Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the _Royal George_ With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock, She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England’s thunder, And plough the distant main: But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o’er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. _William Cowper._ DIBDIN XXVI TOM BOWLING Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he’ll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful below he did his duty, And 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 doffed, For though his body’s under hatches, His soul is gone aloft. _Charles Dibdin._ XXVII THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR Jack dances and sings, and is always content, In his vows to his lass he’ll ne’er fail her; His anchor’s a-trip when his money’s all spent-- And this is the life of a sailor. Alert in his duty, he readily flies Where winds the tir’d vessel are flinging; Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss’d to the skies, Still Jack is found working and singing. ‘Long-side of an enemy, boldly and brave, He’ll with broadside on broadside regale her; Yet he’ll sigh from his soul o’er that enemy’s grave: So noble’s the mind of a sailor. Let cannons road loud, burst their sides let the bombs, Let the winds a dead hurricane rattle; The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, And laughs at the storm and the battle. In a Fostering Power while Jack puts his trust, As Fortune comes, smiling he’ll hail her; Resign’d still, and manly, since what must be must, And this is the mind of a sailor.