Having seen too much Villany in _Scotland_ to pay the least Adoration to the Country, I return’d to _London_ again, and after a short Stay there went for _Highlake_ in _Cheshire_, where going on Board the _Seaforth_ Gally, Sail was presently hoisted, and in a few Hours bidding Adieu to the Sight of Old _England_ and _Wales_, we came to Anchor in the Bay of _Dublin_ very early on a _Whitsun-Monday_ in the Morning. Here I went ashore at _Dunlary_, and being got safe in that Part of _Terræ firmæ_, which, I think, is situated _in podice Mundi_, I went Five Miles farther to ~_DUBLIN_~, the Metropolis of _Ireland_, standing on the _Liffie_ River, as well as the Sea. This Country is seperated from _England_ by a very dangerous Sea, in which meeting with a most dreadful Hurricane, as soon as the tempestuous Weather was over, my _Muse_ incited me to delineate the Seamens Devotion in bad Weather, in the following Meditation.
_When Nature shews the Seaman various Forms Of Death, in Tempests, Hurricanes, and Storms, The Ship in Danger, Master, or the Mate, Cries, Reef the Sails before it is too late; We cannot bear ’em in this Stress of Weather, Up nimbly, Boys, G⸺ d⸺ you, all together. A Sailor from the Fore-Mast-Top bauls out, By G⸺ there’ll be no Calm to Day, I doubt; Then answers one, who’s on the Main-Yard Arm, Z⸺ds, Lads, as yet we have receiv’d no Harm. But next another cries, G⸺ d⸺ my Soul, How cursedly the rotten Bitch do’s rowl! Whilst here do’s split a Mast, there rent a Sail, Another swears, by Heav’n the Ship do’s fail: Some cry, G⸺ rot us, we shall all be drown’d, The very Storm do’s rage the Compass round; For steer which Way we will, the Wind do’s blow Contrary to the Course we strive to go. But hark! below Deck next a Man do’s speak, And briskly swears, the Vessel springs a-leak; Then how the Seamen helter-skelter jump, To save the Ship and Cargo by the Pump; Which useless grown, the Master says, I think The Vessel founders, we begin to sink. D⸺n ye, hoist out the Long-Boat, Wind defies Our Art, the Gunhil under Water lies; Come, leave the Whip-Staff; Lads, make hast, G⸺’s B⸺ Your Luffs nor Ports can do us now no Good. Mean while the Chaplain, who shou’d for ’em pray, Instead of praying, swears as fast as they: And just on drowning, in one hideous Yell, They curse their Fate, and swim with speed to Hell._