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THE LAND WE LIVE IN.

The sparkling liquor fills the glass, And briskly round the board it goes;

The toast, of course, our favourite lass, We'll drink confusion to our foes.

Then each in turn, catch the glee,

The song, the toast, is given;
And ever as it comes to me,

I give, " The land we live in."
Then let us all throughout agree,
With a loud huzza and three times three,

Huzza! I gave, " The land we live in."
The captain always gives, "The King -"

His bosom burns with loyal flame;
And as the decks with praises ring

Of valiant Smith and Nelson's fame.
"God bless the royal family,"

This toast in turn is given;
And ever as it comes to me,

I give, " The land we live in."

Then let us all, &c.

Some folks may envy foreign parts,
And wish to gain a foreign shore;

Why, let them go with all our hearts,
We shall be plagu'd with them no more.

Then while on shore, let's all agree,
The song, the toast, &c.

THE OLD COMMODORE.

Or/sBLOOD, what a time for a seaman to sknlk

Under gingerbread hatches ashore; What a d—d bad job that this batter'd old hulk

Can't be rigg'd out for sea once more.

But the puppies, as they pass,

Cocking up their squinting glass, Thus run down the old commodore:

That's the old commodore—

The rum old commodore—
The gouty old commodore !—He !—

Why the bullets and the gont

Have so knock'd his hull about. That hell never more be fit for sea. Here am I in distress, like a ship water-logg'd,

Not a tow-rope at hand, or an oar;
I am left by my crew, and may I be flogg'd

But the doctor's a son of a w—e.

While I'm swallowing his slops

How nimble are his chops,
Thus queering the old commodore.

A bad case, commodore—

Can't say, commodore—
Musn't natter, commodore, says he;

For the bullets and the gout

Have so knock'd your hull about, That you'll never more be fit for sea.

What, no more to be afloat? blood and fury! they lie !—

I'm a seaman, and only three score; And if, as they tell me, I'm likely to die,

Gadzooks! let me not die on shore.

As to death, it's all a joke,

Sailors live in fire and smoke,
So, at least, says the old commodore.

The rum old commodore—

The tough old commodore—
The fighting old commodore!—He!

Whom the devil, nor the gout,

Nor the French dogs to boot,
Shall kill till they grapple him at sea.

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.

Upon the plains of Flanders,

Our fathers long ago,
They fought like Alexanders

Beneath old Marlborough;
And still in fields of conquest,

Our valour bright has shone,

With Wolfe and Abererombie,

And Moore and Wellington.
Our plumes have waved in combats,

That ne'er shall be forgot,
Where many a mighty squadron

Reeled backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet,

We lead our bold compeers; But Frenchmen like to stay not

For British grenadiers.

Once bravely at Vimiera

They hoped to play their parts, And sing fal lira, lira,

To cheer their drooping hearts. But English, Scotch and Paddy whacks,

We gave three hearty cheers, And the French soon turned their backs

To the British grenadiers.

At St. Sebastiano,

And Badajos' town, Though raging like volcanoes

The shell and shot came down, With courage never wincing,

We scaled the ramparts high, And waved the British ensign

In glorious victory.

And what could Bonaparte,

With all his curassiers,
In battle do, at Waterloo,

With British grenadiers?
Then ever sweet the drum shall beat

Thatmarch unto our ears,
Whose martial roll awakes tile soul

Of British grenadiers.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

The worm that crawls about our way,

And dies beneath our feet;
Is happy in its little way,

And finds existence sweet.
The brutes which perish too, enjoy

A short but happy reign;
Delight unmingled with alloy,

And pleasure free from pain.

The winged tenants of the air

On pleasure's pinions borne,
Live thoughtless and devoid of care,

But man was made to mourn.
His infancy is weak and vain,

His youth the passions rend; His prime of life is care and pain,

And death, cold death his end.

The empty blast of noisy air
Which sweeps the valleys o'er

Rages and swells a moment there,
And then is heard no more.

Such is the life of man, a'blast

Unmeaning and forlorn,
Which but proclaims this truth at last,

That man was made to mourn.

STEAM ARM.

Oh, wonders sure, will never cease,
While works of art do so increase,
No matter whether in war or peace,
Men can do whatever they please.

Ri too ral, Sec.

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