Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer
List ye landsmen all to me
Messmates hear a brother sailor
Sing the dangers of the sea
From bounding billows first in motion
Where the dreadful whirlwinds rise
To the tempest-troubled ocean
Where the seas contend with skies.
CEASE RUDE BOREAS - "blustering railer/ killer" - comp by George Alexander Stevens (1710-1784) - ROUD #949 - Such Bs London #325 -
GREIG-DUNCAN 1 1981 #12 (w/o) "The Whaler's Lamentation" --- HUNTINGTON SWS 1964 pp70-72 ships log 1827 (w/o) "The Tempest" -
CAREY ASS 1976 pp84-87 Timothy O Connor MS songbook c1778 -- A L LLOYD TOPIC 12-T-174 1967
White Jacket or The World in a Man-of-War, by Herman Melville
Sheet-Anchor-men - old veterans all - whose place is on the forecastle;
the fore-yard, anchors, and all the sails on the bowsprit being under their care.
They are an old weather-beaten set, culled from the most experienced seamen on board. These are the fellows that sing you "The Bay of Biscay
Oh!" and "Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling!" "Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer!" who, when ashore, at an eating-house, call for a
bowl of tar and a biscuit. These are the fellows, who spin interminable yarns about Decatur, Hull, and Bainbridge; and carry about their persons
bits of "Old Ironsides," as Catholics do the wood of the true cross. These are the fellows, that some officers never pretend to damn, however much
they may anathematize others. These are the fellows, that it does your soul good to look at;—hearty old members of the Old Guard; grim sea
grenadiers, who, in tempest time, have lost many a tarpaulin overboard. These are the fellows, whose society some of the youngster midshipmen
much affect; from whom they learn their best seamanship; and to whom they look up as veterans; if so be, that they have any reverence in their
souls, which is not the case with all midshipmen.
The Three Admirals, by W.H.G. Kingston
Tom, before he came to sea, had often read about living on a desert island with one or two pleasant companions, and had thought that it would be very
good fun. When the reality rose vividly before him, he could not but confess that he would rather be keeping watch on board, with a prospect of
returning home to see his father, mother, and friends. When, however, it came to his turn to sing, he trolled forth, in his rich deep voice,
"Cease, rude Boreas," or some other sea song of the same character, as if he had no anxious thoughts to trouble him. The blazing fire which they kept up served to
dry their clothes.
AN ODE ON THE BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL.
Sung and acted by a Soldier, in a Military Habit, with his Firelock, &c.,
in the same Measure with a Seapiece, entitled the Tempest.
You bold warriors, who resemble
Flames upon the distant hill;
At whose view the heroes tremble,
Fighting with unequal skill.
Loud-sounding drums, now with hoarse murmurs,
Rouse the spirit up to war;
Fear not, fear not, though their numbers,
Much to ours superior are,
Hear brave WARREN, bold commanding:
"Gallant souls and vet'rans brave,
See the enemy just landing,
From the navy-cover'd wave.
Close the wings--advance the centre--
Engineers point well your guns--
Clap the matches--let the rent air
Bellow to Britannia's sons."
Now, think you see three thousand moving,
Up the brow of BUNKER'S HILL;
many a gallant vet'ran shoving
Cowards on, against their will.
The curling volumes all behind them,
Dusky clouds of smoke arise;
Our cannon-balls, brave boys, shall find them,
At each shot a hero dies.
Once more, WARREN, 'midst this terror,
"Charge, brave soldiers, charge again;
Many an expert vet'ran warrior
Of the enemy is slain.
Level well your charged pieces,
In direction to the town;
They shake, they shake, their lightning ceases;
That shot brought six standards down."
Maids in virgin beauty blooming,
On Britannia's sea-girt isle,
Say no more your swains are coming,
For with songs the day beguile.
For sleeping found in death's embraces,
On their clay-cold beds they lie;
Death, grim death, alas, defaces
Youth and pleasure, which must die.
"March the right wing, Gard'ner, yonder;
The hero spirit lives in thunder;
Take th' assailing foe in flank,
Close there, serjeants, close that rank.
The conflict now doth loudly call on
Highest proof of martial skill;
Heroes shall sing of them, who fall on
The slipp'ry brow of BUNKER'S HILL."
Unkindest fortune, still thou changest,
As the wind upon the wave;
The good and bad alike thou rangest,
Undistinguish'd in the grave.
Shall kingly tyrants see thee smiling,
Whilst the brave and just must die;
Them of sweet hope and life beguiling
In the arms of Victory.
"Behave this day, my lads, with spirit,
Wrap the hill top as in flame;
Oh! if we fall, let each one merit
Immortality in fame.
From this high ground, like Vesuv'us,
Pour the floods of fire along;
Let not, let not numbers move us,
We are yet five hundred strong."
Many a widow sore bewailing
Tender husbands, shall remain,
With tears and sorrows, unavailing,
From this hour to mourn them slain.
The rude scene striking all by-standers,
Bids the little band retire;
Who can live like salamanders,
In such floods of liquid fire?
Ah, our troops are sorely pressed--
HOWE ascends the smoky hill;
Wheel inward, let these ranks be faced,
We have yet some blood to spill.
Our right wing pushed, our left surrounded,
Weight of numbers five to one;
WARREN dead, and GARD'NER wounded--
Ammunition is quite gone."
See the steely points, bright gleaming
In the sun's fierce dazzling ray;
Groans arising, life-blood streaming,
Purple o'er the face of day.
The field is cover'd with the dying,
Free-men mixt with tyrants lie,
The living with each other vieing,
Raise the shout of battle high.
Now brave PUTNAM, aged soldier:
"Come, my vet'rans, we must yield;
More equal match'd, we'll yet charge bolder,
For the present quit the field.
The God of battles shall revisit
On their heads each soul that dies;
Take courage, boys, we yet shan't miss it.
From it thousand victories."