Algiers Slaves Releasement: OR, The Unchangeable Boatswain.  

No Prison like the Jail of Love,  
nor no such torments found;  
To those that loyal mean to prove,  
whose loves are firm and sound;  
This loyal person ne'er would change,  
like a true Lover he;  
Endured his Fetters and his Chains,  
and Betty's Captive be.   
To the Tune of, Awake, Oh my Cloris.  
 
 
 

OF a Constant Young Seaman,  
a Story I'll tell:  
That I hope all true Lovers  
will please very well:  
All his cry was still, though  
I continue a Slave;  
Yet the want of my Dear.  
is far worse than a Grave,   

All the tedious song Night  
in close Prison I lie;  
But methinks I behold  
my dear love lying by:  
In the mid'sf of my pains,  
this doth still give me ease;  
That is pleasant to me,  
which some call a Disease.   

Sometimes to the Galleys  
I'm forced to go;  
Though amongst all my Fellows,  
like a Slave I do Row:  
And when I am spent  
with this Labour and Pain;  
The thoughts of my Love  
doth revive me again.   
 
 

ANd when with Strappa does  
sometimes I do meet:  
I find little Pain,  
if I think on my sweet:  
Thus 'twixt Pleasure and Pain,  
my time I do spend;  
Yet vow to be Constant  
unto my Lives end.   

No Torture nor Prison  
shall make me forsake,  
Nor fly from my Reason,  
for my Betty's sake:  
I do slight all the Torments  
bestowed by the Turk;  
When I think on my Dear,  
and in Gallses do work.   

But a Renegado  
to make me they strive;  
I'll never consent to't,  
whilst I am alive:  
But will a Courageous  
true Protestant be:  
I'll be true to my faith,  
and be constant to thee.   

Ah Betty, when Billows  
do Rage and do Roar,  
For want of thy sight  
I am troubled sore:  
Whilst others are troubled  
with terror and fear;  
Yet I am cheered up  
with the thoughts of my Dear.  
No Prison is like  
to the want of thy sight;   

Which Locks up my bliss,  
for thou art my Delight:  
Though distant I am,  
therefore only oppressed:  
Yet still my dear Betty  
doth lodge in my breast.   

In the midst of my forrows,  
whilst others do mourn;  
'Tis the want of my Love  
that doth make me forlorn:  
Yet would not enjoy thee  
in this cursed place;  
Though for want of thy Love,  
my tears trickle apace.   

But be of good cheer,  
for every one knows,  
'Tis an ist Wind indeed  
that no comfort blows.  
And again I do hope  
thee in England to see:  
Then who'll be so happy  
as Betty and me.   

And now through Prousdence.  
I am returned;  
By Shipwreck I scaped,  
for our Ship it was burned:  
No torment like mine was,  
when I was a Slave:  
For the want of my Betty,  
was worse than a Grave.   
FINIS.   

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Rainbow near Davids-Inn, in Holborn.