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But when he vow'd he wou'd make her his bride,
Though his flocks and herd were not few, She gave him lier hand, and a kiss beside, And vow'd she'd 'tor ever be true!
Bonny jockey blitie and free,
Won her heart right merrily,
En No, 110, it will not do,
Munnot buckle to.
By her brave sons achieved,
And death stalks forth unheeded,
And view'd the foaming ocean,
In furious commotion:
" Succour bring, or NELSON dies !” . Rous'd at the name of her favourite she flew . To the scene, where the hero, exposid to her view,
Alus! was no more!
And thro' the fieet, engaging,
Amidst the battle's raging :
" To stimulate your fur", .
"Tis Nelson's blood !" conjure ye,
ie Let British thunder go,
“ Hurl destruction on the foe! ri Let not his fall, without something as great, “ Be recorded, to mark the lamentable fate
" Of a Hero so great 1*
From ship to ship resounded,
Astonishid and confounded, nr),
In British hearts excited;
His death must be requited !
Rushing down th' unfathom'd deep,
“VICTORY! Victory the
aller JEW PEDLAR. HƏR
'Itaal 2. 1 VELL, vat d'ye vant now to buy, 10:33:23
My razors, my vax or my knives? 1 tas, Then my rings oh such rings! and for why! | 01
To make pretty maids become vives. :)
I deal in, so various my trade is;
La ral lal, &c.
Some diamond pins, none can sırpass, -
And vhy? vhy, because they are glass.
Then pencils vill write in the dark,
All made by the devil knows who;
La ral lal, &c.
And I haven't above half a score,
'Tis more than they e'er did before. Yet pray do not call me a cheat,
Tho' my goods may not prove vạt you vish,
La ral lal, &c.
THE POOR MARINER. THE winds whistld shrilly, chill rain down was
streaming, When from a dark cell where the sun ne'er had
beam'd in, Worn out with great age, press'd with hunger
and grief, A sad son of Neptune call'd forth for relief : Give reliei 10,--ch, give relief to the poor Mariner. He trembling begg’d, as the affluent pass’d him, The poor mite benevolent charity would cast him, Whilst from bis dim eyes, hid by darkness, thick veil The big tear gush'd forth while he told his sad tale!
Give relief to, &c. These eyes oft have seen the proud sink before me. Have sparkled with Joy at the signal of glory; Have seen Britain's flag oft to conquest aspire, Tho' now lost in darkness for want I expire !
Give relief to, &c. My life's been expos'd in defence of our laws, I've bléd at dach vein to support freedom's cause
The billou's of danger have stemm'd without dread, Now faintly I struggle, now beg for my bread!
Give relief to, &c. Assist me, he said ;-the words tremblingly hung In accents most piteous on the vet'ran's tongue; When the grim King of Terrors his sufferings re
garded, Ard snatch'd him from hence, to where virtue's
WHAT'S THE MATTER? FAIR and plump was the maiden I took for a wife,
And her look it was loving and smugly: To be sure, and she led me a queer kind of life, * And her face it was cursedly ugly. Then clackaty-clack went her tongue like a mill,
Pretty Sue was so given to chatter, Not in bed e'en at night would her clapper lie still,
Though the devil should ask, What's the matter Then at thârch she was always a saint most de.
mure, And seem'd for her sins all contrition; But Psalmist, the clerk, did't think so, be sure,
When he threw out a winking petition ; ' For some how or other he told her a tale,
Pretty Sue cou'dn't ward off or parry,
HARVEST HOME. COME lay by the sickle till next Summer season, Our hopes are completed, our harvest is
crown'd; To recompence labour, 'tis nothing but reason, With heart giving cheer let the pitcher go round,
For what should annoy us
Come--see-rural festivity, Peasants rejoicing o'er plentiful crops. No words to the ear of a Peasant are sweeter, More pleasing no sound than to hear harvest
home; The banquet of mirth is an English Champetre, Where all driik success to the plough and the
CHORUS.-Then let us be joyous, &c. To comfort the hearts of the Poor--why are many,
If justice prevails, very soon will be found Twelve ounces of good household bread for one
penny, And beef, the prime prices, at four-pence per
CHORUS.—Then let us be joyous, &c. The jorum push round, hearty cheer is before us,
So kind, and so glorious a harvest to view! We dance, drink and sing-ajoining all in the chorus, “That peace to crown plenty may quickly ensue,
For what can annoy lis,
Come--sec-- rural festivity,