Scripscrapologia or, Collins's Doggerel Dish Of All Sorts. Consisting of Songs Adapted to familiar Tunes, And which may be sung without the Chaunterpipe of an Italian Warbler, or the ravishing Accompaniments of Tweedle-Dum or Tweedle-Dee. Particularly those which have been most applauded in the author's once popular performance, call'd, The Brush. The Gallimaufry garnished with a variety of comic tales, quaint epigrams, whimsical epitaphs, &c. &c. [by John Collins] |
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THE TRUE BRITISH TAR, A Song. |
 | Scripscrapologia |  |
THE TRUE BRITISH TAR, A Song.
The Sailor, so brave, scorns the dastardly Slave,
That in Fight turns his Back on the Foe;
Or his Post quits to shun the wide Mouth of the Gun,
That is pointed to level him low;
For the true British Tar, 'mid the Thunder of War,
Ne'er was known for a Flincher or Failer,
But he'll plunge with the Brave in a watery Grave,
Ere dishonour the Name of a Sailor.
That in Fight turns his Back on the Foe;
Or his Post quits to shun the wide Mouth of the Gun,
That is pointed to level him low;
For the true British Tar, 'mid the Thunder of War,
Ne'er was known for a Flincher or Failer,
But he'll plunge with the Brave in a watery Grave,
Ere dishonour the Name of a Sailor.
Stormy Winds they may blow, and the Gulph yawn below,
Or the Billows to Mountains may rise;
Of no Danger afraid, he plows on, undismay'd,
Through the Waves when at War with the Skies;
For he makes up his Mind, and gives Care to the Wind,
Calling Boreas a blustering Railer!
While a Biscuit for Prog, and a small Sup of Grog,
Sink or swim, cheers the Heart of a Sailor.
Or the Billows to Mountains may rise;
Of no Danger afraid, he plows on, undismay'd,
Through the Waves when at War with the Skies;
For he makes up his Mind, and gives Care to the Wind,
Calling Boreas a blustering Railer!
While a Biscuit for Prog, and a small Sup of Grog,
Sink or swim, cheers the Heart of a Sailor.
And when call'd on to lend a kind Hand to a Friend,
That's for Want of a Lift quite aground,
He'll make over his Pay, but he'll soon clear his Way,
To set sail for the Port where he's bound;
For, says he, “Smite my Gib, if a Messmate in Crib,
“Shall be lodg'd by a Catchpole or Gaoler,
“But the Shirt from my Back to the Broker shall pack,
“To set free from the Bilboes a Sailor.”
That's for Want of a Lift quite aground,
He'll make over his Pay, but he'll soon clear his Way,
To set sail for the Port where he's bound;
For, says he, “Smite my Gib, if a Messmate in Crib,
“Shall be lodg'd by a Catchpole or Gaoler,
“But the Shirt from my Back to the Broker shall pack,
“To set free from the Bilboes a Sailor.”
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Yet the stout Heart of Oak, that ne'er shrunk from the Stroke.
Of the Death-dealing Blade or the Ball,
Still may hope and desire to escape Sword and Fire,
To revenge his brave Comrades that fall;
And in Fight on the Flood, Ancle-deep up in Blood,
Through the Conflict he'll ne'er prove a Failer,
Till the tricolour'd Rag strikes to Old England's Flag,—
Then,—Huzza! Cries the true Britssh Sailor!
Of the Death-dealing Blade or the Ball,
Still may hope and desire to escape Sword and Fire,
To revenge his brave Comrades that fall;
And in Fight on the Flood, Ancle-deep up in Blood,
Through the Conflict he'll ne'er prove a Failer,
Till the tricolour'd Rag strikes to Old England's Flag,—
Then,—Huzza! Cries the true Britssh Sailor!
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