But on the seventeenth, brave boys, at twelve o’clock at night We lost our fore and main mast, to us a doleful sight; To see us in this dreadful gale an adamant heart would weep, Our quarter-deck and forecastle guns we plunged in the deep. But soon we rigged our jurymast when that the gale was o’er, The weather it came fine and clear, the billows ceas’d to roar; But soon another gale arose, which lasted three whole days, In the Gulph Stream we were toss’d about, tremendous were the seas. Our prize she was dismasted and much injury sustain’d; Thank God she’s now arrived safe, the anchorage she’s gain’d. Thus kind Heaven protected us, all dangers we surviv’d, For now in sweet Bermuda our ship and she’s arriv’d. Now let Commodore Decatur and all his Yankee crew Write home to cowardly Madison what British tars can do, Whilst our trophies we’ll bring home unto the British shore, And cans of grog we’ll pledge, my boys, now tempests cease to roar. So fill to me a flowing bowl and let the toast go round: God prosper long bold Captain Hope, with laurels he is crown’d; Success to our bold officers and all our valiant crew, And may all British seamen their victories pursue. _THE BRITISH TARS._ Come all you thoughtless young men, a warning take by me, And never leave your happy homes to sail the raging sea, For I have ploughed the raging main this twenty years or more, But now I’m turned adrift to starve upon my native shore. When war at first assail’d us I quickly left my trade, Our country was in danger, I flew to lend my aid. And in my country’s service, long, long fatigues I bore, But now I’m turned adrift to starve upon my native shore. By storms and raging tempest shipwreck’d three times I’ve been, And many a bloody battle upon the seas I’ve seen; I’ve seen the cannon’s glaring flash, I’ve heard its murderous roar, Tho’ now I’m turned adrift to starve upon my native shore. The British seaman’s valour to all the world is known, We conquer still where’er we go, the action is our own. The meteor flag of England triumphantly we bore; But now we are turned adrift to starve upon our native shore. Should hostile fleets e’er venture upon the raging main, True hearts of oak we British Tars we’ll push to sea again; And bravely bring their ships to port as we have done before. So help us now while we’re in want upon our native shore. Come pity, ye gentle strangers, a luckless British Tar, In your defence he yet may hurl the thunderbolts of war. Come lend some kind assistance, and heaven will bless your store, For now I’m turned adrift to starve upon my native shore. _THE FANCY FRIGATE._