Found accidentally while looking for something else. This story rings true although it lacks drama in a conventional sense, and lacks a satisfactory ending. I suspect John Carwithen wrote it about himself while still in the navy. It was printed without stanza breaks; I inserted them where they seemed convenient. Maybe this poem was never intended to be sung.

From The Gentleman’s Diary, or the Mathematical Repository; An Almanack for the Year of our Lord 1799 (London: Company of Stationers, 1799), page 22.

THE POOR POET.
A true tale, by Mr. John Carwithen, late midshipman on board the Royal William.

Those that the muses aid implore,
‘Tis said, are oft distrest and poor;
And, but the assertion false or true,
I’ll not dispute the point with you.

Near reeds and larkspurs on a hill,
There dwelt a man, tenant at will,
Who gigs and flutes could none attain,
For a poor wife and children twain.

To labour was his daily care,
His meals were coarse, his coat threadbare.
For, with his ink-stand by him ever,
Deep drank he the Permessus river.

For, tho’ his work required speed,
He fancy’d line would write or read,
Tho’ blacksmith like he’d only scraps,
Not purchase cou’d dear books and maps,
But fill the Diaries every year
He bought, ere things became so dear.

His pittance small wou’d not supply
With food and fire his family:
The legislature laws had made,
That spoil’d him his most accustom’d trade:
His wife now rail’d, and said, you lout,
Go beat the neighbouring towns about,
And, tho’ your proper trade be scant,
You work must, or we die for want.

With that, this frowning madam pert
A waistcoat, night-cap, and a shirt
Or two, ty’d up, bid him begone:
His child cries, what’s my father done,
That you should drive him to despair?
With him I’ll go, his fortune share.

Alas! my boy, you cannot go,
The weather’s cold, the bleak winds blow,
No bed have I whereon to sleep,
You stay must and your sister keep,
While mother work will at her wheel:
Farewell, alas! what do I feel!

Reluctant, from my humble home,
About in quest of work I roam.
Yet peace of mind and conscience clear
He yet retained, and banish’d fear:
And going on near Gosport town,
Hard by the Feathers sat him down.

A press-gang passing him accost,
What ship my boy? you look like lost.
Another said, ‘tis sexton Tom,
Who lately ran the Friendship from.

He rais’d his eyes, but nothing said.
Come, prophet Jonah, to Spithead;
But ere we’re got to Gosport beach,
Bomb shells and balls will find your speech.

This said, they drag him to the boat,
And bid mind the after-thought.
He knew not what but bow’d assent,
And so towards Spithead they went.

South south-west wind, and a lee tide,
Not soon the boat got along-side
The Royal William guardship, then
Appointed to receive press’d men.
The sidesmen call’d; a rope was flung,
Which hapless o’er his body hung.

The surf soon pluck’d him o’er the side:
Send off the boat, the sidesmen cry’d,
We’ll haul on board this lubber oaf,
While those upon the deck all laugh,
To see him haul’d up from the flood,
He dripping on the gunway stood,
Not knowing to go fore or aft;
But they suspected this was craft,
And to the sentry call’d in haste,
Whose ramrod push’d him to the waist,
Where I shall leave him till next year,
That he may learn to reef and steer.