THE MYRTLE AND VINE. GOD SAVE THE KING. WITH AN ADDITIONAL STANZA, Written by R. B. Sheridan, Esq. M. P. GOD save great George our King, Long live our noble King, God save the King ; Send him victorious, Long to reign over us; O Lord our God arise, And make them fall; God save us all. Thy choicest gifts in store, To sing with heart and voice, From ev'ry latent foe, Our Father, Prince, and Friend→ BRITANNIA. Old Air, New Accompaniment. TO Neptune enthron'd as he govern❜d the sea, When this charter arriv'd without let or condition: Navigation and trade, no more be afraid, The ocean is yours, and I'll lend you my aid: CHORUS Besides, I'll instruct you like me to entwine The news over Gallia immediately flew, French and Spaniards pretended to give themselves If Britons are suffer'd their schemes to pursue, There's an end of our projects, our hopes, and our cares. So they sent out a fleet, which the Englishmen beat, Then Mynheer from his mouth in great wrath took his pipe, And swore our pretensions we sorely should rue, That the time had arriv'd, and the project was ripe, Shou'd teach poor John Bull a fresh course to pursue. With this threat he set sail, 'twas of little avail, They'd the worst on't at sea, and in port they turn'd tail. But now with true blue they the orange entwine, And the fruits of fair commerce round liberty's shrine. But now with true blue, &c. Then join, sons of Britain, the world to convince, May Britannia still be the Queen of the Sea, THE GROUND-IVY GIRL. (ORIGINAL) Written by Mr. Upton. The Music by Mr. Reeve.-Sung by Miss Gray. NOR father nor mother has poor little Nell, Thro' courts and thro' alleys, thro' lanes and thro' streets, And up and down London's great city, Come buy my ground-ivy. Tho' often bare-footed, yet poor little Nell, Nor friend, nor relation, poor Nelly can boast Thus fortune, tho' fickle, poor Nelly befriends, And tho' for subsistence on chance she depends, Ground-ivy, ground-ivy, THE SOLDIER. (ORIGINAL.) By Mr. T. Collins. HARK! hark! the trumpet sounds to arms, But duty still forbids me grieve, My home! my native shore! Thro' foreign climes tho' doom'd to range, Think not my love shall ever change— Ah! no, this heart's too true: And if in battle's fiercest fe Of Providence I ask for lite Dear Mary 'tis for you! But should you hear some friend relate, SONG. Sung by Mr. Incledon, in the Turnpike-gate. CALM the winds; the distant ocean, Where our ships in triumph ride, Seems to own no other motion Than the ebb and flow of tide. High perch'd upon his fav'rite spray, But see, the loud-tongu'd pack in view, Again from lazy echo's cell, No sound is heard of mirth or woe, Save but the crazy tinkling bell The shepherd hangs upon the ewe. |