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Unter seinen ernsteren Poesieen sind mehrere, namentlich einige Lieder, so zart, anmuthig, tiefgefühlt und mit Eleganz behandelt, dass sie den besten Productionen dieser Gattung gleich stehen und seinen Namen sicherer auf die Nachwelt bringen werden, als es sein reicher und sprudelnder Witz je zu thun vermöchte.

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Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blythe, Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among ! My grass is of that sort, alas! That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass

By folks of vulgar tongue!

Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet !
I think of cowslip-cups, but meet

With very vile rebuffs !
For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff

The turtle made at Cuff's.

How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles! mine are strew'd !

My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

That marks the Bell and Crown:

Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing

Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush! That perch on leafy bough and bush,

And tune the various song? Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor Street-Handel grinding at my door,

Are all my "tuneful throng."

Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams,

And colours of the skies?
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes.

Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,

Singing in soothing tones : Not thus the city streamlets flow; They make no music as they go,

Though never "off the stones."

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses - red and white; The violets and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built

And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day,

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing:
My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n

Than when I was a boy.

ode. Oh! well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh, “O rus!”

Of London pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades,

my eyes detest This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June's return ?
My feet are parch’d, my eyeballs burn;

I scent no flowery gust:
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me "dust to dust."

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;

The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,

But down a chimney's pot!

Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap

Beside your woolly dams ?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,
And skin not shear the lambs.

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Charles Dibdin, der Sohn eines Silberarbeiters, ward 1745 in Southampton geboren und ging frühzeitig nach London, um dort durch Lieder und Balladen sein Glück zu machen, musste sich aber als Klavierstimmer forthelfen. 1762 ward er Schauspieler und bald auch Schauspieldichter und lieferte nun hinter einander mehr als hundert Bühnenstücke; dennoch starb er 1814 in Dürftigkeit.

Seinen eigentlichen Ruhm erntete Dibdin als Volksdichter, er hat nahe an 1200 Lieder hinterlassen und die Mehrzahl derselben auch selbst in Musik gesetzt; viele davon sind in das Volk gedrungen und finden sich in Aller Mund, ganz vorzüglich aber im Mund der Seeleute, deren Lieb

linge sie sind. Reich an tüchtiger, patriotischer Gesinnung, einfach, warm, natürlich, gefühlvoll, erfüllen sie alle Anforderungen, die man an populäre Poesie machen kann und verdienen durchaus die Verbreitung, die sie fanden.

I sailed from the Down.

For sailors were born for all weathers,

Great guns let it blow high, blow low,
I sailed from the Downs in the Nancy,

Our duty keeps us to our tethers,
My jib how she smack'd through the breeze, And where the gale drives we must go.
She's a vessel as light to my fancy,

As ever sail'd on the salt seas.
So, adieu! to the white cliffs of Britain,

Our girls, and our dear native shore;
For if some hard rock we should split on,

We shall never see them any more.
But sailors were born for all weathers,

Tom Bowling.
Great guns let it blow high, blow low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, And where the gale drives we must go.

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him to.
When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar,
I verily thought she'd have sunk;

His form was of the manliest beauty,
For the wind so began for to alter,

His heart was kind and soft; She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk.

Faithful below he did his duty,
The squall tore the mainsail to shivers,

And now he's gone aloft.
Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries;
Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers, Tom never from his word departed,
As through the rude tempest she flies.

His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many, and true-hearted,
The storm came on thicker and faster,

His Poll was kind and fair.
As black just as pitch was the sky;
When truly a doleful disaster

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Befel three poor sailors and I:

Ah! many's the time and oft ; Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, But mirth is turn’d to melancholy, By a blast that came furious and hard,

For Tom is gone aloft. Just while we were furling the mainsail

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Were every soul swept from the yard.

When He who all commands

Shall give, to call life's crew together, Poor Be Sa and Dick cried Peccavi;

The word to pipe all hands.
As for I, at the risk of my neck,
While they sunk down in peace to old Davy, Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,
Caught a rope and so landed on deck :

In vain Tom's life has doff"d;
Well, what would you have? we were stranded, For though his body's under hatches,
And out of a fine jolly crew

His soul is gone aloft.
Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed

But I, and I think twenty-two.

After thus we at sea had miscarried,

Another guess-way sat the wind;
For to England I came and got married,

To a lass that was comely and kind :
But whether for joy or vexation,

We know not for what we were born; Perhaps I may find a kind station,

Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn.

Lovely Nan.

Sweet is the ship that under sail
Spreads her bosom to the gale:
Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;

Sweet to poise the labouring oar,

The roaring winds, the raging sea, That tugs us to our native shore,

In hopes on shore,
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man: To be once more
Sweet sailing with a fav’rite breeze;

Safe moor'd with thee.
But, oh! much sweeter than all these,
Is Jack's delight, - his lovely Nan.

Aloft, while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along,

And the surge roaring from below, The needle, faithful to the north,

Shall my signal be To shew of constancy the worth,

To think on thee, A curious lesson teaches man;

And this shall be my song,
The needle, time may rust, a squall

Blow high, blow low, etc.
Capsize the binnacle and all,
Let seamanship do all it can:

And on that night, when all the crew
My love in worth shall higher rise,

The mem'ry of their former lives
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize O'er flowing cans of flip renew,
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.

And drink their sweethearts and their wives,

I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; When in the bilboes I was penn'd,

And as the ship rolls through the sea, For serving of a worthless friend,

The burthen of my song shall be, And ev'ry creature from me ran;

Blow high, blow low, etc.
No ship, performing quarantine,
Was ever so deserted seen;
None hailed me,
woman, child, nor man:

Bold Jack.
But though false friendship’s sails were furl'd
Though cut adrift by all the world,

While up the shrouds the sailor goes,
I'd all the world in lovely Nan.

Or ventures on the yard;
The landsman, who no better knows,

Believes his lot is hard,
I love my duty, love my friend,

Bold Jack, with smiles, each danger meets, Love truth and merit to defend,

Casts anchor, heaves the log, To mourn their loss who hazard ran;

Trims all the sails, belays the sheets,
I love to take an honest part,

And drinks his can of grog.
Love beauty and a spotless heart,
By manners love to show the man:

When mountains high the waves that swell To sail through life by honour's breeze,

The vessel rudely bear, 'Twas all along of loving these

Now sinking in a hollow dell, First made me doat on lovely Nan.

Now quivering in the air:

Bold Jack, with smiles, etc.

When waves 'gainst rocks and quicksands roar,

You ne'er hear him repine;
Freezing near Greenland's icy shore,
Or burning near the line:

Bold Jack, with smiles, etc.

Blow high, blow low.

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear

The main-mast by the board;
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,

And love well stor'd,
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,

If to engage they give the word,

To quarters all repair;
While splinter'd masts go by the board,
And shot sing through the air:

Bold Jack, with smiles, etc.

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