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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 tied,
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 hind.
It would be much more baudy to leave thisNar-
oiandy,

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 kiet'd up a dust in the Island1.

But party deceit, help'd the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they manag'd to buy land:
Bv Dane, Saxon, or Pict, we ne'er should he lick'd,
llad 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 suing in the Island.

Oh the poor Queen and the Island!

The drones came to plunder the Island!

But snug in the hive,

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

c 2 Thece

S These proud puff'd up cakes, thought to inaka

ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they scarcely could spy land, Ii'er our Drake had the luck to make their pride

duck, And stoop to the lads of the Island. Huzza for the lads of the Island 1 The good wooden walls of the Island! Devil or Don, Let 'em come on, But huw would they come off at the Island?

Then Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept

tune, In each saying this shall be my land; Should the Array 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.

BON'T you see that as how, I'm a Sportsman in style, All sokickish, 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,

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

Leaves the bridle, and holds by the main. Tobe snredadat homekicksup no In tie strife;

But dubby, what's that—en't itfashion and life? And at sporting I never was known for to lag;

I was also in danger the first: When atEpping last Easter, they tum'd outastag,

I'm the lad that was roll'd in the dust. Then they calls meanincom ! why over the fieldsThere a little beyond Dulwich Common, I a chick and a goose tumbled neck over heels;

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

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

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

I goes and I hunts in the larder. Therel springs me a woodcock, or flushes a quail,

Or finds puss, as she sits under cover; Then so-ho, to the barrel, to start me some 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! Thenlbnysme somegamc,a!l as homeward we jog,

And when the folks—ax how I got 'em; Though I shoottd but once, iind then kili'd the poor dog,

I 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, pharg'd with powder and shot, To bring 'cm 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?

BY the gaily circling glass,
We can see how minutes pass;
By the hollow cask we are told

How the waning night grows old.
Soon, too soon, the busy day

Drives us from our sport away.
What have we with day to do?
Sons of care, 'twas made for you!

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.

[graphic]

BRIGHT chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn;
The lowing herds now quit the law n,

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

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

This day a stag must die!
With a hey, ho, chevy,
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
1 lark, 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 alone,

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.

Toor stag, the dogs thy haunches gore,

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

His 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, ccc.

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