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ADMIRAL BYRON has weighed his anchor,
And put to sea in a gale:

But deep in his heart is a hidden canker,
Because of an oft-told tale.

Brave he may be, deny it who can,

Yet Admiral John is a luckless man;

And the midshipmen's mothers cry, "Out, alack! My lad has sailed with Foulweather Jack!"

Admiral Byron has hoisted his pennant,
And steered for Cape Breton shore:
But the surgeon says to the first lieutenant,
"We shall never see Spithead more!
Weather-beaten and battle-scarr'd,

To Plymouth Hoe or to Portsmouth Hard,
The crews return-but they never come back
Who sign and serve with Foulweather Jack!

"Many a frigate has he commanded,

In every storm that's blown:

He would fight with a squadron single-handed, But his luck is the devil's own:

He loses the wind, he misses the tide,

He shaves the rocks, and his shots go wide;

The fate is curst and the future black,

That hangs o'er the head of Foulweather Jack.

"As for me, I'm a tough old stager,

Nor care if I sink or swim,

But when I think of the stranded Wager,
My heart is heavy for him.

Round the world to ruin and wreck
He carried his luck on the Dolphin's deck :
If ever a man had the gift and knack
Of sheer disaster, 'tis Foulweather Jack!"

As a seagull's wings o'er the surges flutter,
In the light of the sunset flame,

There hovered from westward a hasty cutter,

To speak with the frigate Fame. "Twenty Parley-voo ships to-day Lurk and loiter in Chaleur Bay;

Like wolves they gather to make attack

On the ships and convoy of Foulweather Jack.

"Frigates three for your three are biding,
And of arm'd privateers a score;
Sloops and schooners at anchor riding,
Are waiting you close inshore :

Their guns are many, and yours are few;

Eight to one they outnumber you:

The wind is low and the tide is slack,

But you yet may escape them, Foulweather Jack."

The Admiral stood six foot and over,

He was stately and stern to see:

But his eyes lit up like those of a lover,
And merry of mind was he:

And the Byron blood and the Berkeley blood
Burned in his veins like a fiery flood,

And his pulses leaped, and his comely face
Glowed with the pride of a fighting race.

The Admiral laughed with the wind's own laughter, And spoke with the sea's own might,

"From danger and death, and what comes after, No Englishman turns in flight:

They call me unlucky-to-day you'll learn

How the worst of luck for a time may turn :
We'll rid the seas of this vermin-pack,

And I'll be huntsman!" quoth Foulweather Jack.

The twilight sank and the darkness settled,
The Admiral's frigate led:

She took the waves like a steed high-mettled,

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And thus to his men he said:

Desperate measures for desperate needs,

And valorous crews for dare-devil deeds:

A goodly quarry we have in track

Clear the decks for action!" says Foulweather Jack.

All through the night were the seabirds soaring,
Shrieking and scared from rest:

All through the night the guns were roaring
Under the seabirds' nest.

When morning broke in a glimmer grey,

There was dreadful silence in Chaleur Bay,-
Only the crackle of burning decks,

And cries for succour from crowded wrecks.

The Bienfaisant is aground and blazing,
And sunk is the proud Marchault :
The privateersmen aghast are gazing
At their vessels that burn a-row;

The staggering smoke that volleys and blows
Shrouds the shattered Marquis de Marlose,
And the sloops and schooners in rout and wrack
Strew the pathway of Foulweather Jack.

The prisoners question in fear and wonder,
"What fiend have we fought to-day?

We are burnt and splintered and split in sunder,
Who boasted him soon our prey.

He grappled and boarded us, one to ten,
But he and his crew are devils, not men:

Curs'd be the hour when we crossed the track

Of this-how do you call him?-Foulweather Jack!"

Admiral Byron has counted his losses,

And steered for Cape Breton shore;

The baulks and spars that the wild wave tosses,
Last night they were ships of war.

The wounded men in the cock-pit dim
With feeble voices huzza for him :

"The stars may fall and the skies may crack,—
But my luck is broken!" says Foulweather Jack.



АH me! for the days of the AH years that are past and gone, those years which I lived in my primeval village! As I use the word primeval I speak in what may be called a subjective or reflexive sense. For the village itself was old enough-as old almost as the hills that surrounded it but I myself was very young in those days, and my recollections of the village and the hills date from early and happy childhood. And to a man of mature age, where the scenes of his youth and manhood are often forgotten, or at the least but dimly remembered, the things that he saw and heard and did as a child keep on recurring to his memory. Yet it seems to me, as my thoughts travel back, that in many ways our village, even for those far-off days, was somewhat more primitive than the neighbouring parishes, and its traditions were almost ultraconservative. Our rustics men, matrons, or maids-were of a sober and stay-at-home type, buying and selling, marrying and giving in marriage for the most part within the confines of their own village, and having comparatively little "truck with that outside world which lay beyond the hills. True it was, on Saturdays the shoemaking portion of the community, man and wife, trudged it along the hilly road to the sleepy market-town some four miles distant, the one carrying his week's work, the other

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a substantial basket. It used to puzzle me at the time, as I met them on the road, why custom had ordained that the wife should be expected to undertake this journey with her lord and master. For I can promise you there was very little apparent companionship about the proceeding, when the man, carrying his bag and smoking his pipe, walked four yards ahead at a good round pace, and the woman with her basket panted behind, careful never to fall more than the prescribed distance in the rear of the superior being! Now I know that the woman was taken partly in order to keep her out of mischief, and partly, no doubt, to give her the opportunity of doing a little extraparochial marketing, in the way of providing some extra delicacy for her man's Sunday dinner. As in more refined circles, so too in our primitive village, was recognised the truth of the saying that, if the wife wishes to be happy though married, she must feed the beast. The only difference in the return journey was that the man could walk with his hands in his pockets, and the woman carried the empty bag on the top of her basket.

In addition to the Hall and the Rectory, the two recognised capitals of the community, there were one or two smaller houses in the parish occupied by gentle people; but as the inhabitants of those houses were, compara

tively speaking, strangers or resident aliens, like my own family, they did not count for much when parish politics were concerned. People were civil enough to our class in their own rough way,—the boys pulled their forelocks and the girls dropped their curtseys, and the men and their wives passed the time of day to us if they met us in the street; but we were plainly given to understand that we were only living there on sufferance, and that, like the Uitlanders, we had no political status of any kind soever.

The parish politics always tended the same way, and that a satisfactory, though now, alas! obsolete, way-i.e., that what the squire and the parson thought right was right, and that their joint fiat was law,

"law civil and exekative," as the great Mr Grummer once remarked. And so it came to pass that, as the squire and the parson never did disagree about material points, they twain ruled the roost, and exercised a wholly beneficent authority in our parish. To begin with, they were both county magistrates; and as the power of a county magistrate was rather an unknown quantity in our village, I firmly believe that if the squire had given orders that Tom Barker, the one real black sheep in the parish, should be hanged, drawn, and quartered, the villain Tom would have had a short shrift and a long rope, and his execution would have been taken quite as a matter of course, provided always that the parson lodged no objection.

Then, again, the admiral-it was a big feather in the village cap, that possession of a squire who was a real live admiralowned three-quarters of the houses in the parish, and, having a very proper and sensible view of his position as landed proprietor, made no bones about turning out of the parish any notorious evil-doer or dissenter. Tom Barker unfortunately was not one of the admiral's tenants, or he might have mended his ways. He was a fine specimen of the old school, this admiral of ours, a man who as a middy had seen service under Nelson, and who retained to his dying day that aversion to the French which had been a sign of the times at the beginning of the century. If his disposition was masterful and his language on occasions at least as strong as his will, the old salt's heart was in the right place, and he was dearly loved by all classes in our parish.

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