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Quoth Ralph, yoer Lordſhip muſt ⟨refrain⟩
where flattering knaves reſort,
(Long live our gracious King and Queen
I mean that place the Court:
Lay pomp and pageantry aſide,
be from abition free;
And then your Lordſhip ſoon may ſing,
I care for nobody.
THE POOR SAILOR BOY.
'Midst rocks and quicksands have we ſteer’d.
rude ſtorms and torrents brav’d, Sir;
The battle’s rage, nor death we fear’d
we conquer’d, then we ſav’d, Sir.
In diſtant climes Old England’s foe
did ev’ry-where annoy,
Then, meſſ-mate-like, ſome pity ſhew
to a Poor Sailor Boy.
When mid-night tempeſt roar’d around,
and ſeas roll’d o’er the deck, Sir,
When 92 brave ſouls were drown’d,
