"Farewell, my son, we meet no more, The angel death, which gathers
The green and ripe must shortly come,
And take me to my fathers.
Farewell, may heaven be the height
To which you would aspire,
And think at times, when far away,
Upon your old grandsire."
In the good ship "Edward Thorn,"
We were o'er the billows borne,
A motley company were we,
Sailing o'er that weary sea.
Many from their homes had fled,
For they had denied them bread ;
Some from sorrow and distress,
Others from mere restlessness,
Some because their hopes were high,
Others for-they knew not why,
Some because they longed to see
The promised land of liberty.
There was doubting John the teacher,
Spouting Tom, nicknamed the preacher,
General John, the mechanician,
Lean lank Tom, the politician,
Lazy Bill, the bad news bringer,
Little Mac, the jocund singer.
There was Aleck the divine,
Bristly as the porcupine.
There was fighting Bill from Kent,
Always upon mischief bent,
Wives and children three or four,
With youths and maidens half a score,
And lastly tall orator John,
Always thoughtful and alone.
A motley crew as ever went
To form a backwoods settlement.
When the winds were all asleep
On the bosom of the deep,
Not a breath the sails to fill,
And the vessel lay as still
On the bosom of the deep,
"As a sea god fast asleep,"
Some would hang around the deck
Telling tales of storm and wreck,
Others through the smile and tear,
Talked of the land they loved so dear,
Or told the tale of deep distress,
Of hungry, hopeless, wretchedness,
Which made them ocean's dangers brave,
To seek a home beyond the wave.
Then to singing Tom would start,
As he said to ease his heart,
In a rude and boisterous vein,
He would thunder out this strain.
Old England is eaten by knaves,
Yet her heart is all right at the core,
May she ne'er be the mother of slaves,
Nor a foreign foe land on her shore.
I love my own country and race,
Nor lightly I fled from them both,
Yet who would remain in a place
Where there's too many spoons for the broth.
The squire's preserving his game.
He says that God gave it to him,
And he'll banish the poor without shame,
For touching a feather or limb.
The Justice he feels very big,
And boasts what the law can secure,
But has two different laws in his wig,
Which he keeps for the rich and the poor.
The Bishop he preaches and prays,
And talks of a heavenly birth,
But somehow, for all that he says,
He grabs a good share of the earth.
Old England is eaten by knaves,
Yet her heart is all right at the core,
May she ne'er be the mother of slaves,
Nor a foreign foe land on her shore.
Then little Mac would sing the lays,
Of Scotia's bonnie woods and braes,
Of hoary hills, of dashing streams,
Of lone rocks where the eagle screams;
Of primrose banks and gowany glens,
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