Chapter Text
The Widow Who Keeps the Cock Inn
A traveller for many long years I have been,
But I never went over to France -
Most cities and all market towns I've been in,
From Berwick on Tweed to Penzance,
Many hotels and taverns I've been in in my time,
And many fair landladys seen -
But of all the fair charmers who other outshines
Give me the sweet widow -
The dear little widow,
I mean the sweet widow that keeps the Cock Inn.
Her lips are as roses as e'en is her wine,
And like all her liquors, she's neat
She's full of good spirits, that's really devine
And while serving her bitters, looks sweet.
Excuse these outpourings, they spring from the heart,
You may laugh – so shall I, if I win,
One smile of consent, how 'twould lessen the smart,
From the active young widow,
The spruce little widow,
The little widow that keeps the Cock Inn.
There's Bet at the Blossom and Poll of the Crown,
Fat Dolly who owns the red heart,
There's Kate of the Garter and Star, of renown
And Peggy who keeps the Skylark,
Spruce Fan of the Eagle and Nan of the Bell
Pretty Jane of the Man Drest in Green
But of all the fair creatures that others excel.
Give me the sweet widow,
The nice little widow
My neat pretty widow who keeps the Cock Inn.
There's Nance at the Old Woman clothed in Gray
I look back on her I vow
Even Letty who graces the Old Load of Hay
I don't care a straw for her now."
There's another decanter'd just now in my heart
I for none of the rest care a pin.
Oh, that Cupid the rogue, would but let fly his dart,
At the plump little widow,
The gay little widow,
The spirited widow that keeps the Cock Inn.
When last in her little bar parlour I sat
I joked her about her lone state
A brood of young chicken's dear widow mind that
Would be better around your prate."
"Says she, pray don't reckon fore they are hatch'd,
Say I, where's the harm or the sin?
You can manage a second, we're very well matche'd
You dear little widow,
You charming young widow,
You're a nice little widow to keep the Cock Inn.
Then here's to the dear little charmer I prize,
In a bumper now filled to the brim,
For who could resist such a pair of black eyes,
As in rich liquid moisture they swim,
Away, then away, with my bachelor's vow
My hand then is hers, with the ring,
For if she be willing to take me in tow,
I'll marry the widow,
The dear little widow,
I'll marry the widow and keep the Cock Inn.
Captain Death
The muse with the hero's brave deeds being fired,-
For similar views had their bosoms inspired;-
For freedom they fought and for glory contend
The muse o'er the hero still mourns as a friend;
Then oh! let the muse this poor tribute bequeath
To a true British hero, the brave Captain Death.
His ship was the Terrible, dreadful to see,
Each man was as gallantly brave as was he;
Two hundred and more were his good complement,
But sure braver fellows to sea never went:
Each man had determined to spend his last breath
In fighting for Britain and brave Captain Death
A prize they had taken diminished their force,
But soon this good prize was lost on her course;
When the French man-of-war and the Terrible met,
A battle began with all horror beset,
No man was dismayed, -each as bold as Macbeth;-
In fighting for Britain and brave Captain Death
Grenades, fire, and bullets were soon heard and felt,
A fight that the heart of Bellona would melt,
The rigging all torn, the decks filled with blood,
And scores of dead bodies were thrown in the flood;-
The flood, from the time of old Noah and Seth,
Ne'er bore the fellow of brave Captain Death.
"But at length the dread bullet came winged with fate,
One brave Captain dropt, and soon after his mate;
Each officer fell, and a carnage was seen,
That soon dyed the waves to crimson from green,
Then Neptune arose and pulled off his wreath,
Instructing a Triton to crown Captain Death.
Thus fell the strong Terrible, dreadfully bold,
But sixteen survivors the tale could unfold.
The French proved the victors, though much to their cost,
For many stout French were with Englishmen lost.
And thus said old Time, 'since good Queen Lizabeth
We ne'er saw the fellow of bold Captain Death'.
A Ballad
T'was when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind;
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclin'd.
Wind o'er the rolling billows
She cast a wistful look;
Her head was crown'd with willows
That tremble o'er the brook.
Twelve months are gone and over
And nine long tedious days
Why didst though, vent'rous lover,
Why didst though trust the seas?
Cease, cease, though cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! What's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
The merchant, rob'd of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on
Where gold and di'monds grown,
You'd find a richer maiden
But none that loves you so.
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wand'ring lover,
And leave the maid to weep
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear;
Repay'd each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When o'er the white wave sighing,
His floating corpse she spy'd;
Then like a lily drooping,
She bow'd her head, and dy'd.