No lad in the corps dress'd so smart;

The lasses ne'er look'd on the youth with a frown,
His manliness won ev'ry heart.

Sweet Polly, of Portsea, he took for his bride,
And surely there never was seen

A couple so gay march to church, side by side,
As Polly and Joe, the marine.

The bright torch of Hymen was scarcely in blaze
When thundering drums they heard rattle,
And Joe, in an instant, was forc'd to the seas,
To give the bold enemy battle.

The action was dreadful, each ship a mere wreck,
Such slaughter few sailors have seen;
Two hundred brave fellows lay strew'd on the deck,
And among them poor Joe, the marine.

But victory, faithful to true British tars,
At length put an end to the fight,

And homeward they steer'd, full of glory and

THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gaz'd with fond delight,
By day that form their joy supplies
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture in my breast,

I would not hear a seraph choir
Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek:

But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than worlds can speak. There is a lip which mine hath prest, And none had ever prest before, It vow'd to make me sweetly blest, And mine-mine only prest it more. There is a bosom-all my own,

Hath pillow'd oft this aching head, A mouth which smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet,

That pulse to pulse responsive still,

That both must heave or cease to beat.
There are two souls, whose equal flow
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That, when they part-they part, ah no!
They cannot part-those souls are one.

You've heard of politicians,

With their meetings and petitions,

Whose tongues the deuce can't stop,
But, take 'em great and small, sir,
I'll produce the best of all, sir,

Though in a chandler's shop. SPOKEN.] Mr. What's-your-name, I want a twopenny loaf.--Have you heard the news? Five thousand killed, they say.-Weigh me a quartern of cheese.-What's the Emperor of Russia about, wonder. A ha'p'orth of tobacco.-(Another voice.) Well, let things go as they will, we'll be masters of the sea.-Draw me half a pint of small

beer.

So my customers I please, sir,
With politics and cheese, sir,
While I gaily serve them out.
My customers are various,
And my dealings multifarious,
Ev'ry article and hue:
Red herrings without lack, sir,
Whit'ning, coals, and iv'ry black, sir,
Yellow soap, and powder blue;
Anchovies, scrubbing-brushes,
Candles made of rushes,
Mustard and perfume,

And mops to clean the door, sir--
While some they run a score, sir,
And then they buy a broom.

SPOKEN.] Why, wife, we shall be ruined! my book is full, I declare! Wo'n't do to give such Large credit. Let me see, here's a penn'orth of needles, and three-ha'p'orth of pickled cabbage to the tailor, a red herring to the soldier, two-penn'orth of starch to the quaker, and a penn'orth of fuller's earth to the lawyer (that was to take the stains out of his conscience, I suppose).

But, though some debts are owing,

Still I keep my trade a-going,

While I gaily serve them out.

For butter, eggs, and bacon,
Their money while I'm taking,

I please them with small talk:
Pepper, salt, and cabbage-pickle,
Farthing rods, the rump to tickle,
Starch, vinegar, and chalk.
The servant maids, so pretty,
All pronounce me very witty,

I please them well enough;
Old women, too, all praise me,
Though their gossiping delays me,

When they come to buy their snuff. SPOKEN.] What for you, Mrs. Thingummy?A rushlight, if you please.-How's your husband, ma'am? Very bad; he wo'n't live the night over, I'm afraid. Who minds his business now?-John, our apprentice: he's very clever at my husband's business.-Ah, Betty, what for you, Betty?-A bunch of matches.-I heard you was going to be married, Betty.-Psha! hold your foolish nonsense, do.Is Molly gone away?—Yes; very odd, isn't it? Yes; there's something mysterus in it; but it will all come out in time.

So we knock about the scandal,

Bread and cheese, and farthing candle, While I gaily serve them cut.

THE SHIP ON FIRE!

(W. H. Ireland.)

FROM Plymouth, in the Vulcan, we set sail, Three hundred was the number of our crew, We left Old England with a fine brisk gale, And, sighing, bade our girls a long adieu;

For five long months propitious proved the wind, That swiftly bore us o'er the billowy main, Thus all went cheerily, for Fate was kind,

Each thought to see his native land again. Now, mark the change! 'twas midnight, and the blast

In fury drove us o'er the foaming flood, With blackest horror was the sky o'ercast, When, lo! the cry was heard that thrilled our blood;

To work, all hands! to work! she's fired below, Secure the gun-room, or we're blown on high, Pour on yet faster, let the torrents flow,

For see the curling flames mount to the sky! Heave o'er the boat, the gallant captain cried, Let's save, at least, some sturdy hearts and

true;

The boat was hove, but danger all defied,

"Good captain, we'll not budge, but die with you!"

Jaen down we knelt, and prayed to heaven for grace,

Have mercy on us, since all hope is past;" Each rose, and gave his fellow one embrace,

Then, plunging 'mid the billows, sought his

last.

To splinters was the vessel instant blown,
The crash still adding to the tempest's roar;
I saw

my messmates struggling, heard them groan, While, clinging to a plank, I gained the shore. Thus of three hundred I alone am left

To paint a seaman's anguish, when bereft
To tell our hopes, and fears, and perils dire,
Of friends and messmates by consuming fire.

SANDY GREY. (C. Dibdin.)

SANDY GREY was a bit of a ranter,

O! he was the Highlander gay,
When M'Gregor he tuned up his chanter,
For footing a strathspey away;
Himself, too, could pipe like a throstle,
But then, if gude ale 'spied the chiel,
He'd so often be wetting his whistle,
When he piped he'd be dancing a reel.
With his toodle roodle, &c.

Making poetry, too, was his pleasure,
But wi' Helicon ne'er fashed his lug;
Like a poet, was fond o' gude measure,
Provided 'twas ale in a mug:
He'd empty a flask down his throttle,
And then, like a poetic ass,

If you ask him the rhime to a bottle,
Ten to one but he'd answer you-" glass."
Toodle roodle, &c.

Quickly he got dole for his drinking,
(Sorrow your sots a' sup, be assured,)
He, a' night, when the moon was na blinkin,
Fell in a dyke and was smoored;
His mind he'd to mugging been giving,
An' cou'd na' fra' dancing reels stop,
So as by the malt he stuck living,
His fate was to die by the hop.
Toodle roodle, &c.

THE DELIGHTS OF WINE. Air-" The Dance called Tekeli.”—(Tapsell.) LET'S be merry, with jest and song,

Time, as he swiftly flies, my boys, Will not a second our bliss prolong, But, with his scythe, mow down our joys;

Then seize him by the forelock, Mirth,
Pleasure, drown him in the bowl;
We'll be happy while on earth,
And toast each laughter-loving soul.
With a fal, lal, lal, &c.

O, the delights which wine can give,
It every generous bosom fires,
Can make the sad again to live,

And adds to Venus fond desires!
Sly Cupid sips the potent draught,
The little urchin drinks to love;
While mortals, on the heavy heart,
Own it celestial from above.

With a fal, lal, lal, &c. Sorrow but comes too soon, my hearts, Fill your glass to each beauty bright, Talk not to us of flames or darts,

We'll drink all day, and love all night! Care! be thou banished from our board,

Momus, assist, with all thy crew; Come, Humour, ope thy merry hoard, And, Wit, attend thy chosen few. With a fal, lal, lal, &c.

........

HAIL! SOURCE OF JOY. A GLEE.

(Bayley.)

HAIL! source of joy! thy magic touch hath given Spirit and eloquence to these mute chords! Sweet music, hail! thou wakest thoughts of heaven,

Linking unearthly sounds to earthly words; Hearts own thy sway; when countless voices raise,

Through echoing aisles, the song of prayer and praise.

The merry dance, the poetry of motion,

Owes all its charm, its very birth to thee; Footsteps as light as foam upon the ocean,

Robbed of thy measure, motionless would be; Hearts own thy sway, when youthful beauty

It isn't easy to cow

The lads of the land of Shellelagn, O!

SPOKEN.] Shellelagh is true heart of oak, the shamrock's the flower, and whiskey's the fruit of it; and both all three put together make an Irishman's arm, and that's no bad leg to stand on, with a

Whack, honey! whack! fal de ral, mush agrah!

I'd a good bringing up, the same never doubt, Old Flin, the schoolmaster, he taught me, O! He flogged learning in, and then lathered it out, Whenever at mischief he caught me, O!

"Now, Paddy," says he,
"An honest man be,

"Twill make the time pass away gaily, O! And being a rogue

Will dishonour the brogue

Of the lads of the land of Shellelagh, O!"

SPOKEN.] Paddy O"Tullomagh," says he, "never be after wearing two hoods under one countenance; then you may defy any man to say that black's the white of your eye to your face, even behind and remember, that reputation your back; is an Irish diamond of the first whiskey-och! water, I mean; while a bad name is a big bull; so take care that whiskey punch doesn't make a Judy of you," with a

Whack, honey! whack! &c.

I took leave of old Flin, with a drop in my

dry,

By the stone that stands while it is rolling, O! But, wherever I've been,

The advice of old Flin,

O, it made the time pass away gaily, O!
And though oft I've been kilt,

I the honour ne'er spilt

Of the lads of the land of Shellelagh, O

SPOKEN.] Now, I'll go straight forward back again to Kildare, exchange macaroni for murphies, and wish-wash for whiskey-punch, and die decently in my own native land, lest I should live to be buried in a foreign country, with nothing for: my wake but a

Whack, honey! whack! &c.

ON LINDEN, WHEN THE SUN WAS LOW. (T. Campbell.)

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, roaring rapidly!
But Linden showed another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of the scenery

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry!
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery!
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly!
"Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
The combat deepens; on, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry..
Few, few shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every
sod beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

DONALD OF DUNDEE.

YOUNG Donald is the blithest lad

That e'er made love to me;
Whene'er he's by, my heart is glad,
He seems so gay and free.
Then on his pipe he plays so sweet;
And in his plaid he looks so neat;
It cheers
my heart at eve to meet
Young Donald of Dundee.
Whene'er I gang to yonder grove,
Young Sandy follows me;

And fain he wants to be my love,
But, ah! it canna be.

Though mither frets, both ear' and late,

For me to wed this youth I hate;

There's none need hope to gain young Kate,

But Donald of Dundee.

When last we ranged the banks of Tay,
The ring he showed to me,
And bade me name the bridal day,
Then happy would he be.

I ken the youth will aye prove kind,
Nae more my mither will I mind,
Mess John to me will quickly bind
Young Donald of Dundee.

........

THE GRAND SERAGLIO.
(C. Dibdin.)

I PEEP'D in the Grand Seraglio,

Where the Turks keep their ladies so snugly O! The ladies there

Are fat and fair,

But the gemmen are monstrous ugly O!
A bearded bashaw twenty wives controls,
For their law says women have no souls.

SPOKEN.] But I say that's a bouncer, the Ottomy ladies only want a little hedification at Billingsgate, where the flat fish would soon become fine soles, and make it all cockles with the musselmen: as to the ladies, heaven bless them, I'm sure I wouldn't say a word against them for the world; they have but one fault, and you know, gentlemen, that is, they like a little drop of

Tang, tang, &c.

Like many goats such beards they sport,
And the place they call the Sublime Grand Porte.

SPOKEN.] Port, why I hav'n't seen a drop since I've been here; they drink no wine, because they are all rum subjects; there's Mr. Mahomet lets nobody get drunk but himself, as they sit smoking cross-legged like tailors, tosticating themselves with opium, till they look as wise as an owl in a fit of perplexity. With their tang, tang, &c.

Of Turkey much they boasted O!
But since I here have posted O!
No Turkey see,

Says I for me,

Except it be boiled or roasted O!

The sultan here when he likes never fails To cut off their heads, but he gives them three tails. SPOKEN.] In Turkey, heads and tails depend on the toss up of a halfpenny; and when the sultan wants the mopusses, he sends somebody to cut off the head of the first bashaw he can meet with, who dutifully sends him his head in a hand-basket, but reserves his three tails for his own dear consolation: give me little England, where a man's head is his own freehold property, and his house his castle, and whoever touches a hair of the one, or the latch of the other, is sure to get his head in his hand, the door in his face, and a kick at his

I've liv'd a life of some few years,

I'm fifty-four to-morrow;

Once for one smile I shed three tears,

And mingled joy with sorrow.

Nor wiser grown, I scorn to cry.
Though tears are wet, and I am dry;
So, if a drop I've in my eye,

It's only when the glasses ring,
And jug, jug, jug, the bottles sing.
The friend I trusted, lack-a-day!
Most scurvily abus'd me;
The wife I married ran away

With him who thus had us'd me.
My grief, too big to let me cry,
Could only tell me Sorrow's dry;
So, if a drop was in my eye,

"Twas when I heard the glasses ring,
And jug, jug, jug, the bottles sing.
Yet think not, though some folks are bad,
Ill usage sets me sulking,

From duty's call, old Matt's the lad,

Who ne'er was fond of skulking.
While love for Britain wets my eye,
Like ev'ry tar my best I'll try,
To thrash her foes; and when I'm dry,
Drink all her friends, her queen and king,
While jug, jug, jug, the botties sing.

LOVE AND FOLLY.
(Ryan.)

As Love and Folly rambled on,
O'er many a mount and garden gay,
Time's brightest hours still flew on,

And noon and twilight pass'd away;
The night came down,-Love loudly knock'd
At Wisdom's gate, who from within
Exclaim'd, " My doors are safely lock'd,
And Love and Folly can't get in."
Love came to me and told his tale;
And I resolv'd, beyond all doubt,
To save him from the midnight gale,
Ad (cruel case shut Folly out.

But Prudence then stood at my side,

And said, "If Love his way could win, He was to Folly near allied,

And soon the boy would let her in." Oh, Prudence! you the truth have told; The boy has let her in of late, And both are grown so vain and bold, They frighten Wisdom from my gate: With silken cords they bind my hands; In vain their mercy I beseech, I tremble at their dire commands,

And am, by turns, the slave of each.

LAUGH AND LIE DOWN IS THE PLAY. (O'Keefe.)

THEN hey for a lass and a bottle to cheer,
And a thumping bantling every year!

With skin as white as snow,

And hair as brown as a berry;
With eyes as black as a sloe,
And lips as red as a cherry:
Sing rory, tory,
Dancing, prancing,
Laugh and lie down is the play;
We'll fondle together,

In spite of the weather,
And kiss the cold winter away.
Laugh while you live,
For as life is a jest,
Who laughs the most,

Is sure to live best.
When I was not so old,

I frolick'd among the misses,

And when they thought me too bold,
I stopp'd their mouths with kisses.
Sing rory, tory, &c.

THE PARTING TEAR.
(Upton.)

"TWAS on the beach, as sailors tell,
Jack Mainsail clasp'd his bonny Kate,
And, as he press'd the lovely girl,

Thus told the tidings of his fate :"Yon sails, unfurl'd, call Jack away Adieu! adieu! my only dear;

The boatswain chides my ling'ring stay;

Farewell!"-then dropp'd the parting tear. 'Twas on her breast, more white than snow, This token of affection fell, Where ne'er did love more fervent glow,

Or constancy delight to dwell;

For as her picture, free from speck,

(With heart near broke 'twixt hope and fear,)

She hung around her sailor's neck,

She sigh'd-and dropp'd the parting tear.

And Fortune, though too oft unkind,

Her wonted frowns for once held back,
And took in tow, with fav'ring wind,

Her charming Kate and honest Jack;
For Jack, though torn from Kitty's charms,
Return'd right safe, to meet his dear,
Again embrac'd her in his arms,

No more to drop the parting tear.

IN our willage, at whoam, I wur born, and there bred

Up wi' veyther to tillage-like husbandry trade; Where I zhowed such bright parts, you'd be wondered to know,

That I zoon wur yhead post at the tail of the plough.

SPOKEN.] Oh, by gom!" zaid I to myzen, "I be all right now, lad! bang up! for all the world, just like a prime minister, driving every thing before me with a smack o' t' whip!" Gee up, Dobbin, Hey whoa, Dobbin,

Hey up, Dobbin, gee up, gee whoa.

Our fat parson, one day, thought a lean joke to