Faithful in friendship kind to all,
      The needy poor around;
   And those who gave a friendly call,
      A hearty welcome found.

   Deceit ne’er harbour’d in his breast,
      Or flattery in his mind;
   From troubles here he surely rest,
      And hope forgiveness find.

THE INJURED TO THE INJURER.

   You vilest of the human race,
   A traitorous fiend with double face;
   A fawning sycophant from youth,
   Who never spoke a word of truth: 
   Who shed thy tears like crocodile;
   Apparent virtue prov’d all vile: 
   You ask’d for cash the other day;
   And for your coach hire home to pay. 
   Poor needy wretch I lent you gold,
   You in return my credit sold: 
   But vile ingrate, the world shall know,
   You’ve prov’d my base ungenerous foe. 
   From watchmen who protect the laws,
   Did I not screen you from their paws;
   Said that at home I soon should be,
   Soon as arriv’d you came to me. 
   Said that you wanted forty pounds,
   You stamp’d, and swore, and struck the ground. 
   Tho’ press’d myself I lent it you,
   With blessings on me bade adieu: 
   ’Twas Sunday night that we did part,
   I thought ’twas with an honest heart;
   You said my brothers here would be,
   To lend me aid and set me free: 
   Instead of brothers, bailiffs came
   To caption me and hurt my name. 
   They had a writ from Mr Blake,
   My body into prison take;
   Vile wretch you’ll have the public scorn,
   To curse the day that you were born: 
   I’ll publish to the world your knavery,
   And write my name the injur’d, Savory. 
   Interest leads mankind to stray,
   From honesty both night and day;
   When fortune smiles, friends we do meet,
   That greet us kindly in the street;
   But when they see us in distress,
   You’ll frequent find their number less. 
   Too well I know this to be true,
   And worthy neighbours so do you;
   When you can spend a pound-note free,
   A clever fellow you will be;
   But when your purse is empty grown,
   Those compliments from you are flown;
   Its not dear sir I wish to see,
   You at my house to dine and tea;
   Do but just say you’ll to them roam,
   They’ll say they cannot be at home.

On the death of Lord Nelson.

The fleets of haughty France and Spain,
No more will triumph on the main,
Though Nelson is no more: 
Our hero’s blood was dearly bought;
To conquer them he bravely fought,
And died in vict’ry’s arms.

‘We’ll avenge his death,’ the seamen cry,
’We’ll fight, we’ll conquer, or we’ll die,
And will their force deride: 
Our little ones shall lisp his name,
And to acquire a Nelson’s fame,
Will ever be their pride.’

Before cold death had closed his eyes,
Cover’d with wounds, the hero cries,
‘Is victory our own?’
‘We’ve conquer’d,’ cried the valiant crew,
He smiling bade them all adieu,
And died without a groan.

Yet, ere he flew, he did enquire,
How many ships were then on fire,
And others that had struck: 
Well pleased the hero then was seen,
When told the number was fifteen;
For England was his care.

Then with a bright benignant smile,
Inploring blessings on our isle,
Bade Collingwood adieu: 
Oh, gracious God! my soul receive,
From troubles England quick relieve,
And peace again renew.

Oh death! thy keen unwelcome blow,
Laid England’s darling bleeding low,
The hour he gain’d the day;
Soon as thy hand, had clos’d his eyes,
A beautious angel from the skies;
Flew with his soul away.

To taste sweet joys beyond the grave,
That are allotted for the brave,
Who fall in victory’s arms: 
Many a tar we hope to find,
Will prove he has the hero’s mind,
When signals raise alarms.