STAND TO YOUR GUNS.

[Composed by C. Carter.]

STAND to your guns, my hearts of oak,
Let not a word on board be spoke;
Victory is ours, 'mid fire and smoke;
Be silent and be ready.

Ram home the guns and spunge

them well Let us be sure the balls will tell;

The cannon's roar shall sound their knell;

Be steady, boys, be steady.

Not yet, nor yet, nor yet;
Reserve your fire, I do desire.

Now the elements do rattle;
The gods amazed behold the battle.

A broadside, my boys!
See the blood in purple tide
Trickle down her batter'd side.

Wing'd with fate the bullets fly,

Conquer, boys, or bravely die.

She sinks, she sinks, she sinks, huzza!

To the bottom down she goes!

WHEN Britain on her sea-girt shore

Her ancient Druids erst address'd,

What aid, she cried, shall I implore?
What best defence, by numbers press'd?

The hostile nations round thee rise,
The mystic oracles replied,-
And view thine isle with envious eyes;
Their threats defy, their rage deride;
Nor fear invasion from those adverse Gauls:
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Thine oaks, descending to the main,
With floating forts shall stem the tide,
Asserting Britain's liquid reign

Where'er her thundering navy rides.
Nor less to peaceful arts inclined,

Where commerce opens all her stores, In social bands shall league mankind, And join the sea-divided shores.

Spread thy white sails where naval glory calls: Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls,

Hail, happy isle! What though thy vales
No vine-impurpled tribute yield,
Nor fann'd with odour-breathing gales,
Nor crops spontaneous glad the field,-

Yet liberty rewards the toil

Of industry to labour prone,

Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil,

And reaps the harvest she has sown; While other realms tyrannic sway enthrals; Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Six "Songs of the Mid Watch," written by Captain Willes Johnson, R.N. Composed by Klitz.

No. 1.-THE SAILOR'S BEQUEST.

[The Music of this and the following five Songs may be had of *Messrs. Purday, 45, High Holborn.]

THE fight was o'er, and strew'd around
Lay many a seaman brave,

And those who nobly died had found
A deep unfathom❜d grave.

One ling'ring lived, who vainly strove
The manly tear to hide ;

A pray'r he breath'd to Heav'n above,
For her his promised bride.

'Twas poor Tom Ratline wounded lay,
His life-blood ebbing fast;
On her he lov'd, far, far away,
He felt he'd look'd his last.
"Shipmate," said he, "it is not dread
Of death that fills my eye;

'Tis Mem'ry's dream of joys, though fled,
Which makes it sad to die.

"If our good prize should pay us well,
Which I've no doubt she'll do,

Take all my share, and, hark ye! tell

The rhino out to Sue.

Dry her sweet eyes-salt tears they'll pour
At poor Tom's fate," he cried;

"Say my last thought"-he could no more,
But whisp'ring "Susan!" died.

No.2.-THE MARINER'S INVOCATION.

BRIGHT MOON! fair Moon! the mariner's friend,

When wintry storms prevail,

Deign from thy throne of state to bend,

And list a lover's tale.

She I adore is far away,

And I may roam the main

For years ere comes the happy day
When we can meet again.

Then, beauteous Moon, fair Queen of Night!

Still more thy friendship prove;

Reflect, as in a mirror bright,

The face of her I love.

I'd forfeit all thy cheerful light
When danger's lurking round,
The dread lee-shore, and craggy height,
The boldest hearts astound;
I'd brave the wreck, nor seek thy aid,

If sometimes to my view

Thoud'st bring the form of that sweet maid,

So tender and so true.

Then beauteous Moon, fair Queen of Night!

My fondest wish approve,

And show me in thy mirror bright

The face of her I love.

No. 3.-THE HEART KNOWS ONLY ONE.

wwwnan

THE landsmen tell you those who roam

O'er Ocean's boundless tide,

On ev'ry shore can find a home,

In ev'ry port a bride.

Heed not, sweet maid, their idle prate,
They ne'er such feelings knew

As warm the heart of thy sailor-mate,
Which beats alone for you.

What though, when storms our bark assail,
The needle trembling veers,
When night adds horror to the gale,

And not a star appears?—

True to the pole as I to thee,

It faithful still will prove,

An emblem, dear, of constancy,
And of a sailor's love.

Then turn from what the landsmen say,
Who would thy faith beguile;

They seize the time when we're away

To practise every wile;

O'er beauty bright our looks may rove,

We ne'er its influence shun,

But though the eye has many a love,

The heart knows only one.