BLUE PETER.

BLUE Peter at the mast-head flew,
And to the girls we bid adieu,
Weigh'd anchor and made sail.
The boatswain blew hs whistle shrill,
The reefs, shook out, began to fill,
We caught a fav'ring gale.

And with a can of flip,

To cheer the honest heart,
Thus gaily may we trip.

Lara, lara la, lara lara la!

We cruiz'd along the coast of France,
But not a Mounsieur gave us chance,
We did, my lads, our best;

We drank, and laugh'd, and sung together,
We kept the sea, nor car'd for weather,
'Twas all the same to Jack.

And with a can of flip, &c.

Oft running large, short miles we trac'd,
And now, close-haul'd, the yards sharp-brac'd,
Thus, and no near! the cry;
Now tacking, swearing, lashing, steering,
While away the chace is bearing,

To have a bruslr damn'd shy.

[Speaks.]-And now and then a shot we try, to bring them too, whether it hits or not:

And with a can of flip, &c.

Sometimes, while squalls have o'er us swept,
High at the mast-head watch I've kept;
We did, my lads. our best:
Still on the look-out for a rumpus,
At ev'ry corner of the compass,

The north, south, east, and west.

[Speaks.]-S. and by W.-N. N. E.-S. S. W.-N. E. by N.-S. W. by S.-N. E.-S. W.-N. E. by N.

-S. W. by S.-E, N. E.-W. S. W.-E. by. N.W. by S.-Aye, dam'me, North, South, East, West, and every corner of the compass:

And with a can of flip, &c.

SEA-SONG.

Tune-The Dusky Night.

TO all those lovely girls on shore
We sailors bid adieu,
Our loss they feelingly deplore,
Our loss they feelingly deplore,
Farewell to Sal and Sue,

For the boatswain pipes all hands, &c.

To veer ship now we lads

prepare,

The windward course to steer,

True British hearts devoid of care,

The craggy shore to clear,

For the boatswain pipes all hands, &c.

To meet the proud and daring foe,
So boldly we advance,

Thro' calms and storms we cheerful go,
To humble drooping France.

But the boatswain pipes all hands, &c.

And when the thundering cannon roar,
Each tight lad plays his part,

Can hearts of oak, when try'd, do more,
French lubbers feel the smart.

But the boatswain pipes all hands, &c.

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

"TWAS summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree:
At the foot of a rock, where the river was flowing,
I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.
Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river;
Thy banks, purest streams, shall be dear to me ever;
For there I first gain'd the affection and favour
Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
To quell the proud rebels, for valiant is he;
And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning,
To wander again on the banks of the Dee.
He's gone, helpless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows;
The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows;
And left me to stray 'mongst the once loved willows,
The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my pray'rs may perhaps yet restore him;
Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me:
And when he returns with such care I'll watch o'er him,
He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.
The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying;
The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing;
While I with my Jamie are carelessly playing

And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

SONG.

Sung by Mr. Munden, at Covent Garden Theatre.

WHEN the moon shines o'er the deep,
Ackee-O—Ackee-O–

And whisker'd Dons are fast asleep,

Snoring, fast asleep,

From their huts the negroes run,
Full of frolic, full of fun,
Holiday to keep.

'Till morn they dance the merry round, To the fife and cymbal.

See, so brisk,
How they frisk,
Airy, gay, and nimble!
With gestures antic,
Joyous, frantic,

They dance the merry round,
Ackee-O--Ackee-O

To the cymbal's sound.

Black lad whispers to black lass,
Ackee-O-Ackee-O-

Glances sly between them pass,
Of beating hearts to tell.
Tho' no blush can paint her cheek,
Still her eyes the language speak
Of passion, quite as well,
Till morn, &c.

SONG.

Written by the Earl of Chesterfield.

MISTAKEN fair, lay Sherlock by,
His doctrine is deceiving;

For whilst he teaches us to die,
He cheats us of our living.

To die's a lesson we shall know
Too soon, without a master;
Then let us only study, now,

How we may live the faster,

To live's to love; to bless, be blest
With mutual inclination;

Share, then, my ardour in your breast,
And kindly meet my passion.

But if thus bless'd I may not live,
And pity you deny;

To me, at least, your Sherlock give,
'Tis I must learn to die.

EMMA.

SINCE Emma caught my roving eye,
Since Emma fix'd my wav'ring heart,
I long to smile, I scorn to sigh,
But nature triumphs over art.

CHORUS.

If such the hapless moments prove,
Ah! who would give his heart to love?

If frowns and sighs, and cold disdain,
Be meet return for love like mine;

If cruel Emma scoffs my pain,
And archly wonders why I pine:
If such, &c.

But should the lovely girl relent;

Oh!-when I wish, and sigh, and vow, Should she with blushes smile consent,

And heart for heart, well pleas'd, bestow;

CHORUS.

Should such the blissful moment prove,
Who would not give his heart to lover