"The yellow-hair'd god, and his nine fusty maids,
"From Helicon's banks will incontinent flee;
"Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
"And the bi-forked hill a mere desert will be.
"My thunder, no fear on't,

"Will soon do its errand;

“ And, d—me, I'll swing the ringleaders, I war❝rant;

"I'll trim the young dogs for thus daring to 'twine "The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine."

Apollo rose up, and said, "Pr'ythee ne'er quarrel, "Good king of the gods, with my vot'ries below; "Your thunder is useless!" Then shewing his laurel,

Cried, "Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!

"Then over each head

"My laurel I'll spread,

"So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall "dread,

"Whilst, snug in their club-room, they jovially " 'twine

"The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine."

Next Momus got up, with his risible phiz,
And swore with Apollo he'd cheerfully join:

"The full tide of harmony still shall be his;

"But the song, and the catch, and the laugh shall "be mine.

"Then, Jove, be not jealous

"Of these honest fellows."

Cried Jove," We relent, since the truth you now

❝ tell us;

"And swear by old Styx, that they long shall entwine "The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine."

Ye sons of Anacreon, then join hand in hand;
Preserve unanimity, friendship and love:
'Tis yours to support what's so happily plann'd;
You've the sanction of gods, and the fiat of Jove.
While thus we agree,

Our toast let it be,

May our club flourish happy, united, and free!
And long may the sons of Anacreon entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.

HOW SWEET IN THE WOODLANDS.

ANONYMOUS.

DALE, ETC. LONDON.HARRINGTON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

HOW sweet in the woodlands, with sweet hound

and horn,

To waken shrill Echo, and taste the fresh morn;
But hard is the chase my fond heart must pursue,
For Daphne, fair Daphne, is lost to my view!
She's lost!-fair Daphne is lost to my view!

Assist me, chaste Dian, the nymph to regain,

More wild than the roe-buck, and wing'd with dis

dain;

In pity, o'ertake her, who wounds as she flies!

Tho' Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtillo that dies!
That dies!-tho' Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtillo that

dies!

THE WOODEN WALLS OF ENGLAND.

ANON.

PRESTON, LONDON.

CARTER.

Sung by Mr Dignum.

WHEN Britain, on her sea-girt shore,

Her white-rob'd Druids first address'd,What aid, she cry'd, shall I implore,

What bless'd defence-by numbers press'd? Hostile nations round thee rise,

The mystic oracle reply'd,

And view'd thy isle with envious eyes!
Their threats defy, their rage deride;
Nor fear invasion from your adverse Gauls;
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Thine oaks, descending to the main,

With floating forts, shall stem the tide, Asserting Britain's liquid reign,

Where'er her thund'ring navy

Nor less to peaceful arts inclin'd,

rides:

Where Commerce opens all her stores,

In social bands shall lead mankind,

And join the sea-divided shores.

Spread, then, thy sails, where naval glory calls;
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Hail, happy isle! what, though thy vales
No vine-impurpled tribute yield,
Nor fann'd with odour-breathing gales,

Nor crops spontaneous glad the field,

Yet Liberty rewards the toil

Of Industry, to labour prope,

Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil,
And reaps the harvest he hath sown;
While other realms tyrannic sway enthrals;
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Thus spoke the bearded sire of old,

In vision wrapp'd, of Britain's fame,
Ere yet Iberia felt her pow'r,

Or Gallia trembled at her name;
Ere yet Columbus dar'd t' explore
New regions, rising from the main.
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,

Hear, then, ye winds, in solemn strain:
This sacred truth an awe-struck world appals-
Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

BY A MURMURING BROOK.

ANONYMOUS.

HIME, LIVERPOOL.

Sung by Mr Braham.

STEVENSON.

BY a murmuring brook, in a valley's deep shade,
Where the wood-dove and nightingale dwell,
Where the harsh eye of Envy may never pervade,
O grant me some moss-cover'd cell.

Round the mouth of my cave let the ivy entwine
With the woodbine and sweet-scented rose;
Let the blessings of health and contentment be mine,
And no cares shall disturb my repose.

But free from the ills that attend on the great,
And far from all folly and strife,

With sweet Solitude's charms in this humble retreat,
Let me spend the remains of my life.
Round the mouth of my cavé, &c.

MRS OPIE.

FATHERLESS FANNY.

NOT YET PUBLISHED. MURRAY.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

KEEN and cold is the blast loudly whistling around; As cold are the lips that once smil'd upon me; And unyielding, alas! as this hard-frozen ground, The arms once so ready my shelter to be.

Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast,

But few to console, and to love me, if any;

And my gains are so small-a bare pittance at most Repays the exertions of Fatherless Fanny.

Once indeed I with pleasure and patience could toil, But 'twas when my parents sat by and approv'd; Then my laces to sell I went out with a smile,

Because my fatigue fed the parents I lov❜d.

And at night, when I brought them my hardly-earn'd gains,

Tho' small they might be, still my comforts were many;

For my mother's fond blessing rewarded my painsMy father stood watching to welcome his Fanny.

But, ah! now that I work by their presence uncheer'd, I feel 'tis a hardship indeed to be poor;