Ben Bowser was valiant, a true British tar,
Had brav'd ev'ry danger in tempest or war;
Was content as an emp'ror, tho' ever so poor,
And would sigh at the hardships too many endure:
To his friend ever gen'rous, to Bess ever true,
Ben still did to others as he'd be done to.

'What a pity,' cried Ben, 'that, in sailing thro' life,
'There are lubbers so fond of base jarring and strife;
'How snug might us steer thro' life's billowy sea,
'If all hands to each other as brethren would be:
'What a pity,' he'd cry, 'that the number's so few,
'Who do unto others as they'd be done to.'

Tho' light was his heart, he of grief had his share,
Yet his maxim was just, 'Man ought not to despair;'
Ant your lubberly lordling who struts on dry land,
Like poor Ben, forc'd to yield at his Maker's command:
Then what argufies greatness, tho' rich as a Jew,
If he ne'er does to others as he'd be done to.

When wreck'd out at Indies, he'd shiners galore,
And many a poor comrade partook of his store:
All rejoic'd he'd escap'd from a watery grave,
Who gloried in conquest, but conquer'd to save:
When a Don was blown up, like a lion he flew,
And did unto others as he'd be done to.

Return'd to Old England, half naked and poor,
He sought out his Bess, who now shew'd him the door.
By old friends quite forsaken, how painful his lot--
Those who once shar'd his gold, now, when poor, know him not:
Joy--deserted, a beggar the maim'd wand'rer view,
And still do to others as you'd be done to.