But Russell, the cherry-cheekt Russell, is chose His fine self and his fleet at sea to expose; But he will take care how he meets with his foes, _Which nobody can deny_. For there was a lady he left on land, To whom he had promised his heart and his hand, Though in her youth she was otherwise mann’d, _Which nobody can deny_. And why plump Russell who need never beg, To move our compassion, goe venture a leg, And break the heart of the good Lady Peg, _Which nobody can deny_. We had sea-collonells o’ th’ nature of otter, Which either might serve by land or by water, Tho’ of what they have done we hear no great matter, _Which nobody can deny_. In the month of May last they sailed on the main, And now in September are come back again, With the loss of some ships, but in battle none slain, _Which nobody can deny_. _ENGLAND’S GREAT LOSS BY A STORM OF WIND._ You gentlemen of England fair, Who live at home free from all care, Little do you think or know What we poor sailors undergo: We whine and toil upon the waves, We work like Turks or galley slaves. ’Twas on November the second day When first our admiral bore away; Intending for his native shore, The wind at west-south-west did roar, Attended by a dismal sky, And the seas did run full mountains high. The very first land that we did make, It chanc’d to be the old Ram’s Head, Which made us all rejoice around To see our flag-stem in Plymouth Sound, Stretching well over for Fishes Nose, Thinking to fetch up in [H]amose. The tide of ebb not being done, She set strong to the westward run, Which put us all in dread and fear, To see our ships, they would not wear, The wind and weather increased sore, And drove nine sail of ships on shore. When we came to Northumberland Rock, The _Lyon_, _Lynx_, and _Antelope_, The _Loyalty_, and _Eagle_ too, The _Elizabeth_ made all to rue: She ran astern, and the line broke, And sunk the _Hardwick_ at first stroke. Now you shall hear the worst of all: The largest ship had the greatest fall; The great _Coronation_, and all her men, Were all drown’d except nineteen; The master’s mate, and eighteen more, Got in their long boat safe on shore. As to our ships, we value not, Had it not fallen to our sailor’s lot; The greatest loss is to their wives In losing of their husbands’ lives; And to Old England it may be more Than nine sail of ships on shore. [_NAVAL WARFARE OF 1692._] To the Tune of _Aim not too high_. To God alone let us all glory give, By whose permission we poor mortals live, And tho’ our enemies may swell with pride He soon can compass them on every side.