boarded her and struck her colours, then there was Saumarez, off Cherbourgh, took the Re-union, killed and wounded a hundred and twenty, without the loss of a British seaman. Both knighted and barow-knighted, that's right; some sense to fight for a country like this. In short, we worked them, we took Neptune, and Fortune, and Victory; but for the matter of that, we had all this on our side before. Then we took Liberty that was just bringing coals to Newcastle, you know; Glory, ditto repeated; after that, we took Immortality, but they did not care much about that; and then, at last, we took their Constitution. That was

nonsense, we had a good Constitution of our own. Then we took Resistance, and Freedom, and Fame, and Concord; damme, we took almost every thing from them but palaver, and that they are welcome to. Well then, we took all the Saints from the Spaniards; and then we took from the Dutch, I don' know what the devil we took from the Dutch, with their cursed hard names.

As for me, &c.

WHEN IN WAR ON THE OCEAN.

WHEN in war on the ocean we meet the proud

foe,

Though with ardor for conquest our bosoms may glow,

Let us see on their vessels old England's flag wave, They shall find British sailors but conquer to save. And now their pale ensign we view from afar, With three cheers they're welcom'd by each British tar;

While the genius of Britain still bids us advance, And our guns hurl in thunder defiance to France.

But mark our last broadside! she sinks! down she

goes!

Quickly man all your boats, they no longer are

foes;

To snatch a brave fellow from a watery grave,

Is worthy a Briton, who conquers to save.

HOW SWEET IN THE WOODLANDS.

HOW sweet in the woodlands, with fleet hounds and horn,

To waken shrill echo, and taste the fresh morn: But hard is the chase my fond heart must pursue, For Daphne, fair Daphne, is lost to my view: She's lost!

For Daphne is lost to my view!

Assist me, chaste Dian', the nymph to regain, More wild than the roebuck, and wing'd with dis

dain;

In pity o'ertake her, who wounds as she flies,--Though Daphne's pursu'd--'tis Myrtillo that dies! That dies!

Though Daphne's pursu'd,--'tis Myrtillo that dies.

GENERAL WOLFE'S SONG.

How stands the glass around?
For shame, you take no care, my boys!
How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound!
The trumpets sound
The colours now are flying, boys,
To fight, kill, or wound;

May still be found

Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground!

Why, soldiers! why
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why soldiers! why:

Whose business 'tis to die.
What! sighing! fie;

Kill fear, drink on, be jolly boys!
"Tis he, you, or I,---

Cold, hot, wet, or dry;
We're always found to follow, boys;
And scorn to fly!

'Tis but in vain,

I mean not to upbraid you boys;
'Tis but in vain

For soldiers to complain:
Should next campaign

Send us to him who made us, boys,
We're free from pain;

But if we remain,
A bottle and good company
Cure all again.

THE WOODMAN.

FAR remov'd from noise and smoke,
Hark! I hear the woodman's stroke,
Who dreams not, as he fells the oak,
What mischief dire he brews;
How art shall shape his falling trees,
For aid of luxury and ease,
He weighs not matters such as these,
But sings, and hacks, and hews.

Perhaps, now fell'd by this bold man,
That tree shall form the spruce sedan,
Or wheel-barrow where oyster Nan
So runs her vulgar rig:

The stage, where boxers croud in flocks,

Or else a quack's, perhaps the stocks,
Or posts for signs, or barber's blocks,
Where smiles the parson's wig.

Thou mak'st, bold peasant, oh, what grief!
The jibbet on which hangs the thief,
The seat where sat the great Lord Chief,
The throne, the cobler's stall;
Thou pamper'st life in every stage,
Mak'st Folly's whims, Pride's equipage,
For children toys, crutches for age,
And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford,

These chairs, and this convivial board,
The bin that holds gay Bacchus' hoard,
Confess the woodman's stroke;

He made the press that bleeds the vine,
The butt that holds the gen'rous wine,
The hall itself, where tiplers join
To crack the mirthful joke.

THE OLD CLOATHS MAN.

SHOES, hats, and old cloaths, hare skin, rabbit skin,

Come my pretty maid, old cloaths, old cloaths,
About the squares,

I cry my vares,

When to open the findow the maid begin,
So den I vait

At the airy gait,

And coax um and chuck'em under the chin. Spoken.] Vat you got for me diss time, mine dear? Ah, vat is tiss! Ah, tiss de coat, de plack coat, de plack coat is ferry koot coat; but, ven he ket shabby, he ket ferry shabby. Beside, nobody vear de black coat but de parson, and de master parson pye de new coat, and the churneyman parson cant

afford to pye any coat at all. I kiff you tree shillings for te plack coat. Nonsense, ket away, I vant to talk to diss laty bout the kishen stuff: vell, vell, I kiff you fife, but den you mosse kiff me that shoe, that handkerchief, dat stocking. Ah, dat is for pretty girl, good morning my lofe, I fish you great luck vid de kishen stofe.

So I trick all de flat again and again,

Till by dat time I come to Rosemary-Lane,
Like a snow-ball, still bigger and bigger I crows,
While loudly I cry, shoes, hats, and old cloaths.
So I tink no sin

To take 'em in;

Shoe, stocking, every ting make my own,
As I trick de flat,.

One, two, three hat,

I look like the pope with my triple crown. Spoken.] Ah Monsieur le Valet! vat you got tiss morning! Ah, vat is de breeches, de small cloaths, de inexpressible? Ah, tis de breeches de fine dashing fellow stare de laty de face, knock down de fatchmen, get his nose pull a little some time, ferry bad stain in the front; ah nothing coot put de pocket; ferry coot pocket, coot as new. Never ket no money to put in um, and so never fare um ote. Stay, let me look de faiscoat. Vat it tiss? oh, it is de tayler bill; damme so long my arm; tiss is te fay te youn chentlemen alfay sell his cloaths afore he pay for um. Vel, I give you tree sixpence. Oh, Moses, you must stand my friend, 'fant a guinea. A kinny! yes, I got my master fatch, I take to te fatch-maker, I kiff you for little pawn, I kot an appointment this evening; tam fine girl, Moses. Fell, fell, I take de fatch. Dam fool! vortey, fifty pone, I ket all his kuts out before he come home again; but, pon my soul you ferry great rogue, pawn your master fatch! you must not keep company with man of my character. So I tricks all de flats again, and again, Till, by dat time I kets to Rosemary-Lane,