The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1839-05-10 00:00:00

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ALL HANDS AHOY.*- SONG AND CHORUS.

(For Me Liverpool Standard.)

" All hands ahoy !" is oft the stirring
When the scowling cloud, when the thrilling squall
Has roused the sailor to his post on deck,
The vessel and his all to save from wreck ;
A true son is he of our foam-girt isle !
With his lion heart, with his eagle eye,
He braves the wild storm of the sea and sky,
Ever ready for his perilous toil :
Boldly, nobly, he answers to the cry—
" All hands ahoy !" (Chorus) " Ay, ay !"
" All hands ahoy !" is now the stirring call,
When Whigs with their scowl, when Rads with their squall
Have roused the Tory to his post on deck,
The Vessel of the State to save from wreck;
A true son is he of our foam-girt isle !
With his Lion heart, with his Eagle eye,
He braves the wild storm of Rad-Whiggery,
Ever ready for his Patriot toil;
Boldly, nobly, he answers to the cry—
" All hands ahoy !" (Chorus, " Ay, ay !"

• When a British Ship is in peril, " All Hands Ahoy !" is the call
of the Officer of the Watch, and " Ay, Ay !" responds every gallant
Tar, as he springs to his duty.

SONNET.

(From Blackwood's Magazine for May.)
England has felt of old a tyrant's sway,
The rightful blood of long-descended kings
Has trodden underfoot as abject things
A people's liberties. Through dark dismay
Where chaos brooded, Cromwell won his way
To power supreme, uplifted on the wings
Of a bold spirit ; nor dishonour brings
His rule, who taught the factious to obey
And foes to fear us. But 0 ! when till now
Was England mastered by a low-born slave
False and faint-hearted ; on whose sordid brow

Shame sits enamoured ; who would dig a grave
Per all she venerates, and has breathed a vow
To hate her sons as cowards hate the brave ?

THREE SONNETS.

BY SIR MORGAN O'DOBERTY, BART.

(From Fraser's Magazine for May.)

SAGACITY OF. THE XXII.
Five nights ! Ave nights! A hundred columns full !
In weary, weary drowsiness dragged on !
As at the birth of Og—see glorious John*—
" The midwife laid her'hand on his fat skull,
With this prophetic blessing, Be thou dull."
So it would seem Reform has laid upon
Our Whig majority like benison.
But as of Twenty-two (forgive the bull)
Thirty-and-six are placemen, we must own,
In spite of all this muddy mass of prose,
No lack of self-preserving wit was shown,
When the division-moment came by those
Whom cross-bun rhymes would call " the pretty elves,"
Not buying (they are bought), but " voting for themselves.

ELOQUENCE OF THE XXII.
Even the bright clashing of George Sinclair's wit
Failed to illumine this dense, dull debate;
'Twas wasted after Russell's priggish prate—
Rice's small gabble from the robes of Pitt.
Sheila tawdry tropes, for Tipperary fit
(As murdering the Queen's English), the big brogue
Brayed from each tail-composing fool or rogue;
The drivelling venom by O'Connell spit,
And Bulwer's leaden periods. Such the style
Of ministerial speaking ; one alone,
John Temple Leader, took a loftier tone,
Spurning the Whig impostors, base anti vile.
But to what purpose, when at last his vote
In the division went with grovelling Grote?

TRIVNIPII OF THE XXII.
And joy is spread through Downing-street,—such joy
As in the convict cell the trembling thief
Feels when he hears the respite's short relief,—
Sure of the rope at last. With like alloy
It Whig rejoicing mixed. But, John, my boy,
Take thou this soothing solace in thy grief,
Though thy majority is rather brief,
It will allow thee (and themselves) to enjoy
Another quarter's salary, the end
And object of the vote. Thy Tory foes,
Being in no hurry, can the tirri attend,
Strengthening their numbers every hour that goes.
lAs for rats Gibson, Goddard, and Bob Ingham,
Ipswich, South Shields, and Cricklade, sure must tling'em.
* Absalom and Achitophel.