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If she be true, sure of his heart
she never need bewail her;
For tho' a thousand leagues apart,
still constant is her Sailor:
Tho' she be false, still he is kind,
and comes with smiles to hail her;
He trusting, as he trusts the wind,
still faithleſs to her Sailor.
A butcher can procure her prog,
three threads to drink, a taylor;
What's that to biscuit, and to grog,
procur'd her by her Sailor?
She who wou'd such a mate ⟨refuse⟩,
ill-nature sure must ail her:
Search round, and if you're wise, you'll chuse
to wed an honest Sailor.
F I N I S.
Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.—1817.
