I said to our Poll, for, d'ye see, she would cry, When last we made anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? Why, what a damn'd fool you must be! . . . . . As for me in all weathers, all times, tides and ends, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino my friend's, And as for my life it's the King's; Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As for grief to be taken aback, For the same little cherub that sits up aloft Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!
Pride in the navy and its commanders is breathed forth in the following eulogy of Admiral Jervis (Lord St. Vincent):
You've heard, I s'pose, the people talk Of Benbow and Boscawen, Of Anson, Pocock, Vernon, Hawke, And many more then going; All pretty lads, and brave, and rum, That seed much noble service; But, Lord, their merit's all a hum, Compared to Admiral Jervis!
"Tom Tough" is an example of the same spirit:
I've sailed with gallant Howe, I've sailed with noble Jervis, And in valiant Duncan's fleet I've sung yo, heave ho! Yet more ye shall be knowing, I was cox'n to Boscawen, And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe.
Perfervid patriotism and ardent loyalty find expression in the following swinging lines:
Some drank our Queen, and some our land, Our glorious land of freedom; Some that our tars might never stand For heroes brave to lead 'em! That beauty in distress might find Such friends as ne'er would fail her; But the standing toast that pleased the most Was--the wind that blows, the ship that goes, And the lass that loves the sailor!
The whole-hearted Gallophobia which prevailed at the period, but which did not preclude generous admiration for a gallant foe, finds, of course, adequate expression in most of the songs of the period. Thus an unknown author, who, it is believed, lived at the commencement rather than at the close of the eighteenth century, wrote:
Stick stout to orders, messmates, We'll plunder, burn, and sink, Then, France, have at your first-rates, For Britons never shrink: We'll rummage all we fancy, We'll bring them in by scores, And Moll and Kate and Nancy Shall roll in louis-d'ors.
It was long before this spirit died out. Twenty-two years after the battle of Waterloo, when, on the occasion of the coronation of Queen Victoria, Marshal Soult visited England and it was suggested that the Duke of Wellington should propose the health of the French army at a public dinner, he replied: "D---- 'em. I'll have nothing to do with them but beat them."