See! see! on her shrouds all her canvas she crowds,
The Trader perceives his mistake,
From the red flag he knows that the worst of all foes—
The old Scorpion—lies in his wake.
In vain do they fly, they must strike or must die,
No mercy from us will they find;
As well may they think the huge ocean to drink,
As to leave the gay rover behind.
We near her! the shout of the battle breaks out!
We board! all her gold is our own!
'Neath the fathomless wave they have met with a grave,
The old Scorpion is sailing alone.
Impromptu.
Too good to come off.
In a half-timbered cottage, in some quiet nook,
With some fifty good acres of land,
With a spinney for rabbits, some trout in a brook,
A small garden and orchard at hand,
A snug kitchen comer for cold winter nights,
A glass of good ale for a friend,
One dear smiling face to put all things to rights,
Would to goodness kind Fortune would send.
