I have rode out the storm when the billows beat high And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd thro' the dark sky, When the tempest of night the black sea overcast Wet and weary I labour'd, yet sung to the blast. SAMUEL: I have march'd, trumpets sounding--drums beating--flags flying, Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the dying, When the shots whizz'd around me all dangers defied, Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side, Drove the foe from the mouth of the Cannon away, Fought, conquer'd and bled, all for sixpence a day. JOHN: And I too friend Samuel! have heard the shots rattle, But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle; Tho' the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around, With the blood of our messmates tho' slippery the ground, The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow, We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe. And the hard battle won, so the prize be not sunk, The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk. SAMUEL: God help the poor soldier when backward he goes In disgraceful retreat thro' a country of foes! No respite from danger by day or by night He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight, Every step that he takes he must battle his way, He must force his hard meal from the peasant away; No rest--and no hope, from all succour afar, God forgive the poor Soldier for going to the war! JOHN: But what are these dangers to those I have past When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast? When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and weak And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak, Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight From the rocks of the shore catch the light-houses light; In vain to the beach to assist us they press, We fire faster and faster our guns of distress, Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar-- How the giddy wreck reels--as the billows burst o'er-- Leap--leap--for she yawns--for she sinks in the wave-- Call on God to preserve--for God only can save! SAMUEL: There's an end of all troubles however at last! And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast, When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore And I thought of the friends I should never see more, No hand to relieve--scarce a morsel of bread-- Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead! Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free, Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see! I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good, And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could. When I think what I've suffer'd and where I am now I curse him who snared me away from the plough. JOHN: