The Lass that Loves a Sailor.
The moon on the ocean was dimmed by a ripple,
Affording a checkered light.
The gay jolly tars passed the word for a tipple,
And the toast,—for ’twas Saturday night.
Some sweetheart or wife
He loved as his life,
Each drank, and he wished he could hail her;
But the standing toast,
That pleased the most,
Was the wind that blows,
The ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor.
Some drank his country, and some her brave ships,
And some the Constitution;
Some, may the French, and all such rips,
Yield to American resolution.
That fate might bless,
Some Poll or Bess,
And that they soon might hail her.
Some drank the navy, and some our land,
This glorious land of freedom:
Some that our tars may never want,
Heroes brave to lead them;
That she who’s in distress may find
Such friends that ne’er will fail her.
But the standing toast, &c.