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TWO BLANKS TO A PRIZE.

IN this lottery of life should dame Fortune beguile,.
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'd a bachelor fifty year,

Then resolv'd, silly man, to marry?.

Who liv'd, &c..

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 went

to Sally.

He swore he lov'd her passing well,

And fain with her would marry;,

And 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 alone, 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,

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;

And I'm a pretty young girl,
But the money comes slowly in.

And it's oh dear, &c,

They say I'm beauteous and fair,
They say I'm scornful and proud;
Alas! I must now despair,

For, ah, I am growing very old.

And it's oh dear, &c.

And now I must die an old maid;
Oh, dear, how shocking the thought!
And all my beauty must fade,

But I'm sure it is not my fault.

And it's oh dear, &c.

SONG.

TUNE." The Heroes of the British Fleet."

STILL Europe hears, from Gallia's shore,
The lawless Tyrant's threatening strain;
Sees o'er her plains his myriads pour;

Her Nations bend to Slavery's chain:
While Britain guards her Monarch's throne,
And laws and freedom calls her own!
While Britain guards her Monarch's throne,
And laws and freedom calls her own!
And laws and freedom calls her own!

Still Europe sees Imperial Crowns

Bow to the haughty Despot's sway:

His fiat bleeding Austria owns,

O'er realms where rapine mark'd his way; While Britain's sons her rights maintain ; Her charter'd empire o'er the main !

While Britain's sons, &c.

The fell Usurper's ruffian boast,

Invasion's threat! old Albion hears!

Her gallant sons defend her coast
Her Britains all are volunteers!
Her native Heroes, brave as free,
Defy their toes by land and sea!
Her native Heroes, &c.

;

Still o'er the mighty world of waves
Britains all conquering Navy rides;
The foe, the storm, the tempest braves,
Triumphant o'er the foamy tides;
Her flag in every port unfurl'd;
Her NELSON's spirit awes the world!
Her flag, &c.

Still may it awe old England's foe!
Still o'er her guardian fleets preside,
And long as Ocean's billows flow,

Thy genius, PITT! her Senate guide! So shall her power and fame resound, Wide as the Earth's and Ocean's bound. So shall her power, &c.

Still George the British sceptre sways,
Victorious mid' the strife of war;
While round his throne new glories blaze,
New glories won from Trafalgar
And o'er the world the trump of Fame,
Proclaims each british Heroe's name.
And o'er the world, &c.

Now shall united Britain sing

The strains each British heart reveres; Britannia's Cause--- her State---her King; Her Fleets---her Armies---Volunteers! Her cause, each patriot breast shall fire, Till earth, and seas, and suns expire.

Her cause, each patriot's breast, &C.

THE WISE IRISHMAN

And his Sallad Oil.

ONE Patrick O'Blunder just came from Kilkenny, Who e'er he reach'd England had spent his last

penny;

Was hir'd as a servant to one Sir James Trueland, (I believe no relation to Abraham Newland ;) Who the very next week set off post for town, With the whole of his family and his new Irish clown;

When to London they got, the good honest Knight, Thought a dinner would please them, altho' 'twas near night,

So the servants prepared a fine piece of roast beef,
And those that were hungry had speedy relief;
A Sallad was also a part of their cheer,

Which the Knight said he'd dress, but no oil was there,

And the servants being busy, he says to his many "Here, Patrick, run off now as fast as you can, "And the first shop you come to enquire for some oil,

"And make great haste back or the dinner will

spoil."

So full drive Pat set off, and soon knock'd down a Quaker,

The first shop he came to was kept by a baker; "Sir, I want two quarts of your best eating oil, "And make haste, my dear honey, or the sallad will spoil."

"Why man, cries the Baker, we sell it not here," "Arrah, then, cries Pat, you can tell me my dear "Where it is to be got, I hope 'tis not far."

"Oh! no, answered he, do you see yonder jar? "A jar! what's a jar " then cries Pat with surprize,

"'Tis the brown thing on the post ;--why you've surely no eyes.”

Off Pat, quickly sets, to the Oilman's he came, "Pray sir, I've been told Mr. Jar is your name."

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