The Tempest, To which are added…

For works with similar titles, see Tempest.

THE

TEMPEST.

To which are added,
The CAMBRIDGE TENDER,

WITH THE ANSWER.

The JOYS of the HARVEST.

SMIRKY NAN.

GLASGOW,

PRINTED BY J. & M. ROBERTSON.
SALTMARKET, 1802.

THE TEMPEST.

TUNE———BROTHER DEBTOR.

CEASE, rude Boreas, bluſt'ring railer,
listen ye landmen all to me:
Meſs-mates, hear a brother ſailor,
ſing the dangers of the ſea.
From bounding billows firſt in motion,
where the diſtant whirlwinds riſe,
To the tempeſt-troubled ocean,
when the ſeas contend with ſkies.

Hark! the boatſwain hoarſely bawling,
by top-ſail-ſheets and haulyards ſtand,
Down top-gallants, quick be hauling,
down your ſtay-ſails, hand boys, hand.
Now it freſhens, ſet the braces,
the lee top-ſail-ſheet let go,
Luff, boys, luff, don't make wry faces,
up your top-ſails nimbly clew.

Now all you on down-beds ſporting;
fondly lock'd 'twixt beauty's arms,
Freſh engagement, wanting courting,
ſafe from all but love's alarms.
Around us roars the tempeſt louder;
think what fear our minds enthral:
Harder yet, it blows yet harder,
now again the boatſwain's call.

The top-ſailward point to the wind, boys,
ſee all clear to reef each courſe;
Let the fore-ſheet go, don't mind boys,
tho' the weather ſhould be worſe:
Fore and aft the ſpritſail-yard get,
reef the mizzen, ſee all clear;
Hands up, each preventure brace fet,
man the fore-yard; cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
peals on peals contending claſh,
On your heads fierce rain falls pouring,
in your eyes blue lightnings flaſh.
One wide water all around us.
all above but one black ſky!
Diff'rent deaths at once ſurround us,
hark! What means yon dreadful cry?

The foremaſt's gone, cries every tongue out,
o'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck!
A leak beneath the cheſtree's ſprung out!
call all hands to clear the wreck,
Quick she laniards cut to pieces,
come, my hearts, be ſtout and bold;
Plumb the well, the leak increaſes,
four feet water's in the hold!

While o'er die ſhip the wild waves beatings;
we for, wives ard children mourn:
Alas! from them there's no retreating,
alas! to them there's no return!
Still tit leak is gaining on us!
both chain-pumps are cboak'd below;
Heav'n have mercy here upon us!
only He can ſave us now.

On the lee-beam is the land, boys,
let the guns o'er board be thrown;
To the pump come ev'ry hand boys,
ſee her mizzen-maſt is gone.
The leak, we’ve found, it cannot pour faſt,
we’ve light’ned her a foot and more;
Then up and rig a jury foremaſt,
ſhe’s tight, ſhe’s tight, boys, we’re off ſhore.

Now once more, on joys we're thinking,
ſince kind Fortune ſav’d our lives:
Come, the cann, boys, let's be drinking,
to our ſweethearts and our wives.
Fill it up, about ſhip wheel it,
clofe to the lips the brimmer join,
Where’s the tempeſt now? Who ſee’s it?
none—our danger’s drown’d in wine.

The CAMBRIDGE TENDER.

HARD was my lot to be diſplay'd,
by Cupid’s cruel arrow;
Since I’m oblig’d to go to ſea,
I go in grief and ſorrow.
Now from your arms I muſt away,
Peggy take my heart a keeping,
May the Pow’rs above protect my love,
till our next happy meeting.

Falſe information, my dear jewel,
proved our ſeparation, And forc'd me from your breaſt amain,
into ſome foreign nation.
My reputation they diſdain'd,
their might I could not hinder,
Which caus'd me to be preſs'd away,
and ſent aboard the tender.

Peggy, my jewel, do not grieve,
ſuppoſe I muſt retire,
Since I'm oblig'd to go to ſea,
it's you I do admire.
When I'm upon the raging ſea,
and in the midſt of ſtrangers,
The thoughts of you my deareſt dear,
will help me out of dangers.

THE ANSWER.

MY jewel's gone to range the ſeas,
to plow the bluft'ring ocean;
May the God of Fortune on him ſmile,
ſend him honour and promotion.
No rain, or hail, or light'nings fly,
nor roaring claps of thunder,
Nor ſwelling billows loudly baul,
my darling to cauſe wonder.

Great Alexander, God of war,
tenderly ſmile upon him;
Let no diſappointment attend my dear;
ſend him honour and promote him.
May not my jewel be diſmay'd,
with cruel wars alarms,
Some things in view may turn a prize,
til it fill my love-ſick arms.

No curſed gold, no beauty bright,
ſhall ever gain him from me,
But like the turtle I ſhall remain,
'till he returns unto me.
No coſtly robes, no beds of down,
ſhall make me to ſurrender;
Although we part he has my heart
on board the Cambridge Tender.

The JOYS of the HARVEST.

COME all ye Lads and Laſſes,
together let us go,
Into ſome pleaſant corn-field,
our courage for to ſhow.
With the edge of our sickles,
ſo brave we clear the land?
Work on my boys the Farmer cries,
here's liquor at command.

With a good old leathern bottle,
and beer that is to brown,
We ſtrip and reap together,
while bright Phœbus does go down:
So early in the morning,
the birds begin to ſing,
Such echoes of ſweet harmony,
make all the groves to ring.

And in comes pretty Nancy,
her colour for to raiſe,
She is a lovely creature,
I muſt ſpeak in her praiſe:
She is a lovely creature,
the flow'r of my delight,
Through a!l the groves and foreſts,
l'Il range both day and night.

John Preſton has good liquor,
good liquor it is ſaid,
Good liquor makes good blood,
and good blood pretty maids,
She gathers it and ſhe binds it,
the loads it in her arms,
She pitch'd it to the waggoner,
for to fill up his barns.

And thus the induſtrious Farmer,
by the ſweet of his brow,
He labours and endeavours,
to make his barley now.
New harveſt it's all over,
and corn is free from harm;
Before we to the market go,
we muſt threſh in the barn.

And at the harveft ſupper,
ſo merrily we will ſing:
We'll drink a health to the barley-mow,
and to great George our King,
So here's a health to the Farmers,
er elſe we were to blame,
We'll wiſh then health and happineſs,
till harveſt comes again.

SMIRKY NAN.

TUNE ——— MY NANNY O.

AH! woes me, poor Willy cry'd,
ſee how I'm waſted to a ſpan!
My heart I loſt, when firſt I ſpy'd
the charming lovely milk-maid Nan.

l'm grown ſo weak, a gentle breeze
of the duſky winnowing fan,
Would blow me o'er yon beechy trees,
and all for thee, my ſmirky Nan.

The ale-wife miſſes me of late,
I us'd to take a hearty cann!
But now I neither drink nor eat,
unleſs 'tis brew'd and bak'd by Nan.

The baker bakes the best of bread,
the flour he takes, and leaves the bran;
The bran is every other maid,
compar'd with thee, my ſmirky Nan.

But Dick o' the Green, that naſty lown,
laſt Sunday to my miſtreſs ran,
He ſnatch'd a kiſs, I knock'd him down,
which hugely pleas'd any ſmirky Nan.

But hark! the roaring ſoger comes,
and rattles tantara tarran,
She leaves her cows for noiſy drums,
woes me l've loſt my ſmirky Nan!

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Glaſgow, Printed by J. & M. Robertſon,
Saltmarket, 1802.