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A grape shot lopp'd his starboard wing,

That chillid not his endeavour:
But, while he fought for England's King,

Wis day-lights clos'd for ever.
Though lame and blind, and but one arm,

To rajse 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 darintless heart was glowing.
One joy on earth alone he crayes,

Which is the magic tipple;
And when at last pale death he braves,

He’lt die an honourd Cripple.

* 4 * * * * * * * *

HUZZA FOR OLD ENGLAND.
A SAIL on our lée-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 it 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 decking

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 rung,

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:
l'or 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,

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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 subniissive at the Victor's feet, When swift a vengeful bullet pierc'd his side : My Country triumphs, l'm content! he cried, And Vict'ry o’er her son hung weeping as he diedai Fame from his dying brow the laurel bore, And flew triumphant to Britannia's shore ; .

But when her sons the dear-bought tropliy view'd, And mark'd it stain'd with Nelson's vital blood, Exulting shouts were chang'u to mournful tears ; Nu voice but Grict's the droopin nation hears, And e'en the vanquish'd foe his deathless ning

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,
Whe: I give in a bumper " Brown Bess."

Brown Bess is my joy, &vo I he truc 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 fain'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 lo Brown Bess.

Brown Bess is my joy, &c

TWO BLANKS TO A PRIZE.
IN this lottery of life should dame Fortune beguiles,

This great truth you should ever premise ;
That, however the goodness may simper and smile,

She has always two blanks to a prize.
If a husband you'd take, Miss, or you, Sir, a wife,

From this maxim direct not your eyes;
For of one or the other, I'd venture my life,

There are more than two blanks to a prize.
If in law you're entangled, why then, silly man,

As a friend, give me leave to advise ;
Slip your neck from the collar as fast as you can;

There are fifty-two blanks to a prize.
And if for preferment you're starving at court,

Or by, merit expect you shall rise,
Then you're chance is not worth, Sir, three-fourths:

of a groat; * There are ninety-two blanks to a prize."

**********

POOR HARRY.
PRAY, ladies, did you ever hear

Of a shepherd, whose name was Harry,
Who liv'da bachelor fifty year,
Then resolv’d, silly man, to marry?.

Who liv'd, &ca.
Next morn he early rose,

And dress'd in his best cloaths,
Determin'd he no more from time to time would

dally,

But 'twas a luckless day,

For all his neighbours say, The first of April 'twas, when a courting he wents

to Sally. He swore he lov'd her passing well,

And fain with her would marry;

Hind mark, I pray, what now befel

The love-sick shepherd, Harry;
For when he knelt, and vow'd he'd tal

To wife none else but Sal,
The only answer she would make

Was fal de ral, lal de ral lal.

Of wealth he had good store,

Few shepherds could boast more; For that alonc, most maids he thought his wife

would gladly be,

So he search'd the village round,

But no where cou'd be found A lass who any answer made, but fal de ral, lal

dal de.

So bachelors all take warning I pray,

And think of the fate of poor Harry ;
Nor let fifty years of your life pass away,

Before you determine to marry.
This council I give, now mind what I say;

If you so long stand shilly shally,
And let all the prime of your life pass away,
Don't expect a young woman to marry.

Don't expect, &c.

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NOBODY COMING TO MARRY ME. LAST night the dogs did bark,

I went to the gate to see ;
When every lass had her spark,

But nobody coming to me;
And it's oh dear what will become of me;

Oh, dear, what shall I do;
Nobody coming to marry me,

Nobody coming to woo.
My father's a hedger and ditcher, -,

My mother does nothing but spin;

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