T

SON G.

A Naval Song.

HURSDAY in the morn, the nineteenth of May,
Recorded be for ever, the famous ninety-two!

Brave Ruffel did difcern, by dawn of day,

The lofty fails of France advancing now:

All hands aloft, aloft,-let English valour thine;
Let fly a culverin, a signal for the line :
Let ev'ry man fupply his gun;
Follow me,

Tourville on the main triumphant roll'd,

To meet the gallant Ruffel in combat on the deep; He led a noble train of heroes bold,

To fink the English Admiral and his fleet.
Now ev'ry valiant mind to victory doth aspire;
The bloody fight's begun, the fea is all on fire;
And mighty Fate stood looking on;
Whilft a flood,

All of blood,

Fill'd the scuppers of the Rifing Sun.

Sulphur, fmoke and fire, difturbing the air,
With thunder and wonder, affright the gallic fhore:
Their regulated band stood trembling near,

To fee their lofty ftreamers, now no more:
At fix o'clock, the Red, the fmiling victor led,
To give a fecond blow-the fatal overthrow :
Now death and horror equal reign;

Now they cry,

Run or die!

British colours ride the vanquish'd main.

See

See, they fly amaz'd thro' rocks and fands;
One danger they grafp at to fhun the greater fate;
In vain they cry for aid to weeping lands:

The nymphs and fea-gods mourn their loft eftate:
For evermore adieu, thou dazzling Rifing Sun,
From thy untimely end thy malter's fate begun:
Enough, thou mighty god of war!
Now we fing,

Blefs the King!

Let us drink to every British tar.

SONG.

H

ARK! hark! the joy infpiring horn
Salutes the rofy, rifing morn,

And echoes thro' the dale;'

With clam'rous peals the hills refound,
The hounds quick fcented-fcow'r the ground,
And fnuff the fragrant gale.

Nor gates nor hedges can impede
The brifk high-mettled ftarting fteed,

The jovial pack purfue;

Like lightning darting o'er the plains,
The diftant hills with fpeed he gains,
And fees the game in view.

Her path the timid hare forfakes,"
And to the copfe for shelter makes,
There pants awhile for breath;
When now the noise alarms her ear,
Her haunt's defcried, her fate is near,
She fees approaching death.

Directed by the well-known breeze,

The hounds their trembling victim feize;
She faints, the falls, the dies:

F 6

i

***

The

The diftant courfers now come in,
And join the loud, triumphant din,
Till echo rends the skies.

SONG.

Sung in the Duenna.

OW oft, Louisa, haft thou faid,

H (Nor wilt thou that fond boaft difown)

Thou would'ft not lose Anthonio's love,
To reign the partner of a throne.

And by thofe lips that spoke fo kind,
And by that hand I preft to mine,
To gain a fubject nation's love,

I swear I would not part with thine!

Then how, my foul, can we be poor,
Who own what kingdoms could not buy?
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,
And, ferving thee, a monarch I.

Thus uncontroul'd in mutual blifs,
And rich in love's exhaustless mine,
Do thou fnatch treafures from my lips,
And I'll take kingdoms back from thine.

Α

SON G.

Sung by Mrs. Kennedy, at Vauxhall

GAIN Britannia fmile!
Smile at each threat'ning foe!

To fave this drooping ifle,
See Rodney Atrikes the blow!

For

For Rodney quickly will regain
Thy fovereign o'er the main.

Against thee treach'rous foes,
And falfe allies combine;
But vainly they oppose,

If Rodney fill is thine;

For gallant Rodney will maintain
The British empire o'er the main.

Long may he plough the main !
Long may he victor prove!
Rewards ftill fure to gain

Of King and people's love:
For gallant Rodney will maintain
The British empire o'er the main.

SON G.

The Triumph of Venus

Sung by Mr. Dignum, at the New Beef Steak Club.

TH

HO' Bacchus may boaft of his care-killing bowl, And folly in thought-drowning revels delight, Such worship, alas! hath no charms for the foul, When fofter devotions the fenfes invite.

To the arrow of Fate, or the canker of care,
His potions oblivious a balm may bestow;
But to fancy, that feeds on the charms of the fair,
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe!

What foul that's poffeft of a dream fo divine,
With riot would bid the fweet vifion begone?
For the tear that bedews fenfibility's fhrine

Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun.

The

The tender excess that enamours the heart
To few is imparted; to millions deny'd:
"Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart,
And fools jeft at that for which fages have dy'd.

Each change and excefs hath thro' life been my doom;
And well can I speak of its joys and its ftrife:
The bottle affords us a glimpfe thro' the gloom,
But love's the true funfhine that gladdens our life.

Come then, rofy Venus, and fpread o'er my fight
The magic illufions that iavish the foul:
Awake in my breast the foft dream of delight,

And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl.

Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine,.
Nor e'er, jolly God! from thy banquet remove;
But each tube of my heart ever thirst for the wine,
That's mellow'd by friendship, and fweeten'd by
love.

SONG.

Bow Wow Wow.

Written by Captain Morris,

And fung by Mr. Hooke, at the Anacreontic Society.

IT down neighbours all, and I'll tell a merry ftory, About a British farmer and Billy P-tt, the tory. I had it piping hot from Ebenezer Barber,

Who fail'd right from England, and lies in Boston harbour.

Bow wow wow, fal lal de iddy iddy,
Bow wow wow.