Being sunk, took, and burn'd Let 'em sail home and boast, To old Lewis, to old Lewis, their fistula master. When he hears how they speed, It will strike him near dead, But we'll have him to know, That we'll still keep him low, He shall never, shall never, boys, conquer Great Britain. Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, and J. Buck. THE FAIR MAID'S CHOICE: OR, THE SEAMAN'S Being a pleasant song made of a sailor, Likewise brave gallants that goes fine and rare, To the tune of Shrewsbury for me. [From Bagford's Collection.] As I through Sandwich town passed along, By T. L. I gave good attention unto her new ditty, My thoughts it was wondrous gallant and pretty, With a voice sweet and pleasant most sweetly sung she, Of all sorts of tradesmen a seaman for me. THE FAIR MAID'S SONG IN PRAISE OF A SEAMAN. Come all you fair maidens in country and town, The gallant brave seaman God bless him, I say, Of all sorts of gallants so gaudy and fine, That with gold and silver so bravely doth shine, For a seaman will venture his life and his blood, He ventures for traffique upon the salt seas, Amongst all your tradesmen and merchants so brave, I can't set my fancy none of them to have, But a seaman I will have my husband to be, With a thievish miller I never will deal, Likewise a pimping taylor, and a lowsie weaver, But of all, &c. Also the carpenter and the shoomaker, The blacksmith, the brewer, and likewise the baker, Some of them use knavery, and some honesty, But of all, &c. For I love a seaman as I love my life, And I am resolv'd to be a seaman's wife, No man else in England my husband shall be, And I'll tell why I love a seaman so dear, If that I were worth a whole ship-load of gold, Then of all, &c. Through fire and water I would go I swear, Here's a health to my dear,come pledge me who please, To all gallant seamen that sail on the seas, Pray God bless and keep them from all dangers free, So of all sorts of tradesmen a seaman for me, FINIS. Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke. A COMMENDATION OF MARTIN FROBISHER. FROM a contemporary manuscript, in the Ashmolean Library, at Oxford, No. 208. From a note in the same handwriting as the manuscript, the poem appears to have been written by John Kirkham. YOUE muses guid my quivering quille, Sicilian nymphes accord my suet, And to my hestes give ear. Your sacred hyd a wyll I crave, My shiveringe sence to staye, Such hewt exploits I take in hand, That men to me maye saye; Thy ragged rims and rurall verse To touch the tape of Martin's prayes, Wher whirlinge sphers doe hit resound, What thundringe tromps of goulden fame, Whose hewtie acts not heavens allon Contented ar to have, But earth and skyes, the surging seas, Do all resound, with tuned stringe Howe Frobisher in every cost, A mertial knight adventuros, |