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Each girl, giv'à over, betray'd by her lover,
To hartshorn, or salts, or salt-water, may fly;
But we've an elixir, will properly fix her,
If properly she'll the prescription apply.
The recipe's wholesome, 'tis beauty's best balsam;
For which we refuse, tho,' to pocket a fee,
As gratis we give it, girls grateful receive it-
So here's to the practice of Love's beaume de vie.

ROM the east breaks the morn;
See the sun-beams adorn

The wild heath, and the mountain so high;
Shrilly ope's the staunch houud,

The steed neighs to the sound,
And the floods and the valleys reply.

Our forefathers, so good,
Prov'd their greatness of blood,
By encount'ring the pard and the boar:
Ruddy health bloom'd the face,

Age and youth urg'd the chase,
And taught woodlands and forests to roar.

Hence of noble descent,

Hills and wilds we frequent, Where the bosom of nature's reveal'd; Though in life's busy day

Man of man makes a prey,

Still let ours be the prey of the field.

With the chase in full sight,
Gods! how great the delight!

How

How our mutual sensations refine!
Where is care? where is fear?
Like the winds in the rear!
And the man's lost in something divine,

Now to horse, my brave boys!
Lo! each pants for the joys
That anon shall enliven the whole;
Then at eve we'll dismount,
Toils and pleasures recount,
And renew the chase over the bowl.

10, patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see,

A tight water-boat, and good sea-room give me, And t'ent to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest top-gallant-mast smack smooth should smite,

And shiver each splinter of wood,

Clear the wreck! stow the yards! and bowse every thing tight!

And under the reef'd foresail we'll scud. Avast! nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft, To be taken for trifles aback;

For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day,
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such;
And. my timbers, what lingo he'd coil and belay!
Why, 'twas just all as one as high Dutch.

But

But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see,
Without orders that come down below;
And many fine things, that prov'd clearly to me
That Providence takes us in tow;

For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft
Take the top-sails of sailors aback,

There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack !

I said to our Poll (for, d'ye see, she would cry),
When last we weigh'd anchor for sea;
What argufies sniv❜ling, and piping your eye?
Why, what a dama'd fool you must be!
Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room
for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore?

And if to old Davy I should go, dear Poll,
Why you never will hear of me more.
What then? all's a hazard-come don't be so soft;
Perhaps I may laughing come back;

For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be ev'ry inch
All one as a piece of the ship;

And with her brave the world, without off'ring to finch,

From the mo nent the anchor 's a-trip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs; For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's iny friend's;

And as for my life, 'tis my king's,

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E'en when my time comes, ne'er believe me s☛

soft,

As with grief to be taken aback;

That same little cherub that sits up aloft,

Will look out a good berth for

poor Jack!

AIL, Burgundy! thou juice divine l
Inspirer of my song!

The praises giv'n to other wine,
To thee alone belong!

Of poignant wit, and rosy charms,
Thou can'st the pow'r improve;
Care of its sting thy balm disarms,
Thou noblest gift of Jove!

Care of its sting, &c.

Bright Phoebus, on the parent-vines
From whence thy current streams,
Sweet-smiling, through the tendril shines,
And lavish darts his beams.
The pregnant grape receives his fires,
And all his force retains;

With that same warmth our brain inspires,
And animates our strains.

With that, &c.

eye

From thee my Chloe's radiant
New sparkling beams receives;
Her checks imbibe a rosier dye;

Her beauteous bosom heaves.
Summon'd to love by thy alarms,

O! with what nervous heat!
Worthy the fair, we fill their arms,
And oft our bliss repeat.

Worthy the fair, &c.

The

The stoic, prone to thought intense,
Thy softness can unbend;

A cheerful gaiety dispense,

And make him taste a friend.

His brow grows clear, he feels content,
Forgets his pensive strife;

And then concludes his time well spent
In honest social life.

And then, &c.

E'en beaux, those soft amphibious things,
Wrapt up in self and dress,

Quite lost to the delight that springs
From sense thy pow'r confess.
The fop with chitty maudlin face,
That dares but deeply drink,

Forgets his cue and stiff grimace;
Grows free, and seems to think.

Forgets his

cue, &c.

HARK! the din of distant war,
How noble is the clangor!

Pale death ascends his ebon car,
Clad in terrific anger.

A doubtful fate the soldier tries,
Who joins the gallant quarrel;
Perhaps on the cold ground he lies,
No wife, no friend, to close his eyes,
Though nobly mourn'd;

Perhaps return'd,

He's crown'd with vict'ry's laurel.

How

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