Botany Bay Eclogues 04 - John, Samuel & Richard
(Time,
Evening.)
JOHN.
'Tis
a
calm
pleasant
evening,
the
light
fades
away,
And
the
Sun
going
down
has
done
watch
for
the
day.
To
my
mind
we
live
wonderous
well
when
transported,
It
is
but
to
work
and
we
must
be
supported.
Fill
the
cann,
Dick!
success
here
to
Botany
Bay!
RICHARD.
Success
if
you
will,—but
God
send
me
away.
JOHN.
Ah!
you
lubberly
landsmen
don't
know
when
you're
well;
Hadst
thou
known
half
the
hardships
of
which
I
can
tell!
The
sailor
has
no
place
of
safety
in
store—
From
the
tempest
at
sea,
to
the
press-gang
on
shore!
When
Roguery
rules
all
the
rest
of
the
earth,
God
be
thanked
in
this
corner
I've
got
a
good
birth.
Talk
of
hardships!
what
these
are
the
sailor
don't
know!
'Tis
the
soldier
my
friend
that's
acquainted
with
woe,
Long
journeys,
short
halting,
hard
work
and
small
pay,
To
be
popt
at
like
pidgeons
for
sixpence
a
day!—
Thank
God!
I'm
safe
quarter'd
at
Botany
Bay.
JOHN:
Ah!
you
know
but
little!
I'll
wager
a
pot
I
have
suffer'd
more
evils
than
fell
to
your
lot.
Come
we'll
have
it
all
fairly
and
properly
tried,
Tell
story
for
story,
and
Dick
shall
decide.
SAMUEL:
Done.
JOHN:
Done.
'Tis
a
wager
and
I
shall
be
winner;
Thou
wilt
go
without
grog
Sam
to-morrow
at
dinner.
SAMUEL:
I
was
trapp'd
by
the
Serjeant's
palavering
pretences,
He
listed
me
when
I
was
out
of
my
senses.
So
I
took
leave
to-day
of
all
care
and
all
sorrow
And
was
drill'd
to
repentance
and
reason
to-morrow.
JOHN:
I
would
be
a
sailor
and
plough
the
wide
ocean,
And
was
soon
sick
and
sad
with
the
billow's
commotion.
So
the
Captain
he
sent
me
aloft
on
the
mast,
And
curs'd
me,
and
bid
me
cry
there—and
hold
fast!
SAMUEL:
After
marching
all
day,
faint
and
hungry
and
sore,
I
have
lain
down
at
night
on
the
swamps
of
the
moor,
Unshelter'd
and
forced
by
fatigue
to
remain.
All
chill'd
by
the
wind
and
benumb'd
by
the
rain.
JOHN:
I
have
rode
out
the
storm
when
the
billows
beat
high
And
the
red
gleaming
lightnings
flash'd
thro'
the
dark
sky,
When
the
tempest
of
night
the
black
sea
overcast
Wet
and
weary
I
labour'd,
yet
sung
to
the
blast.
SAMUEL:
I
have
march'd,
trumpets
sounding—drums
beating—flags
flying,
Where
the
music
of
war
drown'd
the
shrieks
of
the
dying,
When
the
shots
whizz'd
around
me
all
dangers
defied,
Push'd
on
when
my
comrades
fell
dead
at
my
side,
Drove
the
foe
from
the
mouth
of
the
Cannon
away,
Fought,
conquer'd
and
bled,
all
for
sixpence
a
day.
JOHN:
And
I
too
friend
Samuel!
have
heard
the
shots
rattle,
But
we
seamen
rejoice
in
the
play
of
the
battle;
Tho'
the
chain
and
the
grape-shot
roll
splintering
around,
With
the
blood
of
our
messmates
tho'
slippery
the
ground,
The
fiercer
the
fight,
still
the
fiercer
we
grow,
We
heed
not
our
loss
so
we
conquer
the
foe.
And
the
hard
battle
won,
so
the
prize
be
not
sunk,
The
Captain
gets
rich,
and
the
Sailors
get
drunk.
SAMUEL:
God
help
the
poor
soldier
when
backward
he
goes
In
disgraceful
retreat
thro'
a
country
of
foes!
No
respite
from
danger
by
day
or
by
night
He
is
still
forced
to
fly,
still
o'ertaken
to
fight,
Every
step
that
he
takes
he
must
battle
his
way,
He
must
force
his
hard
meal
from
the
peasant
away;
No
rest—and
no
hope,
from
all
succour
afar,
God
forgive
the
poor
Soldier
for
going
to
the
war!
JOHN:
But
what
are
these
dangers
to
those
I
have
past
When
the
dark
billows
roar'd
to
the
roar
of
the
blast?
When
we
work'd
at
the
pumps
worn
with
labour
and
weak
And
with
dread
still
beheld
the
increase
of
the
leak,
Sometimes
as
we
rose
on
the
wave
could
our
sight
From
the
rocks
of
the
shore
catch
the
light-houses
light;
In
vain
to
the
beach
to
assist
us
they
press,
We
fire
faster
and
faster
our
guns
of
distress,
Still
with
rage
unabating
the
wind
and
waves
roar—
How
the
giddy
wreck
reels—as
the
billows
burst
o'er—
Leap—leap—for
she
yawns—for
she
sinks
in
the
wave—
Call
on
God
to
preserve—for
God
only
can
save!
SAMUEL:
There's
an
end
of
all
troubles
however
at
last!
And
when
I
in
the
waggon
of
wounded
was
cast,
When
my
wounds
with
the
chilly
night-wind
smarted
sore
And
I
thought
of
the
friends
I
should
never
see
more,
No
hand
to
relieve—scarce
a
morsel
of
bread—
Sick
at
heart
I
have
envied
the
peace
of
the
dead!
Left
to
rot
in
a
jail
till
by
treaty
set
free,
Old
England's
white
cliffs
with
what
joy
did
I
see!
I
had
gain'd
enough
glory,
some
wounds,
but
no
good,
And
was
turn'd
on
the
public
to
shift
how
I
could.
When
I
think
what
I've
suffer'd
and
where
I
am
now
I
curse
him
who
snared
me
away
from
the
plough.
JOHN:
When
I
was
discharged
I
went
home
to
my
wife,
There
in
comfort
to
spend
all
the
rest
of
my
life.
My
wife
was
industrious,
we
earn'd
what
we
spent,
And
tho'
little
we
had,
were
with
little
content;
And
whenever
I
listen'd
and
heard
the
wind
roar,
I
bless'd
God
for
my
little
snug
cabin
on
shore.
At
midnight
they
seiz'd
me,
they
dragg'd
me
away,
They
wounded
me
sore
when
I
would
not
obey,
And
because
for
my
country
I'd
ventur'd
my
life,
I
was
dragg'd
like
a
thief
from
my
home
and
my
wife.
Then
the
fair
wind
of
Fortune
chopp'd
round
in
my
face
And
Want
at
length
drove
me
to
guilt
and
disgrace—
But
all's
for
the
best;—on
the
world's
wide
sea
cast,
I
am
haven'd
in
peace
in
this
corner
at
last.
SAMUEL:
Come
Dick!
we
have
done—and
for
judgment
we
call.
RICHARD:
And
in
faith
I
can
give
ye
no
judgment
at
all.
I've
been
listening
to
all
the
hard
labours
you've
past
And
think
in
plain
troth,
you're
two
blockheads
at
last.
My
lads
where
the
Deuce
was
the
wit
which
God
gave
ye
When
you
sold
yourselves
first
to
the
army
or
navy?
By
land
and
by
sea
hunting
dangers
to
roam,
When
you
might
have
been
hang'd
so
much
easier
at
home!
But
you're
now
snug
and
settled
and
safe
from
foul
weather,
So
drink
up
your
grog
and
be
merry
together.
Robert Southey
Robert Southey, (born Aug. 12, 1774, Bristol, Gloucestershire, Eng.—died March 21, 1843, Keswick, Cumberland), English poet and writer of miscellaneous prose who is chiefly remembered for his association with Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth, both of whom were leaders of the early Romantic movement. He was endlessly curious about human nature but would not face it, whether in others or himself, except in the less volatile form of human culture, most of which he ended up despising as immoral or irrational, seditious or superstitious, dirty or even diabolical. His own mind eventually failed, after a lifetime of repressed passion and herculean compensatory labor, and he died of a stroke on the vernal equinox of 1843. He was buried in Crosthwaite Churchyard in Keswick, alongside his first wife and three of his children.