Joys of the harvest/The tempest

THE TEMPEST.

CEase, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer,
⁠list ye landmen unto me:
Mess-mates, hear a brother sailor,
⁠sing the dangers of the sea.

From bounding billows first in motion,
⁠where the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest-troubled ocean,
⁠when the seas contend with skies.

Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
⁠by top-sail sheets and haulyards stand,
Down top-gallants, quick be hauling,
⁠down your stay-sails, hand boys, hand.

Now it freshens, set the braces,
⁠the lee 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 ’twixt beauty’s arms,
Fresh enjoyment, wanting courting,
⁠safe from all but love’s alarms.

Around us roars the tempest louder;
⁠think what fears our minds enthral:
Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
⁠now again the boatswain’s call.

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys,
⁠see all clear to reef each course;
Let the sore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys,
⁠tho’ the weather should be worse;

Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get,
⁠reef the mizzen, see all clear;
Hands up, each preventure brace set,
⁠man the fore-yard ; cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunders roaring,
⁠peals on peals contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
⁠in our eyes blue lightning flash.

One wide water all around us,
⁠all above but one black sky!
Diff'rent deaths at once surround us,
⁠Hark! what means yon dreadful cry?

The foremast's gone, cries ev'ry tongue out,
⁠o’er the lee, twelve foot ’bove deck!
A leak beneath the chestree’s sprung out!
⁠call all hands to clear the wreck.

Quick the laniards 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 the wild waves beating,
⁠we for wives and children mourn:
Alas! from them 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!
⁠only He can save us now.

On the lee-beem is the land, boys,
⁠let the guns o’er board be thrown;
To the pumps come ev’ry hand, boys,
⁠see! her mizzen mast is gone.

The leak we’ve found, it cannot pour fast,
⁠we’ve lighten’d her a foot or more;
Then up and rig a jury foremast,
⁠she's tight, she’s tight, boys, we’re off shore.

Now, one, more, on joys we’re thinking,
⁠since kind fortune sav’d our lives:
Come, the cann boys, let’s be drinking,
⁠to our sweet-hearts, and our wives.

Fill it up, about ship wheel it,
⁠close to the lips the brimmer join.
Where’s the tempest now? who feels it,
⁠none;—our danger’s drown’d in wine.