The Boston Frigate's Engagement.

THE American Frigate, from Boston she came, Guns mounted thirty two, the BOSTON by name, 'Twas to the West Indies, our orders ran so But on our passage we met a proud foe. On the twelfth of October two sail we espy'd, The one being a schooner to windward she ply'd; We fowllow'd soon after for an hour or more, But the other being largest, we down on her bore. We chac'd her four hours, our guns being clear, All hands call'd to quarters, close to her we did bear, Our bow guns being levell'd, on her we did play, Which caus'd this bold Frenchman to immediately stay. Then our captain step'd forward and hail'd with a frown, To the United States flag hawl your colours down; No,no, says the captain, and loudly did cry, That never can be, sir, until that we try. Then we gave him a broadside for to make him strike, But fully determin'd they were for to fight, Twenty-four guns she mounted and on us did play, Our braces and rigging they soon shot away. Then they made all their sail from us to get clear, We refitted our braces and after did steer, And when we came up it was eleven at night, We show'd them such play that we made them to strike. Oh 'twas early next morning our captain then spoke, Their vessel was shatter'd, their mast it was broke; We took her in tow, and for Boston did steer, Where 'mong pretty girls we'll drownall our care. So now my braves boys it's to Boston we're bound, Where the full bowles of punch shall go merrily round. Here's a health to Captain Little, and Officers too, Not forgetting the seamen that were valient and true.

Tom Bowline's Epitaph.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowline, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him too. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, And now he's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many, and true hearted, His Poll was kind and fair. And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah! many's the time and oft, But mirth has turn'd to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he, who all commands, Shall give (to call life's crew together) The word, to pipe all hands! Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, Tom's life has vainly doff't, For tho' his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.