Aboard of _Cæsar_, this we see,
That they might have rich plunder free,
The thing which they delight in:
But yet there was not one that dare
To come on board of _Cæsar_ there;
They knew their lives we would not spare,
So fierce we was for fighting.
Good Fortune she our courage crown’d,
Or else aboard on us they’d found
The sum of fourscore thousand pound,
Besides all other lading:
Could they but once have seen us fall,
Their booty then had not been small,
Two hundred thousand pound in all;
This would have spoil’d our trading.
I hope we gave them all their due,
Yet sav’d our coyn and cargo too.
Believe me, this is perfect true,
It is no feigned story:
For though our foes were five to one,
Yet we at last did make them run:
And when we see our work was done
To God we gave the glory,
Who did indeed our rights maintain;
For in this skirmish on the main
Of us there was but one man slain,
And seven others wounded:
But those that sought our overthrow,
They lost a many more, we know.
Thus Providence did kindness show
When we was so surrounded.
_A COPY OF VERSES, COMPOSED BY CAPTAIN HENRY EVERY, LATELY GONE TO SEA
TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE._
To the Tune of _The Two English Travellers_.
Come, all you brave boys, whose courage is bold,
Will you venture with me? I’ll glut you with gold.
Make haste unto Corona: a ship you will find,
That’s called the _Fancy_, will pleasure your mind.
Captain Every is in her, and calls her his own;
He will box her about, boys, before he has done:
French, Spaniard, and Portuguese, the heathen likewise,
He has made a war with them until that he dies.
Her model’s like wax, and she sails like the wind;
She is rigg’d, and fitted, and curiously trimm’d,
And all things convenient has for his design.
God bless his poor Fancy, she’s bound for the mine.
Farewel, fair Plimouth, and Cat-Down be damn’d:
I once was part-owner of most of that land;
But as I am disown’d, so I’ll abdicate
My person from England to attend on my fate.
Then away from this climate and temperate zone,
To one that’s more torrid, you’ll hear I am gone
With an hundred and fifty brave sparks of this age,
Who are fully resolved their foes to engage.
These northern parts are not thrifty for me;
I’ll rise the Anterise, that some men shall see
I am not afraid to let the world know
That to the South Seas and to Persia I’ll go.
Our names shall be blaz[on]ed and spread in the sky,
And many brave places I hope to descry
Where never a French man e’er yet has been,
Nor any proud Dutchman can say he has seen.
My commission is large, and I made it myself,
And the capston shall stretch it full larger by half;
It was dated in Corona, believe it, my friend,
From the year ninety-three unto the world’s end.
I honour St. George, and his colours I were,
Good quarters I give, but no nation I spare;
The world must assist me with what I do want;
I’ll give them my bill when my money is scant.
Now this I do say and solemnly swear:
He that strikes to St. George the better shall fare
But he that refuses shall suddenly spy
Strange colours aboard of my Fancy to fly.
Four chiviliges of gold in a bloody field,
Environ’d with green, now this is my shield;
Yet call out for quarter before you do see
A bloody flag out, which is our decree.
No quarters to give, no quarters to take;
We save nothing living: alas! ’tis too late;
For we are now sworn by the bread and the wine,
More serious we are than any divine.
Now this is the course I intend for to steer;
My false-hearted nation, to you I declare
I have done thee no wrong, thou must me forgive;
The sword shall maintain me as long as I live.
_VILLANY REWARDED; OR, THE PIRATE’S LAST FAREWEL TO THE WORLD;_
Who was executed at Execution Dock on Wednesday, the 25th of November,
1696, being of Every’s crew; together with their Free Confession of
their most Horrid Crimes.
To the Tune of _Russel’s Farewel_.
Well may the world against us cry; for these our deeds most base,
For which, alas! we now must dye, death looks us in the face,
Which is no more than what’s our due, since we so wicked were,
As here shall be declar’d to you. Let pyrates then take care.
We with our comrades, not yet ta’en, together did agree,
And stole a ship out from the Groyne, to roam upon the sea;
With which we robb’d and plundered too, no ship that we did spare.
Thus many a one we did undo. Let pyrats then take care.
Our ship being well stored then for this our enterprise,
One hundred and eighty men there was in her likewise:
We pillag’d all we could come nigh, no nation we did spare,
For which a shameful death we dye. Let pyrates then take care.
We robb’d a ship upon the seas, the _Gunsway_ call’d by name,
Which we met near the East Indies, and rifled the same;
In it was gold and silver store, of which all had a share;
Each man 600 pounds and more. Let pirates then take care.
Thus for some time we liv’d and reign’d as masters of the sea;
Every merchant we detain’d and us’d most cruelly.
The treasures took, we sunk the ship, and those that in it were
That would not unto us submit. Let pirates then take care.
Thus wickedly we every day liv’d upon others’ good,
The which, alas! we must repay now with our dearest blood;
For we on no one mercy took, nor any did we spare.
How can we then for mercy look? Let pirates then take care.
We thus did live most cruelly, and of no danger thought,
But we at last, as you may see, are unto justice brought
For outrages of villany, of which we guilty are,
And now this very day must dye. Let pirates then take care.
Now farewel to this wicked world, and our companions too;
From hence we quickly shall be hurl’d to clear the way for you;
For certainly if e’re you come to justice, as we are,
Deserved death will be your doom. Then pirates all take care.
_CAPTAIN KID’S FAREWEL TO THE SEAS; OR, THE FAMOUS PIRATES LAMENT._
To the Tune of _Coming down_.
My name is Captain Kid, who has sail’ [who has sail’d],
My name is Captain Kid, who has sail’d;
My name is Captain Kid.
What the laws did still forbid
Unluckily I did while I sail’d [while I sailed, etc.].
Upon the ocean wide, when I sail’d, etc.,
Upon the ocean wide, when I sail’d,
Upon the ocean wide
I robbed on every side,
With most ambitious pride, when I sail’d.
My faults I will display while I sail’d, etc.,
My faults I will display while I sail’d;
My faults I will display,
Committed day by day
[A line lost.]
Many long leagues from shore when I sail’d, etc.,
Many long leagues from shore when I sail’d,
Many long leagues from shore
I murdered William More,
And laid him in his gore, when I sail’d,
Because a word he spoke when I sail’d, etc.,
Because a word he spoke when I sail’d,
Because a word he spoke:
I with a bucket broke
His scull at one sad stroke, while I sail’d.
I struck with a good will when I sail’d, etc.,
I struck with a good will when I sail’d;
I struck with a good will,
And did a gunner kill
As being cruel still when I sail’d.
A Quida merchant then while I sail’d, etc.,
A Quida merchant then while I sail’d,
A Quida merchant then
I robbed of hundreds ten,
Assisted by my men, while I sailed.
A banker’s ship of France, while I sailed, etc.,
A banker’s ship of France, while I sailed,
A banker’s ship of France
Before us did advance:
I seized her by chance, while I sailed.
Full fourteen ships I see when I sailed, etc.,
Full fourteen ships I see when I sailed;
Full fourteen ships I see,
Merchants of high degree;
They were too hard for me when I sailed.
We steered from sound to sound while we sailed,
We steered from sound to sound while we sailed;
We steered from sound to sound,
A Moorish ship we found;
Her men we stript and bound while we sailed.
Upon the ocean seas while we sailed, etc.,
Upon the ocean seas while we sailed,
Upon the ocean seas
A warlike Portuguese
In sport did us displease, while we sailed.
At famous Malabar when we sailed, etc.,
At famous Malabar when we sailed,
At famous Malabar
We went ashore, each tar,
And robbed the natives there, when we sailed.
Then after this we chased, while we sailed,
Then after this we chased, while we sailed,
Then after this we chased
A rich Armenian, graced
With wealth, which we embraced, while we sailed.
Many Moorish ships we took while we sailed,
Many Moorish ships we took while we sailed,
Many Moorish ships we took;
We did still for plunder look;
All conscience we forsook while we sailed.
I, Captain Cullifoord, while I sailed, etc.,
I, Captain Cullifoord, while I sailed,
I, Captain Cullifoord,
Did many merchants board,
Which did much wealth afford, while we sailed.
Two hundred bars of gold, while we sail’d, etc.,
Two hundred bars of gold, while we sailed,
Two hundred bars of gold
And rix dollars manifold
We seized uncontrolled, while we sailed.
_St. John_, a ship of fame, when we sailed, etc.,
_St. John_, a ship of fame, when we sailed,
_St. John_, a ship of fame,
We plundered when she came,
With more that I could name, when we sailed.
We taken was at last, and must die, etc.,
We taken was at last, and must die;
We taken were at last,
And into prison cast:
Now, sentence being past, we must die.
Tho’ we have reigned awhile we must die, etc.,
Tho’ we have reigned awhile we must die;
Tho’ we have reigned awhile,
While fortune seemed to smile,
Now on the British Isle we must die.
Farewel the ocean main, we must die, etc.,
Farewel the ocean main, we must die;
Farewel the ocean main:
The coast of France or Spain
We ne’er shall see again; we must die.
From Newgate now in carts we must go, etc.,
[From Newgate now in carts we must goe;]
From Newgate now in carts,
With sad and heavy hearts,
To have our due deserts we must go.
Some thousands they will flock when we die,
Some thousands they will flock when we die,
Some thousands they will flock
To Execution Dock,
Where we must stand the shock and must die.
_A SATYR ON THE SEA-OFFICERS; OR, A LONG PROLOGUE TO A SHORT PLAY;_
Spoken by a woman at Oxford, dress’d like a sea-officer.
By Sir H. S.
With Monmouth cap, and cutlace by my side,
Striding at least a yard at every stride,
I’m come to tell you, after much petition,
The Admiralty has given me a commission:
And now with Bully Tourville I’ll ingage,
And try my fortune on a floating stage.
What blustring tarr at this dares take offence,
While I stand thus to prove my just pretence?
Will he pretend to fight better than I?
Ad’s death I’d tell him, ‘Damn you, sir, you lye,’
And then I’d ask him how they fought at Rye.
Your Bantry business too was but a fetch,
Where you call’d running, battering at a stretch;
But you’ll reply your leaders were to blame,
While I condemn you all to bear the shame.
For who the Divel éer refus’d his meat
Because another had no mind to eat?
The Dutch were drunk, you barbarously say.
Pray, next, do you be drunk too, so you stay,
For ’twas your sober fighting lost the day.
Old Albemarle wou’d say that men of war
In navy stunk not half enough of tarr.
Your o’ergrown pages and attorney’s clerks
To fight and govern fleets are proper sparks.
Then let the spruce land-pirats be content
To swagger in their native element,
And let tarpawlings rule by my consent:
For things now look as if men took commission
To damn all discipline and sow sedition,
And fighting was the least of their ambition;
No matter who comes home with broken bones,
So you but come to touch the patacoons.
The pitch of honour is desire of money;
That paltry, coward vice has quite undone ye.
You court preferment on no other score
But to be poorly rich, or basely poor:
For who would not propose a trip to Spain
That has within his prospect double gain,
To line his pockets, and to save his skin?
For none must fight with merchants’ money in.
Your heads run round with Mexico and Sevil;
I wish this shipping plate was at the Devil.
Wou’d the good King had but a just relation,
What infamy, what sums ’t has cost the nation!
He’d quickly damn your trade of importation,
And add it to the Act of Navigation.
‘But how then shall we live?’ ye murm’rers say.
’S life! can’t you be content with double pay?
Shew us your twofold merit, sirs, I pray.
Some has got two commands by land and sea,
While one might safely swear, might one be free,
They’re neither flesh nor fish, nor good red herring,
Those are your coll’nels, captains with a murrain.
Boldly to those two elements y’aspire,
But at an awful distance then you fire.
A few there are, and they are very few,
To whom a fairer character is due.
Time was when captains went on there own errands,
And in their pockets carried their press warrants;
Now you imploy the villains of the fleet,
While you date from the Downs in Bedford Street.
But times are alter’d; ’tis not now as then,
For now you press the money, spare the men.
Those plain, dull fellows no such secrets found
To make press warrants worth a hundred pound.
It is our fate, our frailty, or disease,
To trust our honour in such hands as these:
Raw in their trade, their principles not right,
With hearts too tender, and with heads too light,
Too weak for council, and too nice to fight.
Their bodies are not made of battering-stuff,
Their cracknel carcasses not splinter-proof;
And yet will fairly tell a sailor’s tale,
But must attempt it in a coat of mail.
Some swaggering bully snaps me short, and swears,
‘Damn me, these fellows wou’d be kick’d downstairs!’
Sir, by your leave, do you but fight at sea,
And then kick down the Monument for me.
The Parliament may plague us with taxation,
But till they cure the grievance of the nation,
Monsieur will make the narrow seas his station.
Then what becomes of all our ancient rule,
Our right from Edgar, and command from Thule?
Believe me, sirs, it will be then confest,
Your flag a dishclout, and your claim a jest.
The hardy duke we mention’d, whose great name
Stretch’d the blown cheeks of trumpet-sounding fame,
Once boldly try’d what English men could do;
But such examples who dare now pursue?
A four daies’ fight he gloriously maintain’d,
And what he lost in blood in honour gain’d;
To keep that spotless he the ocean stain’d.
Each day he tack’d, and fought from sun to sun,
Against the odds at least of two for one;
Had ye been there, sirs, what wou’d ye have done?
He ne’er stood--‘Shall I, shall I keep a loof?’--
But fought as if his skin was cannon-proof;
Then all that can be said to do you right,
You’ll keep a wind as long as he did fight.
_THE SEA-MARTYRS; OR, THE SEAMEN’S SAD LAMENTATION FOR THEIR FAITHFUL
SERVICE, BAD PAY, AND CRUEL USAGE_;
Being a woful relation how some of them were unmercifully put to death
for pressing for their pay, when their families were like to starve.
Thus our new Government does subjects serve,
And leaves them this sad choice: to hang or starve.
To the Tune of _Banstead Downs_.
Good people, do but lend an ear,
And a sad story you shall hear--
A sadder you never heard--
Of due desert and base reward,
Which will our English subjects fright
For our new Government to fight.
Our seamen are the onely men
That o’er the French did vict’ry gain;
They kept the foe from landing here,
Which would have cost the Court full dear;
And when they for their pay did hope
They were rewarded with a rope.
The roaring canon they ne’er fear’d,
Their lives and bloud they never spar’d;
Through fire and flame their courage flew,
No bullets could their hearts subdue.
Had they in fight but flincht at all
King James had now been in Whitehall.
Thus England, and our new King too,
Their safety to their valour owe;
Nay, some did ’gainst their conscience fight
To do some great ones too much right;
And now, oh, barbarous tyranny!
Like men they fought, like dogs they dye.
Thousands of them their lives did lose
In fighting stoutly with their foes,
And thousands were so maim’d in fight
That ’twas a sad and piteous sight;
And when they hop’d their pay to gain
They have their labour for their pain.
Their starving families at home
Expected their slow pay would come;
But our proud Court meant no such thing,
Not one groat must they have till spring;
To starve all summer would not do,
They must still starve all winter too.
It might a little ease their grief,
And give their mis’ry some relief,
Might they in trade ships outward go,
But that poor boon’s denied them too,
Which is as much as plain to say,
You shall earn nothing, nor have pay.
Their poor wives with care languished,
Their children cried for want of bread,
Their debts encreast, and none would more
Lend them, or let them run o’th’ score.
In such a case what could they doe
But ask those who money did owe?
Therefore some, bolder than the rest,
The officers for their own request;
They call’d ’em rogues, and said nothing
Was due to them untill the spring:
The King had none for them, they said
Their betters, they must first be paid.
The honest seamen then replied
They could no longer want abide,
And that nine hundred thousand pound
Was giv’n last year to pay them round:
Their money they had earnt full dear
And could not stay another half-year.
A council then they streight did call
Of pick-thanks made to please Whitehall,
And there they were adjudg’d to dye;
But no man knows wherefore, nor why.
What times are these! Was’t ever known
’Twas death for men to ask their own?
Yet some seem’d milder than the rest,
And told them that, their fault confest,
And pardon askt and humbly crav’d,
Their lives perhaps might then be sav’d;
But they their cause scorn’d to betray
Or own’t a crime to ask their pay.
Thus they the seamen’s martyrs dyed,
And would not yield to unjust pride;
Their lives they rather would lay down
Than yield it sin to ask their own.
Thus they for justice spent their blood
To do all future seamen good.
Wherefore let seamen all and some
Keep the days of their martyrdom,
And bear in mind these dismal times,
When true men suffer for false crimes;
England ne’er knew the like till now,
Nor e’er again the like will know.
But now suppose they had done ill,
In asking pay too roughly, still
When ’twas their due and need so prest,
They might have pardon found at least;
The King and Queen some mercifull call,
But seamen find it not at all.
To robbers, thieves, and felons they
Freely grant pardons ev’ry day;
Only poor seamen, who alone
Do keep them on their father’s throne,
Must have at all no mercy shown:
Nay, tho’ there wants fault, they’l find one.
Where is the subjects’ liberty?
And eke where is their property?
We’re forc’d to fight for nought, like slaves,
And though we do we’re hang’d like knaves.
This is not like Old England’s ways:
‘New lords, new laws,’ the proverb says.
Besides the seamen’s pay, that’s spent,
The King for stores, ships, and what’s lent,
Does owe seven millions at the least,
And ev’ry year his debt’s encreast;
So that we may despair that we
One quarter of our pay shall see.
Foreigners and confederates
Get poor men’s pay, rich men’s estates;
Brave England does to ruine run,
And Englishmen must be undone.
If this trade last but one half-year
Our wealth and strength is spent, I fear.
God bless our noble Parliament,
And give them the whole government,
That they may see we’re worse than ever,
And us from lawless rule deliver;
For England’s sinking, unless they
Do take the helm, and better sway.
_ADVICE TO YOUNG MAIDENS IN CHUSING OF HUSBANDS._
To the Tune of _In the merry month of June_.
You pretty maids of Greenwich, of high and low degree,
Pray never fix your fancys on men that go to sea;
The seamen’s wives lead careful lives when at the very best,
For, in my mind, in stormy wind they can take but little rest.
Besides the many dangers that are upon the seas,
When they are on the shore they will ramble where they please;
For up and down in sea-port town they court both old and young:
They will deceive; do not believe the sailor’s flattering tongue.
I give you this advice now, as you may understand,
It being at the time when seamen come to land,
For up and down in Greenwich town the seamen they do trade,
And he doth boast that spends the most; oh! he’s a jolly blade.
They likewise treat their sweet-hearts when they are on the shore,
But when they are gone perhaps you may never see them more;
To-day they wed, at night they bed, to-morrow go to sea:
Therefore I say, as well I may, a landman still for me.
The seamen they are gone to sea, and leave there wives at home,
To take what care they can; for there parts they’l take none;
They tell their friends they do depend upon their husbands’ pay,
And run in debt, while they expect their money every day.
Suppose you have a sailor, that sails before the mast;
If he’s the best of husbands his breath is but a blast:
The roaring waves their wills will have--there’s no man can
withstand--
And he may sleep in the ocean deep whilst you are on the land.
Suppose you have a captain, a person of great fame;
Yet still there is great danger in sailing on the main.
The fates unkind in stormy wind may lay his honour low,
And then his wife, with careful life, laments his overthrow.
Give me an honest tradesman, of high or low degree;
I’ll never fix my fancy on a man that goes to sea.
A tradesman’s wife’s a happy life, if he’s an honest man:
He’ll take a share in all the care; deny it if you can.
_THE SEAMEN’S WIVES’ VINDICATION; OR, AN ANSWER TO THE PRETENDED
FROLICK WHICH WAS SAID TO BE BY THEM OVER A BOWL OF PUNCH._
You writ that we drank liquor free, but for your writing so
You are to blame--nay, blush for shame--since it was nothing so.
To the Tune of _O so ungrateful a creature_.
Why does the poets abuse us, we that are seamen’s poor wives?
Have they not cause to excuse us, knowing our sorrowful lives?
We are, alas! broken-hearted, as we can very well prove,
When from our joys we are parted, those loyal husbands we love.
You that declare we are jolly do but abuse us, we find,
For we are most melancholly, always tormented in mind:
While that our husbands are sailing on the tempestuous seas
Here we are sighing, bewailing; nothing affordeth us ease.
Here you have newly reported that we are girls of the game,
Who do delight to be courted. Are you not highly to blame,
Saying we often are merry, punch is the liquor we praise,
Though we are known to be weary of these our sorrowful days?
How could you say there was many wives that did drink, rant, and
sing,
When I protest there’s not any of us that practice this thing?
Are we not forced to borrow, being left here without chink?
’Tis in a cup of cold sorrow if we so often do drink.
Tho’ we have little to nourish us while our husbands are there,
Merchants in London they flourish through their industrious care.
They are the stay of the nation, men of undaunted renown;
Why should a false accusation run the poor seamen’s wives down,
Saying we swallow’d our liquor with a great gossipping crew,
Making our tongues to run quicker then they had reason to do?
Thus they would blast all our glory by the soft wits of their brains.
He that invented that story was but a fool for his pains.
We are so far from such pleasure, making of jolly punch-bowls,
That we lament out of measure, every woman condoles;
When she in bed should lye sleeping, if the high winds they do roar,
There she in sorrow is weeping, fearing to see him no more.
They are to dangers exposed, as we may very well guess.
How can our eye-lids be closed in such a time of distress?
You that are free from that [terror], having your husbands secure,
Little consider the horror that we do dayly endure.
Tho’ there is joy in our meeting when they come safe from the main,
Yet ’tis a sorrowful greeting when we are parted again:
Landmen in a full fruition feeds on the fat of the land;
This is a happy condition, having all things at command.
Tho’ we have not such a plenty, yet I can very well prove
That there is not one in twenty but who her husband doth love:
You that have caus’d those distractions, writing a story not true,
May be asham’d of your actions, and thus I bid you adieu.
_BILLY THE MIDSHIPMAN’S WELCOME HOME._
To the Tune of _Ianthe_, etc.
MOLLY.
You’re welcome, my Billy, to the English shore;
I hope you’ll not cross the rough seas any more.
Many a day too, and many a night,
My heart grieved sore ’cause you were out of sight;
But now, to my comfort, I see you again.
Oh, never, dear Billy, Oh, never, dear Billy,
Sail more on the main.
BILLY.
Dear Molly, said Billy, the joy of my heart,
Daily I thought of you since we did part;
And when the roaring waves mounting high they did move,
In the greatest danger I thought on my love.
The billows did foam, and the rocks they were nigh,
Yet nothing but death, yet nothing but death
Shall my love part and I.
MOLLY.
I thank thee, my dear, for thy firm love to me
In the midst of thy dangers upon the rough sea;
Each night in my bed still as down I was lain
I dreamed of shipwracks upon the salt main;
But now I do find from these dangers I’m free,
Since him that I love, since him that I love
Is come safe unto me.
BILLY.