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  ― 103 ―

My Own Bonny Yacht

Song

The rider may sing of his high-mettled steed,
Or the lover may boast of his lass;
The scholar love books, or the smoker his weed,
And the toper find joy in the glass.
But poor are their pleasures, when measured by mine,
And more perfect the joy that I feel,
When steering my bonny yacht over the brine,
As the wavelets keep kissing her keel.

With my hand upon the tiller, how we glide before the breeze,
Not a wrinkle in her well-filled sail;
Oh! I feel her pulses quiver, as she dances o'er the seas,
When we fly before a fine, fresh, gale.




  ― 104 ―
Our crew is the smartest, our boat is the best,
From her keelson to pennant complete;
A capful of wind, or a gale from sou'-west,
She is always the first of the fleet.
From Pinchgut to Manly, and home round the Shark,
A run to Port Stephens and back;
We shew them the way, in our bonny wee bark,
And the others sail home in our track.

With my hand upon the tiller, etc.

Then keep all your horses, your women, and wine,
For my love is far sweeter than all;
She's trusty, and lively, she's handsome and fine,
And her wants are exceedingly small.
Let this be our toast, as we lazily float,
"To our love may we ever prove true;
May we never grow rusty for want of a boat,
Nor our boat ever want a good crew.”

With my hand upon the tiller, etc.

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