Poems (Cook)/The Gallant English Tar

by Eliza Cook

THE GALLANT ENGLISH TAR.

There's one whose fearless courage yet has never fail'd in fight;
Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, and our right;
But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow;
Cry "Quarter!" and that arm will be the first to spare its foe.
He recks not though proud Glory's shout may be the knell of death;
The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath.
He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war,
Here's to the brave upon the wave; the Gallant English Tar."

Let but the sons of Want come nigh, and tell their tale to him;
He'll chide their eyes for weeping, while his own are growing dim:
"Cheer up," he cries, "we all must meet the storm as well as calm;'
But, turning on his heel, Jack slips the guineas in their palm.
He'll hear no long oration, but tell you every man
Is born to act a brother's part, and do what good he can.
He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war
Here's to the brave upon the wave; the Gallant English Tar."

The dark blue jacket that enfolds the sailor's manly breast,
Bears more of real honour than the star and ermine vest.
The tithe of folly in his head may wake the landsman's mirth,
But Nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth.
His heart is warm, his hand is true, his word is frank and free;
And though he plays the ass on shore, he's lion of the sea.
He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war,
Here's to the brave upon the wave; the Gallant English Tar."