Oh what a snug little Island! Some of them fled, And some staid to live in the Island. Then a very great war-man,call'dBillythe Norman, Cried, d-n it, I never lik'd my land, It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy, And live on yon beautiful Island! There he was plump, And he kick'd up a dust in the Island. But party deceit, help'd the Normans to beat; Of traitors they manag'd to buy land: By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, we ne'er should be lick'd, Poor Harold, the king of the Island! What could he do? Like a Briton, he died for his Island. The Spanish Armada set out to invade her; Oh the poor Queen and the Island! The Queen was alive, And bus was the word at the Island. These proud puff'd up cakes, thought to make. ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they scarcely could spy land, E'er our Drake had the lack to make their pride duck, And stoop to the lads of the Island. Huzza for the lads of the Island! The good wooden walls of the Island! Let 'em come on, But how would they come off at the Island? Then Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tone, In each saying this shall be my land; Should the Army of England, or all they could bring, land, We'd show 'em some play for the Island! Bite at the dust, But not a bit more of the Island. DON'T you see that as how, I'm a Sportsman in style, All so kickish, so slim, and so tall! Why I've search'd after game, and that many's the mile, And seed no bit of nothing at all. My My license I pockets, my pony I strides, When at Epping last Easter, they turn'd out astag, Then they calls me a nincom! why over the fields- But don't go for to think, I neglects number one! There I springs me a woodcock, or flushes a quail, Then so-ho, to the barrel, to start me some ale. ejog, Then I buys me some game,all as homeward we And when the folks-ax how I got 'em; Though I shooted but once, and then kill'd the I poor dog, swears, and then stands to't, I've shot 'em. c3 So So come round me, ye sportsmen, that's smart, and what not, All stylish and cutting a flash, When your piece won't kill game, charg'd with powder and shot, To bring 'em down-down with your cash! And if with their jokes and their jeers, folks are rife, Why dabby, says you, en't it fashion and life? DY the gaily circling glass, BY We can see how minutes pass; By the hollow cask we are told How the waning night grows old. Drives us from our sport away. By the silence of the owl; By the chirping on the thorn, We foretell the approach of morn. Flout the moralizing ass: Joys find entrance at the lip. BRIGHT chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn; The lowing herds now quit the lawn, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die! With a hey, ho, chevy, Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! This day a stag must die! The cordial takes its merry round, With a hey, ho, &c. Poor stag, the dogs thy haunches gore, The huntsman's pleasure is no more, With a hey, ho, &c. |