Caller herrin's no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... Neebour wives, now tent my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in yer dealin'-- Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin' Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth? TOM BOWLING Charles Dibdin Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty But now he's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd, For, though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board; My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love, well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore To be once more Safe moor'd with thee! Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be, To think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low. And on that night when all the crew The mem'ry of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burthen of my song shall be-- Blow high, blow low. THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN And did you not hear of a jolly young Waterman, Who at Blackfriars Bridge us'd for to ply, And he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and delighting each eye. He look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, The maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.