Our sweethearts and wives they are not to be forgot; The balls they now engage with are softer than French shot. When e’er we do return, my boys, we’ll make these culls to run, We’ll make them dread the sailors that fought with Barrington. Our bowls they are full, and we have plenty for to drink, And that’s the thing which causes me to drop my pen and ink; Whene’er we meet the French dogs we’ll make their jackets smoak, Whilst Captain Fitzherbert commands the _Royal Oak_. _PAUL JONES._ An American frigate, called the _Richard_ by name, Mounted guns forty-four, out of L’Orient came For to cruise in the Channel of Old England’s fame, With a noble commander: Paul Jones was his name. We had not long cruised before two sails we spied, A large forty-four and a twenty likewise, With fifty bright shipping well loaded with store, And the convoy stood in for the old Yorkshire shore. At length the proud Pearson came up alongside With a long speaking trumpet. ‘Whence came you?’ he cried. Come, answer me quickly--I’ve hailed you before-- Or else a broadside into you I will pour.’ Paul Jones he then smiled and to his men did say, ‘Let every man stand to the best of his play.’ We received the broadside from the proud Englishmen, But soon our brave Yankees returned it again. We fought them four glasses, four glasses so hot, Till 40 bold seamen lay dead on the spot, And 55 more lay bleeding in gore, While the thundering large canons of Paul Jones did roar. Our gunner, being frightened, to Paul Jones he came. ‘Our ship she makes water and is likewise in flame.’ Paul Jones he made answer in the height of his pride, ‘If we can do no better we’ll sink alongside.’ Oh, now, my brave boys, we have taken a prize, A large forty-four with a twenty likewise, With twenty fine merchantmen laden with store, So we’ll alter our course to the American shore. _CAPTAIN FARMER._ The muse and the hero together are fir’d, The same noble views have their bosoms inspir’d; As freedom they love, and for glory contend, The muse o’er the hero still mourns as a friend; His name from the jaws of oblivion to save, The muse shall immortalize Farmer the brave. His ship was the _Quebec_, fatal, glorious name, The source to Britannia of sorrow and fame. We’ve twice to our cost that name ill-omen’d found, But now we’ve no balsam to heal this fresh wound, For then tho’ Wolfe’s loss to our joy gave a check, Whilst we morn’d for the chief we rejoic’d for Quebec. At daybreak, ere Phœbus had shed his blest light, Three sail he espy’d, and prepar’d for to fight; October the 6th, anno seventy-nine, With a forty-gun ship he in battle did join; At nine in the morning began the fierce fray, Which without intermission held most of the day.