The New Hampshire Gazette

Poetry.

From an Irish paper.

BARNEY BUNTLINE.

ONE night it blew a hurricane, the waves were mountains rolling.
When Barney Buntline turn'd his quid, and said to Billy Bowline,
A strong north-wester's blowing, Billy, don't you hear it roar now,
Lord help 'em how I pities all unhappy folks ashore now.
Blow, blow, blow.
The sailor fears no danger when the stormy winds blow.
Fool-hardy chaps as lives in towns, what dangers they are all in,
And now they're quaking in their beds for fear the roof should fall in :
Poor devils, how they envies us, and wishes, I've a notion,
In such a storm, for our good luck—to be upon the ocean.
Blow, &c.
Then as to those kept out all day on business from their houses,
And late at night returning home to cheer their babes and spouses,
While you and I upon the deck are comfortably lying,
My eyes! what tiles and chimney-tops about their heads are flying.
Blow, &c.
Lord help those folks who rashly take a voyage in the stages,
Some pack'd on top, some stow'd inside, as snug as birds in cages;
Crash ! down they go, and all are kill'd—while, when our vessel can't float,
Without the risk of broken necks, we snugly take the long boat.
Blow, &c.
And oftentimes, we sailors hear, how men are kill'd or undone,
By overturns in carriages, by thieves and fires in London;
We've heard what risks all landsmen run, from noblemen to tailors.
So Billy, let's thank Providence, that you and I are sailors.
Blow, &c.
R, R. B.