But at the Nore there was open mutiny; they blockaded the entrance to the Thames, and fired on several ships entering or departing. This could not be endured, and the Admiralty removed the buoys. Provisions ran short, and some men-of-war were sent alongside, with orders to sink those ships that did not surrender. They gave in one by one, and the chief ringleader, Richard Parker (a man of some education), and several others were hanged; but they were long regarded as martyrs. Parker was buried in the churchyard of St. Mary Matfelon, Whitechapel. [Illustration] _DEATH OF PARKER._ YE Gods above, protect the widow, And with pity look down on me, Help me, help me out of trouble, And out of all calamity. For by the death of my brave Parker, Fortune hath prov’d to me unkind; Tho’ doom’d by law, he was to suffer, I can’t erase him from my mind. Parker he was my lawful husband, My bosom friend I lov’d so dear; At the awful moment he was going to suffer I was not allowed to come near. In vain I strove, in vain I asked, Three times, o’er and o’er again, But they replied, you must be denied, You must return on shore again. First time I attempted my love to see, I was obliged to go away, Oppress’d with grief, and broken hearted, To think that they should me stay. I thought I saw the yellow flag flying, A signal for my husband to die, A gun was fired, as they required, As the time it did draw nigh. The boatswain did his best endeavour, To get me on shore without delay, When I stood trembling and confounded, Ready to take his body away. Though his trembling hand did wave, As a signal of farewell, The grief I suffered at this moment, No heart can paint, or tongue can tell. My fleeting spirit I thought would follow, The soul of him I love so dear, No friend, nor neighbour would come nigh me, For to ease me of my grief and care. Every moment I thought an hour, Till the law its course had run, I wish’d to finish the doleful task, His imprudence had begun. In the dead of night, ’tis silent, And all the world are fast asleep, My trembling heart that knows no comfort, O’er his grave does often weep, Each lingering minute that passes, Brings me nearer to the shore, When we shall shine in endless glory, Never to be parted more. _THE BATTLE OF BOULOGNE._ ON the second day of August, eighteen hundred and one, We sail’d with Lord Nelson to the port of Boulogne, For to cut out their shipping, which was all in vain, For to our misfortune, they were all moored and chained. Our boats being well mann’d, at eleven at night, For to cut away their shipping, except they would fight, But the grape from their batteries so smartly did play, Nine hundred brave seamen killed and wounded there lay.