Here floats my foul in fancy's eye, NOW weftlin winds, and flaught'ring guns, Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, The moon shines bright, as I rove by night, The pairtrick lo'es the fruitfu' fells; Thus every kind their pleasure find, Some, focial join, and leagues combine, Avaunt, away! the cruel fway, The fportman's joy, the murd'ring cry, But Peggy, dear, the evening's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow, The fky is blue, the fields in view, All fading green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladfome way, And view the charms o' nature, The ruffling corn, the froited thorn, And ilka happy creature. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, So dear can be, as thou to me, My fair my lovely charmer. THE FORECASTLE SAILOR. THE wind blew a blast from the northward, You may fee by the cut of my jib. Start my timbers, cried Ned Junk, of Dover, With us it will foon be all over, For the Guardian muft quick go to wreck.Well, well, we shan't live to bewail her, Cried I, and I patted his rib; Come-work like a forecastle failor, If I don't, the gale fhiver my jib. We were running at nine knots an hour, An island of ice like a tower, And on it our fhip quickly hy'd. But now 'twas no use for to bale her, Some took to the boat, do you mind me, While fome on the veffel's deck ftood, Cry'd I, may old Davy Jones take me If I fail from my captain fo good. Now Providence help'd us to bale her, And we manag'd to patch up her rib; Safe arriv'd is each true hearted failor, To rig up his weather-beat jib. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. WILT thou be my dearie, When forrow wrings thy gentle heart, And that's the love I bear thee, dearie, Laffie fay thou lo❜es me; And if thou winna be my ain, That thou for thine may chufe me! Flower of beauties hear me, Gin thou wad only smile on him: dearie. THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. "TWAS poft meridian, half past four, With uplift hands and broken hearted. Night came, and now eight bells had rung, On the mid watch fo jovial fung, |