BACHELOR'S HALL.

TO Bachelor's Hall we good fellows invite,
To partake of the chace that makes up our delight?
We have spirits like fire, and of health such a stock,
That our pulse strikes the second as true as a clock:
Did you see us, you'd swear, as we mount with a
grace,

That Diana had dubb'd some new gods of the chace,

Hark away, hark away,

All nature looks gay,

And Aurora with smiles ushers in the
bright day.

Dick Thickset came mounted upon a fine black,
A better fleet gelding ne'er hunter did back,
Tom Trig rode a bay full of mettle and bone,
And gaily Bob Buxom rode proud on a roan;
But the horse of all horses that rivalled the day,
Was the 'Squire's Neck-or-nothing, and that was
a grey.

Hark away, hark away,

While our spirits are gay,

Let us drink to the joys of the next coming day.

Then for hounds there was Nimble, so well that climbs rocks,

And Cock nose, a good one at scenting a fox;
Little Plunge, like a mole, who with Ferret and
Search,

And beetle-browed Hawk's eye so dead at a lurch: Young Sly-looks, that scents the strong breeze from the south,

And musical Echo-well with his deep mouth.
Hark away, &c.

Our horses, thus all of the very best blood,
'Tis not likely you'll easily find such a stud;

And for hounds our opinions with thousands we'll back,

That all England throughout can't produce such a pack;

Thus having described your dogs, horses, and

crew,

Away we set off, for the fox is in view.

Hark away, &c.

Sly Reynard's brought home, while the horns sound a call,

And now you're all welcome to Bachelor's Hall.
The savory sir-loin grateful smokes on the board,
And Bacchus pours wine from his favorite hoard;
Come on then, do honour to this jovial place,
And enjoy the sweet pleasures that spring from
the chace.

Hark away, &¢.

THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL.

'TWAS past meridian half past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted;
At six she linger'd on the shore,

With uplift hands and broken hearted:
At seven while taught'ning the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy!
At eight we all got under weigh,

And bade a long adieu to Nancy.

Night came---and now eight bells had rung,
While careless sailors ever cheery,
On the mid-watch so jovial sung,

With tempers labour cannot weary;

I, little to their mirth inclin'd,

While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy, And my warm sighs increas'd the wind,

Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy.

Next morn a storm came on at four,
At six the elements in motion,

Blung'd me and three poor sailors more,
Headlong within the foaming ocean!
Poor wretches! they soon found their graves;
For me---it may be only fancy---
But love seem'd to forbid the waves

To snatch me from the arms of Nancy.

Scarce the foul hurricane was clear'd,

Scarce winds and waves had ceas'd to rattle, Ere a bold enemy appear'd,

And, dauntless, we prepar'd for battle. And now, while some friend or wife, Like lightning rush'd on ev'ry fancy, To Providence I trusted life,

Put up a pray'r---and thought on Nancy.

At last, 'twas in the month of May,
The crew, it being lovely weather,

At three, A. M. discover'd day,

And England's chalky cliffs together; At seven, up Channel how we bore,

While hopes and fears rush'd on my fancy;

At twelve I gaily jump'd ashore,

And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy.

THE BARBER'S SHOP.

'TWAS Saturday night, six went the clock, Spruce was the barber's shop;

Wigs decorated ev'ry block,

From scratch to Tyburn top.

Mambrino's helmet scower'd so bright,
Smil'd to receive the suds,

And labourers flock'd to shave o'er night,
To grace their Sunday's duds.

Spoken.] And there was Smash, the glazier; and Sink, the plumber; and Light, the tallow-chandler; and Blow, the bellows-maker; and Thrash, the

Farmer; and Blind, the upholsterer; and Bother, the lawyer; and Bury, the undertaker; and Smother, the dustman; and those labourers of different descriptions,

Who on Saturday night,

To get decent in plight,

Get shav'd fit for church on the Sunday;
Of their trangressions sore,

To pay off the week's score,

The better to sin on a Monday.

First come first serv'd; neighbour Eelskin, sit,
You're summon'd to the chair:

The customers thicken, while round goes the wit,
Above board all, and fair.

Well Joe, and how do the world wag?
How's wife, and cats, and dogs?
Foinely, I thank thee, Master Spragg,
That's well and how goes hogs ?

Spoken.] I say, lawyer, the tonser here is a keen hand at a razor; he'll shave you as close as you shave your clients, ha, ha, ha, and then he gives one such a twist you see, though nobody affronts un, he always takes one by the nose, ha, ha, ha, yes, but the worst on't be, that he somtimes shavesee and bleedsee for the same money, ha, ha, ha. Yaw! yaw! zounds, you have killed me! Killed you! killed you! I almost cut my thumb off through your lanthern jaw. Look, look, the butcher do blecd like a pig, ha, ha, ha.

Thus the laugh grows loud,

'Mongst the village croud,

Who get shav'd fit for church on Sunday; Of their trangressions sore,

To pay off the week's score,

The better to sin on the Monday.

Now nothing escapes, the taxman they rate,
They roast and baste the cook,

The butcher cut up, the fisherman bait,

And the schoolmaster bring to book,

And many a random point they hit,
To give the sallies birth,

And make up what they want in wit,
By noise and vacant mirth.

Spoken.] And how diddy come on about the elec. tion? Why, we brought in the squire. A little bribery, I suppose, hey? Oh, no, no, no bribery at all; I'll tell you how it were: the squire says to I, and about seventeen more neighbours, I'll bet ev'ry one of you fifty guineas that I be'nt returned for your borough; so we said done; so when we came to consider what a foolish job we had made on't, Icod we were obliged to bring un in, for fear of loosing our money, ha, ha, ha, don'tee zee, don'tee zee, ha, ha, ha.

Thus the laugh goes round,

'Mongst the village croud,

Who get shav'd fit for church on Sunday;

Of their transgressions sore,

To pay off the week's score,

The better to sin on a Monday.

SONG.

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,

Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander.