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pay me, not till Belzebub's bum bailiff lays hold of you, and then you think I will pay your garnish, but I won't though: no; you shall all lay on the common side of the world, like a toad in a hole, that is baked for the devil's dinner.

---Put some money in the plate,
Or I, your preacher, cannot eat,
For 'tis with grief of heart I tell ye
How much this preaching scours the belly;
How pinching to the human tripe,
Is Pity's belly ach and gripe;

But that religion (lovely maid)

Keeps a cook's shop to serve the trade. Do put some money in the plite---Pray put · some money in the plate, and then all your iniquities shall be scalded away, even as they scald the bristles of the hog's back; and you shall be cleaned from all your sins, as easily as the barber shaveth away the weekly beard from the chin of the ungodly. Do put some money in the plate,

That I, your preacher, now may eat,
And then I will, when e'er you please,
With lifted hands on bended knees,

Say, sing, and swear, that only these are right,:,
Who croud this Tabernacle every night.

BRITANNIA'S HERO.

IN the Temple of Fame, where the Ghosts of the brave

Ascend from the mould'ring tomb,

Where the laurel and cypress alternately wave,
Sat the Genii of Greece and of Rome:

They convers'd of their sons, how they fought how, they died,

What scars in their bosoms they bore,

And they challenged Britannia, who wept by their side,

To rival the heroes of yore,

First the warriors of Greece, at their Goddess's call,
Refulgent in arms strode along,

Not old Homer himself could enumerate all,
But Leonidas headed the throng:

Next as frequent and bold came the children of
Rome,

With falchions yet dripping with gore,

While their genius, exulting, ask'd ages to come To rival the heroes of yore?

Then Britannia suppress'd the big tear in her eye,,
And call'd her illustrious dead,

Laurell'd heroes unnumber'd arose at her cry,
And Wolf the thick phalanxes led:

Will not these, cried Britannia, affecting a smile,
As she nam'd the stern combatants o'er,

Will Benbow and Rodney who fought for my isle,,
Now rival the heroes of yore.

Do the battles of Cressy or Agincourt yield
To Zama's or Marathon's plain ? ·

No! my Britons can equal your sons in the field,
And excel them in fight on the main :

But soon as with tears her great NELSON she nam'd,', 'Twas needless to name any more,

For each, loud assenting, this tribute proclaim'd,, He eclipses the heroes of yore.

CRIPPLED JACK OF TRAFALGAR

WITH shatter'd limbs Jack came from sea, 'Cause how he stood the tether,

With heart as firm as oaken tree,

That stands the wind and weather. What though his timbers they are gone, And he's a slave to tipple,

No better sailor ere was born,

Than Jack the honour'd Cripple..

A grape shot lopp'd his starboard wing,
That chill'd not his endeavour:
But, while he fought for England's King,
His day-lights clos'd for ever.
Though lame and blind, and but one arm,
To raise the magic tipple,

He's gain'd in war the noble palm,
For Jack's an honour'd Cripple.
With rudder gone and rigging torn,
A wreck in port he's towing,
Yet while he bled at ev'ry pore,
His dauntless heart was glowing.
One joy on earth alone he craves,
Which is the magic tipple;
And when at last pale death he braves,
He'll die an honour'd Cripple.

******

HUZZA FOR OLD ENGLAND.

A SAIL on our lee-bow appears,
She looms like a French man of war,
Then pipe all hands my brave tars,
And cheerly for chasing prepare,

Set each sail that will draw, ease your reefs and be

mute,

Mind how you steer, don't let her veer,
She'll lose way if she yare,

So steadily down on your enemy bear,
And give her a British salute.

But now see her top-sails aback,

She seems making ready to fight,

Up hammacks, down chests, clear the deck,
And see all your matches alight;

Now splice the main brace, and to quarters away,
Stand every one true to his gun,

'Till the battle be done,

We shall compel them to fight, sink, or run,,
Huzza, for old England, huzza!

KATE KEARNEY.

OH! did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney,
She lives on the banks of Killarney:

From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly,
For fatal the glance of Kate Kearney:
For that eye is so modestly beaming,
You'd ne'er think of Mischief she's dreaming,
Yet, oh I can tell how fatal the spell,
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.

Oh, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney,
Beware of her smile, for many a wile,
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney;
Tho' she looks so bewitchingly simple,
Yet there's mischief in every dimple,
And who dares inhale, her sigh's spicy gale
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.

**

THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. OBEDIENT to his Country's great command, Led by the guardian angel of our land,

The matchless NELSON Sought the Spanish shore,, And left his country to return no more.

Soon as he saw approach the hostile fleet,

His fearless breast with gallant ardor beat;
They come, he cried, my glory's now complete !

Firm on the Vict'ry's deck he took his stand,
To die or vanquish was his short command;
But scarce the banners of the shatter'd fleet,
Had crouch'd submissive at the Victor's feet,
When swift a vengeful bullet pierc'd his side :
My Country triumphs, I'm content! he cried,
And Vict'ry o'er her son hung weeping as he died

Fame from his dying brow the laurel bore,
And flew triumphant to Britannia's shore;

But when her sons the dear-bought trophy view'd, And mark'd it stain'd with NELSON'S vital blood, Exulting shouts were chang'd to mournful tears ; No voice but Grief's the drooping nation hears, And e'en the vanquish'd foe his deathless name

reveres.

BROWN BESS.

I'M a soldier you all of you know,
A right Volunteer in my heart;
Ev'ry inch of me loyal and true,
And from which I can never depart.
When I join in the chit chat at eve,

At head-quarters, parade, or at mess,
Like a first son of Mars then I seem,

My whole soul is employ'd on Brown Bess.
Brown Bess is my joy and delight,

My honour, protection, and pride,
Not a moment of comfort I know,
But when I've Brown Bess by my side.

The army I'm wedded to now,

And fight for my Country and King; To none but Brown Bess can I bow, To none but Brown Bess can I sing. When the glass passes merry and free, My toast all my comrades can guess; For I make the whole camp to resound, When I give in a bumper "Brown Bess." Brown Bess is my joy, &..

The true British lion is rous'd,

The bumper I give has its charms, For it means as a toast, you must know, Successto Old England's fam'd arms. This both loyal and constant I prove, And now the blest theme i confess, Pve a meaning that goes to my love, When a bumper I fill to Brown Bess.

Brown Bess is my joy, &c

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