can, boys! let's be drinking To our sweethearts and our wives: Fill it up, about ship wheel it,

Close to the lips a brimmer join. Where's the tempest now? who feel it? None! our danger's drowned in wine."

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ON CHARLES DIBDIN'S MONUMENT AT GREENWICH.

BY T. DIEDIN.

STOP! Shipmate, stop! He can't be dead, His lay yet lives to memory dear;

His spirit, merely shot ahead,

Will yet command Jack's smile and tear! Still in my ear the songs resound,

That stemmed rebellion at the Nore! Avast! each hope of mirth's aground, Should Charley be indeed no more! The evening watch, the sounding lead, Will sadly miss old Charley's line. Saturday Night" may go to bed,

His sun is set no more to shine!

"Sweethearts and Wives," though we may sina

And toast, at sea, the girls on shore;

Yet now 'tis quite another thing,

Since Charley spins the yarn no more!

"Jack Rattlin's" story now who'll tell? Or chronicle each boatswain brave? The sailor's kind historian fell

With him who sung the "Soldier's Grave "" "Poor Jack !" "Tom Bowling!" but belay! Starboard and larboard, aft and fore, Each from his brow may swab the spray, Since tuneful Charley is no more!

The capstan, compass, and the log,

Will oft his Muse to men.ory bring;
And when all hands wheel round the grog,
They'll drink and blubber as they sing.
For grog was often Charley's theme,
A double spirit then it bore;

It sometimes seems to me a dream,
That such a spirit is no more.

It smoothed the tempest, cheered the calm,
Made each a hero at his gun;

It even proved for foes a balm,
Soon as the angry fight was done.
Then, shipmate, check that rising sigh

He's only gone ahead before:

For even foremast men 1.ust die,

As well as Charley, now no more!

THE ROSE OF ALLANDALE.

Is it my wee thing! is it my ain thing! Is it my true love here that I see!

Where'er I wander'd, east or west,

Tho' fate began to lower,

A solace still was she to me,

In sorrow's lonely hour.
When tempests lash'd our gallant bark,
And rent her shiv'ring sail,
One maiden form withstood the storm,
"Twas the rose of Allandale.

And when my fever'd lips were varch'd
On Afric's burning sand,
She whisper'd hopes of happiness,
And tales of distant land:
My life had been a wilderness,
Unbless'd by fortune's gale,
Had fate not link'd my lot to hers,
The Rose of Allandale.

SAW YE MY WEE THING?

THE author of this fine ballad was HECTOR MACNIEL. He was born in 1746, and terminated a life of much vicissitude and bodily suffering, in 1818. He was the author of many popular works, and was looked up to as Scotland's hope in song when Burns died. In the dramatic style of song-writing, of which this is a specimen, he stands unequalled.

SAW ye my wee thing? Saw ye my ain thing?

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea?
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'?
Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree?
Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses :-
Whar could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin',
Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree.
Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses :
Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me.

It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,
It was na my true love ye met by the tree :
Proud is her leal heart! modest her nature!

She never lo'ed onie till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary:
Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee :-
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary,
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me.
Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling e'e!—
Ye's rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning:
Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie.

Awa' wi' beguiling, cried the youth, smiling :-
Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee;
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e!

I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee:

CRAZY JANE.

On the authority of Mr. Sinclair I ascribe this song to Mr. Lewis, the author of "The Monk," &c. He says Mr. Lewis wrote it while on a visit at Inverary Castle; that the incident it relates was real; and that the Duchess of Argyle was the "fair maid" addressed by the maniac. The writer of these remarks remembers a crazy creature, evidently the wreck of beauty, whom he frequently saw during a two years' residence in that neigh bourhood. She occasionally carried a bundle of clothes, fancying it to be a baby. It is most touchingly sung by Miss M. A. Cumming.

WHY, fair maid, in every feature

Are such signs of grief express'd:
Can a wandering, wretched creature
With such terror fill thy breast?
Do my phrensied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet, thy fears a e vain ;
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee;
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.
Dost thou weep to see my anguish ?
Mark me, and avoid my wo:
When men fatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false I found them so
For I loved, oh! so sincerely,

None could ever love again-
But the youth I loved so dearly
Stole the heart of Crazy Jane.

Fondly my fond heart received him,

Which was doom'd to love but one;
He sigh'd, he vow'd, and I believed him,
He was false, and I, undone !
From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain:
Henry fled with him, forever,
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,

And with phrensied thoughts beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,

Still I slowly pace the plain,
Whilst each passer-by, in pity,
Cries, "God help thee, Crazy Jane!"

THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE.

THIS popular song, written by TANNAHILL, and set to music by R. A. Smith, was first introduced to the public in the year 1808. "The third stanza," says Smith, "was not written till several months after the others were finished. The poet," he adds, "had no particular fair 009 in his eye at the time, and Jessie was quite an imaginary personage." The truth is, Tannahill wrote the words to supplant the old coarse song, called “Bob o' Dunblane”— hence the title. He never was in Dunblane, but from his favourite Braes o' Gleniffer had often doubtless seen the sun go down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond.

THE Sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lonely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin',
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom'
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
She's modest as onie, and blythe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;

And far be the villain, divested o' feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dunblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

llow lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain : I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie,

Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst the profusion I'd lavish in vain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

COME ALL YE JOLLY SHEPHERDS THIS sweetest of pastoral songs is the production of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. Mr. Clirehugh's spirited execution has rendered it a favourite with all classes.

COME all ye jolly shepherds

That whistle through the glen,

I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken.

What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name? "Tis to woo a bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame.

When the kye come hame,
When the kye come hame,
"Tween the gloamin and the mirk,
When the kye come hame.

"Tis not beneath the burgonet,
Nor yet beneath the crown,
"Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor yet on bed of down:
"Tis beneath the spreading birch,
In the dell without a name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.
There the blackbird bigs his nest
For the mate he loves to see,
And up upon the tapmost bough,
Oh, a happy bird is he!
Then he pours his melting ditty,
And love 'tis a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye come hame.
When the bluart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pca,
And the bonnie lucken gowan
Has fauldit up his e'e,

Then the laverock frae the blue lift
Draps down, and thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame.
Then the eye shines sae bright,
The hail soul to beguile,
There's love in every whisper,
And joy in every smile;
O, who would choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss a bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame?
See yonder pawky shepherd
That lingers on the hill-
His yowes are in the fauld,

And his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to rest,
For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie

When the Aye come hame.
Awa' wi' fame and fortune-

What comfort can they gi'e?—

And a' the arts that prey

On man's life and libertie! Gi'e me the highest joy

That the heart o' man can frame, My bonnie, bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame.

ROW WEEL, MY BOATIE.

THE author of these stanzas is unknown. The mur, is by R. A. Smith, and is remarkably beautiful

Row weel, my boatie, row weel,

Row weel, my merry men a',

For there's dool and there's wae in Glenfiorich's bowers, And there's grief in my father's ha'.

And the skiff it danced light on the merry wec waves, And it flew ower the water sae blue,

And the wind it blew light, and the moon it shone bright

But the boatie ne'er reach'd Allandhu.

Ohon! for fair Ellen, ohon!

Ohon! for the pride of Strathcoe

In the deep, deep sea, in the salt, salt bree, Lord Reoch, thy Ellen lies low

O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.

THIS popular Jacobite song has been subjected to various alterations by different hands, so that few copies read alike. We give here Hogg's version, in his "Relics." The tune, "O'er the water to Charlie," is older than the '45, and it is probable that there was some old song with that burthen before the Jacobitical effusion.

COME, boat me ower, come, row me ower,
Come, boat me ower to Charlie;

I'll gi'e John Ross another bawbee,
To ferry me ower to Charlie.

We'll over the water, and over the sea,
We'll over the water to Charlie;
Come weel, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live and die wi' Charlie.

It's weel I lo'e my Charlie's name,
Though some there be that abhor him;
But O, to see Auld Nick gaun hame,
And Charlie's faes before him!

I swear by moon and stars sae bricht,
And the sun that glances early,
If I had twenty thousand lives,
I'd gi'e them a' for Charlie.

I ance had sons, I now ha'e nane;

I bred them, toiling sairly;
And I wad bear them a' again,
And lose them a' for Charlie!

THE TEARS I SHED.

THIS elegant effusion was the production of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, wife of the celebrated philosopher. She was the daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, son of William, Lord Cranstoun; was born in 1765, and died in 1838. The first four lines of the last stanza were writ ten by Burns, to suit the music, which requires double

verses.

THE tears I shed must ever fall:

I mourn not for an absent swain; For thoughts may past delights recall, And parted lovers meet again.

I weep not for the silent dead.

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er; And those they loved their steps shall tread,

And death shall join to part no more.