University of Virginia Library

CANTO THE FIRST.

Avast! Achilles, Grecian fam'd,
And fiery Hector, Trojan nam'd;
Avast! your Philips, Alexanders,
Your Cæsars too, war's Salamanders;
And eke give way, Imperial Nap,
For thou, alike, must doff the cap
To Neptune's darling son of war,
I mean Jack Junk, the British Tar.
An hero who in gallant fray
Was never known to run away;
But scars of honor nobly earn,
Upon the stem, instead of stern;
A tar, in short, that scorn'd to flinch,
True British Sailor ev'ry inch.
Such is the theme that fires my strain,
O! may the muse not toil in vain;
But all those pastimes now rehearse,
That well might claim more polish'd verse;
To which past fetes, and those to come,
Are little better than a hum;
Since souls of taste could never choose
'Twixt Alexander's famous booze,
Or Cleopatra's vaunted fun,
When she Marc Anthony had done.
In short all these are rows but windy,
Compar'd with Jack Junk's glorious shindy,
Since jovial sailor's hop at Point,
Puts all such pastimes out of joint.
Yet hold, I'll give no longer lip,
Preludes won't do on board of ship;
For honest tars, I swear by jingo,
Can ne'er abide palav'ring lingo;
They're all straight forward men and true,
Wherefore to make no more ado.
Jack Junk on board the dauntless Fame
Had full five years enrol'd his name,
And weather'd Eastern India's rays,
Where Sol pours forth his sultry blaze;
And thence, from hostile cannon's roar,
Had guarded safe to Albion's shore
The convoy, with rich cargo freighted,
That makes our merchant's souls elated.
At Spithead moor'd, the Fame now rides,
And veers with changing of the tides;
There soon Commissioner on board,
From Portsmouth bears the precious hoard;
Pays wages of the tars in flimsies,
While Jack Junk's mind, replete with whimsies,
Fingers an Hundred Pounds and more,
With which he'll have rare spell on shore;
Kick up the breeze with wenches neat,
Enjoy the grog—dispense the treat;
And prove, at Portsmouth Point, a sailor
Is always found true pleasure's nailer.
Thus, bless'd with cash, Jack Junk behold,
Whose heart is cast in princely mould;
Whose gen'rous spirit nought enchains,
Staunch as the blood that warms his veins;
Whose hand, like needle to the pole,
Performs the purpose of his soul,
To messmates poor dispensing wide,
The hard earn'd rhino—golden tide;
From which Jack two-fold joy obtains,
With mirthful pleasures, easing pains.
Nor less the female craves his aid,
Her potent plea with joy obey'd;
Woman! the sailor's darling care,
For Jack would die to serve the fair,
And though he yeilds to Cyprian bands,
A girl distress'd no less commands
The sailor's purse, his maxim true,
That love keeps pity's shrine in view.
With pockets loaded like a Jew's,
Jack burns on shore to have a cruize;
Strikes of tobacco box the lid,
Then turns with pliant tongue the quid;
And taking straight from can a sup,
O'er hips he lugs his trowsers up,
And thus the matter argufies;
“I've rhino plenty, bless my eyes,
“But vats the good of this here cash?
“On board I cannot make a splash;
“Give me the girls a shore, and prog,
“The elbow scraper, flip, and grog;
“'Tis then I shows I've got some spunk,
“I'faith it's true—for I'm Jack Junk.”
Tars can't abide deliberation,
Like Ministers that steer the nation;
Wherefore disdaining further thought,
Our seaman's reasoning being tort;
Onward he goes, with rolling stride,
In hopes he may not be denied
The liberty on shore to go,
A welcome—Yes—wakes pleasure's glow;
Whereat the quid from starboard side,
Is straight to larboard cheek applied;
Thus fortune proves the seaman's friend,
For luck on valour must attend.
Junk stows below one half his pelf,
Then mounts on deck like fairy elf,
And down the ship's side nimbly clews,
His mind intent on jolly cruize;
Anon with measur'd stroke each oar,
From Spithead wafts the boat to shore;
Her bows the liquid surface break,
While at her stern the frothy wake
Now foams, then length'ning to the sight,
Appears one stream of gemmy light;
Arriv'd at Point, our hero straight,
Springs bolt a shore, with mind elate,
Then rubbing hands, cries—“Here's sea room,
“Now safe ashore, I'll top my boom.”
The cruize commences, off they veer,
For fiddles, prog, and girls they steer;
Now bearing up at Capstan Square,
Choice dainty lasses greet 'em there.
Bet Stride her ruby color shows;
Sal Walker sports her bowsprit nose;
Nan Brag her bulky breeching rears;
Pol Sherwin shows the bottles tears;
And last, far fam'd for fisty prize,
Mol Chauntress view, with bung'd up eyes.
No ceremonies here can nip
The pastimes found in pleasure's ship;
A dance becomes the gen'ral cry,
All hands agreed, for Point they hie;
Lock Dolly's wing within their own,
More proud than monarch on his throne,
And gain the seaman's birth divine
At Point; the Jolly Sailor's sign;
The call is bitters now and gin,
While fiddlers twain increase the din;
The sound proclaims the well-known shop,
And Junk, exulting, cries—“A hop;”
The dance begins, they foot it neat,
And Jack believes 'tis heav'ns own seat.
Yet soft, kind reader, for, no doubt,
Amongst this lovely female rout,
Of Junk the choice you fain would know,
Who makes these lines heroic flow.
It was not ruby-color'd Bet;
Nor Sal, with nose and chin that met;
Nor Nan, that cargo shows in stern;
Nor Pol, whose phiz old nick would burn.
These might have serv'd, had none been better,
But Mol enchain'd him in her fetter;
Yes, she that could some ruby boast,
Of every tar, the standing toast;
She, who had not of nose an ell,
Nor breech as huge as Pekin's bell;
No, nor grog-blossoms, that outvie
The glowing hue of Tyrian dye;
But sterling Mol, who with each glim
Bung'd up, excited Jack Junk's whim;
Long known to brave all stormy weather,
Her tail, ne'er showing one white feather.
Such was the choice of fighting Jack,
Who lov'd no sniv'lers at his back;
But bred to warfare, liv'd for fight,
And spent years earnings in a night.
With gin and dancing am'rous grown,
Jack's arm encircles Molly's zone;
He swears of Cupid all he knows,
That tho' her glims are black with blows,
In honor's noble conflict won,
For Mol had ne'er been known to run;
Yet still she was, to please his sight,
A well-rigg'd frigate—right and tight;
The dalliance o'er, they join anew
Their jigging messmates—jovial crew;
And, as they 'gin the dance, our Jack,
Shaking the flipper of Tom Tack,
Cries—“Nought on shore so well can rouse
“As clearing out at Custom House.”
The laugh goes round, they sing and jest,
And foot it nimbly, breast to breast;
The O be joyful! plenteous flows,
In ev'ry eye good humour glows;
While grub, in mad profusion spread,
The body cheers—as grog the head;
In fine, the whole is gig and fun,
The Zenith bright of pleasure's sun;
They dance till limbs no more can move,
Then, half-seas over, talk of love;
Aloud they chaunt “God save the King,”
And “Rule Britannia” boisterous sing;
Of “Cease rude Boreas” verses try,
Recalling scenes that raise the sigh;
For tars, though thoughtless, now and then
Can think and feel like polish'd men;
Anon to chase this transient gloom,
The girls love's potent wiles assume;
Fond kiss each weather-beaten cheek,
And toy like tender lambkins meek;
Around the neck entwine the arm,
And swear each help-mate's free from harm;
Such winning wiles subdue Jack's heart,
Who knows rough Nature's void of art;
The hour of danger soon forgot,
And former messmates hapless lot;
The order's issued; straight the bowl
Of punch enlivens ev'ry soul;
Fumes from tobacco next assume
Their foggy empire thro' the room;
Song, fiddle, chatter, all confound,
'Till one rude chaos reigns around;
At length, o'ercome with grub and booze,
Their flagging spirits bid 'em snooze;
Striving to rise, they o'er turn benches,
And tumble head long with their wenches;
Thus levell'd low with kindred earth,
'Till landlord stows each pair in birth;
Here ends the scene—the sand is run—
Of Jack is spent the first day's fun.