We'd shap'd our course for Cadiz, for 'twas thereOur Bark was bound, nor heeded danger near;Swift thro' the foaming waves she makes her way,And gales propitious mark each coming day.Our days we spend in pastime, and in play,While cheering songs beguile the hours away;And tales of humour dress'd in sailor stile,The lonesome hours of gloomy night beguile.As near St. Vincent's Cape we made our way,(While ev'ry heart was jovial, light and gay.)Expecting soon to reach our destined port,Thence quick return, and with our friends resort;But sad reverse—we soon descry'd a sail,Of form uncommon with a favoured gale,After two Brigs—these we had spoke before,For Barcelona bound, from Elsinore,With keenest eyes each sailor view'd her well,But who, or what she was, no one could tell.She quit the Brigs and having ours in view,Made sail for us—Now how or what to do,No one on board could tell, no one devise—To fly was vain—'twas therefore deem'd most wise.Our sails to clue, and patiently to wait,Her near approach, and our (yet unknown) fate.Quick thro the liquid waves she made her way,So eagles haste when in pursuit of prey,With wide-spread canvass, and inflated sail,0