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Oh what a snug little Island!
They'd have a touch at the Island!

Some were shot dead,

Some of them fled, And some staid to live in the Island. Then a very great war-man,call’dBillythe Norman, Cried, d-nit, I never lik'd my land, It would be much more handy to leave this Nor-,

mandy,
And live on yon beautiful Island!

Says he, 'tis a snug little Island!
Shan't us go visit the Island?

Hop, skip, and jump,

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 licka,
Had they stuck to the king of their Island.

Poor Harold, the king of the Island!
He lost both his life and his Island!

That's very true,

What could he do? Like a Briton, he died for his Island. The Spanish Armada set out to invade her; Quite sure if they ever come nigh land, They couldn't do less, than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing in the Island. Oh the poor Queen and the Island! The drones came to plunder the Island!

But snug in the hire,

The Queen was alive,
And buz was the word at the Island.
C 2

These

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 inake 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!

Devilor Don,

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!

We'll fight for our right to the Island !
We'll give them enough of the Island!

Frenchmen should just

Bite at the dust,
But not a bit more of the Island.

D ON'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 license I pockets, my pony I strides,

And I pelts through the wind and the rain; And if likely to fall, sticks the spurs in the sides;

Leaves the bridle, and holds by the main. To be sure dad at home kicks up no little strife;

But dabhy, what's that-ren't it fashion and life? And at sporting I never was known for to lar;

I was also in danger the first: When at Epping last Easter, they turn'd out astar,

I'm the lad that was roll'd in the dust. Then they calls mea nincom! why over the fields

There a little beyond Dulwich Common, I a chick and a goose tumbled neck over heels;

And two mudlarks, besides an old woman. Then let iniserly dad kick up sorrow and strife; I'm the lad that's genteel, and knows fashion and

life. But don't go for to think, I neglects number one!

Often, when my companions with ardour Are hunting about, with the dog and the gun,

I gues and I hunts in the larder. There I springs me a woodcock, or fushes a quail,

Or finds puss, as she sits under cover; Then so-ho, to the barrel, to start me soine ale.

And when I have din'd, and fed Rover, Pays my landlord his shot as I ogles his wife; While the daughter cries out-Lord, what fashion

and life! Then I buys me some game,all as hoineward wejng,

And when the folksam ax how I got 'em; Though I shooted but once, and then kill'd the

poor dog, I swears, and then stands to't, I've shot'ein.

[graphic]

By the silence of the owl;

By the chirping on the thorn, By the butts that empty roll,

We foretell the approach of morn. Fill then, fill the vacant glass,

Let no precious moment slip; Flout the moralizing ass:

Joys find entrance at the lip.

BRIGHT

BRIGIT chanticleer proclaims the dawn,'
JD And spangles deck the thorn;
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,

The lark springs from the corn;
Dous, huntsmen, round the window throng

Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song,

This day a stag must die!
With a hey, ho, chevy,
Ilark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Ilark, hark, tantivy,
This day a stag must die!
The cordial takes its merry round,

The laugh and joke prevail;
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,

The dogs snuff up the gale.
The upland wilds they sweep along,

O'er fields, through brakes, they fly;
The game is rous'd, too true the song,
This day a stag must die,

With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag, the dogs thy haunches gore,

The tears run down thy face;
The huntsman's pleasure is no more,

llis joys were in the chase.
Alike the generous sportsman burns,

To win the blooming fair;
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.

With a hey, ho, &c.

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