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Tho' in Porto-Bello's ruin

You now.triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

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See these mournful spectres sweeping

Ghaftly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;

There were English captains brave.
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,

Those were once my sailors bold:
Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,

While his dismal tale is told.

1, by twenty fail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended

But my orders not to fight.
Oh! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion

To have quell'd the pride of Spain!

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For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon,

Hast atchiev'd with six alone.

Then

Then the bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this-gallan: train had been,

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Thus, like thee, proud Spain disinaying,

And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn'd for disobeying,

I had met a traitor's doom,
To have fallen, my country crying

He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying

Of a griev'd and broken heart.

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Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul chime to languish,

Think what thousands fell in vain, Wafted with disease and anguish,

Not in glorious battle fain,

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Hence with all my train attending

From their oozy tombs below, Thro' the hoary foam ascending,

Here I feed my constant woe :

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VOL. II.

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Here

Here the battimentos viewing,

We recal our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander thro' the midnight gloom.

O'er these waves for ever mourning

Shall we roam deprived of rest,
If to Britain's shores returning

You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe fubduing,

When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England tham'd in me.

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XXVI,

JEMMY DAWSON,'

JAMES DAWSON was one of the Manchester rebels, wha was hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-common, in the county of Surrey, July 30, 1746.-This ballad is founded on a remarkable faci, which was reported to have bappened at his execution. It was written by the late WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq; foon after the event, and has been printed amongst his posthumous works, 2 voks. 8vo. It is bere given from a MS. which contained fome small variations from that printed copy,

COME

COME

NOME listen to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear; Nor will you fcorn to heave a figh,

Nor will you blush to shed a tear.

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And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,

Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe,

And pity every plaint, but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant youth,

A brighter never trod the plain; And well he lov'd one charming maid,

And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid she lov'd him dear,

Of gentle blood the damsel came, And faultless was her beauteous form,

And spotless was her virgin fame.

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But curse on party's hateful ftrife,

That led the faithful youth astray The day the rebel clans appearid:

O had he never seen that day!

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Their colours and their fath he wore,

And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
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How

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How pale was then bis true love's cheek,

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine {nows

So pale, nor yet so chill appear.

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With faltering voice she weeping said,

Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart, Think not thy death Mall end our loves,

For thou and I will ncver pait.

Yet might sweet mercy find a place,

And bring relief to Jeinmy's woes, O GEORGE, without a prayer for thee

My orisons should never close.

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The gracious prince that gives him life

Would crown a never-dying flame, And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lifp the giver's name.

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But thoug!, dear youth, thou Nould'st be dragg'd

To yonder ignoininious tree,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend

To share thy bitter fate with thee,

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O then her mourning-coach was callid,

The fledge mov'd fowly on before ; Thu' borne in a triumphal car,

She had not lov'd her favourite more,

She

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