The rose will cease to blow,
The eagle turn a dove,
The streams will cease to flow,
Ere I will cease to love.
The sun shall cease to shine,
The world shall cease to move,
The stars their light resign,
Ere I will cease to love.
J. Catnach, Printer, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials, & at 14, Waterloo
Road, (late Hill’s). Country Shops, and Travellers supplied.
I’m a tough true-hearted sailor,
Careless and all that, d’ye see,
Never at the times a railer—
What is time or tide to me?
All must die when fate must will it,
Providence ordains it so;
Every bullet has its billet,
Man the boat, boys—Yeo, heave, yeo!
Life’s at best a sea of trouble,
He who fears it is a dunce,
Death, to me, an empty bubble,
I can never die but once,
Blood, if duty bids, I’ll spill it,
Yet I have a tear for woe,
Every bullet has its billet, &c.
