Tartan plaid/The Tempest

THE TEMPEST.

Cease, rude Boreas, blust'ring railer;
List, ye landmen, all to me;
Messmates, hear a brother sailor
Sing the dangers of the sea:
From bounding billows first in motion,
When the distant whirlwind's rise,
To the tempest-troubled ocean,
Where the seas contend with skies.

Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By top-sail sheets and haulyards stand,
Down top-gallants, quick be hawling,
Down your stay-sails; hand, boys, hand.
Now it freshens, set the braces,
Now the top-sail sheets let go;
Luff, boys, luff, don't make wry faces,
Up your top-sails nimbly clew.

Now all you on down beds sporting,
Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms,
Fresh enjoyment, wanton courting,
Safe from all but love's alarms:
Round us roars the tempest louder,
Think what fears our minds enthral;
Harder yet, it yet beats harder—
Now again the boatswain's call.

The top-sail yards point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each course,
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys,
Tho' the weather should be worse:
Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get,
Reef the mizen, see all clear,
Hands up, each preventer brace set,
Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes blue light'nings flash.
One wide water all around us,
All above us one black sky,
Different deaths at once surround us;
Hark! what means that dreadful cry!

The foremast's gone! cries ev'ry tongue out,
O'er the lee twelve feet 'bove deck,
A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck;
Quick the lanyards cut to pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the well, the leak increases—
Four feet water's in the hold.

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives and children mourn;
Alas! from hence there's no retreating,
Alas! to them there's no return.
Still the leak is gaining on us,
Both chain pumps are choak'd below;
Heav'n have mercy here upon us,
For only that can save us now.

O'er the lee beam is the land, boys
Let the guns o'erboard be thrown,
To the pump come ev'ry hand, boys,
See, our mizen mast is gone.
The leak we've found, it cannot pour fast,
We've lighten'd her a foot or more;
Up and rigg a jury fore-mast;
She rights, she rights, boys, we're off shore.

Now once more on joys we're thinking,
Since kind Fortune say'd our lives;
Come, the cann, boys, let's be drinking
To our sweethearts and our wives;
Fill it up, about ship wheel it,
Close to th' lips a brimmer join;
Where's the tempest now!—who feels it?—
None—our danger's drown'd in wine.