An Excellent New SONG, ENTITULED, A Hot Engagement Between A French Privateer, and an English Fire-Ship.
|
I'M a Prize for a Captain to fall on,
|
my Name it is Sea faring Kate:
|
My Sails they are Top and Top Gallon,
|
a Friggot that's of the First Rate.
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
A French-Man came lately to Press me,
|
which was not a very hard thing,
|
And swore that he first wou'd embrace me,
|
And Loaden me then for the King,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
Last Summer he Saild from the Shannon,
|
and long at an Anchor had red,
|
On his Mid Ship he had a good Cannon,
|
which was all the great Guns that he had.
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
His Main Yard he hoized, and Steered
|
his Course; and gave me a Broad Side:
|
My Poop and my Starn Port sneered,
|
betwixt the Wind, Water, and Tide.
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
Still under his Lee I did hover,
|
with all the force I could affo[r]d,
|
But as he had been a rank Rover,
|
he briskly did lay me on Board.
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
He looked for some hidden Treasure,
|
And fell to his doing of Feats,
|
But found me a Fire-ship of Pleasure,
|
When he enter'd the mouth of the Straits,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
It was a high Tide, and the Weather
|
With an easterly Gale it did blow:
|
Our Frigats were foul of each other,
|
And could not get off, nor ride to,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
My Bottom was strongly well planked,
|
My Deck could a Tempest endure,
|
But ne'er was poor Dog in a Blanket
|
So tossed, as was the Monsieur,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
No near, than his Course he still steered,
|
and clap'd his hand down to his Sword;
|
But as his Love takle he cleard,
|
I brought down his Main Top by the Board,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
Then he feared to burn a Sea-Martyr,
|
for my Gun-Room was all in a Fire,
|
And I blew up my second Deck Quarter,
|
just as he began to retire,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
I pepper'd him off the Centre,
|
Monsieur was ne'er serv'd so before;
|
I burn his Main Yard at a venter,
|
So that he will press me no more,
|
With a fa la la, etc.
|
Then Monsieur got off, and was grieved,
|
and cursed the English first Rates,
|
But till then he could never believe it,
|
That Strumbulo lay in the Straits,
|
With a fa ca la, etc.
|
|
|
|
|
|