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SONG.

Sung in the Camp.

Y Nancy leaves the rural train,
A camp's diftrefs to prove,

All other ills the can fuftain,

But living from her love :

Yer, deareft, tho' your foldier's there,
Will not your fpirit fail,

To mark the hardships you must share,

Dear Nancy of the Dale!

Dear Nancy, &c.

Or, fhould you, love, each danger scorn,

Ah! how fhall I fecure

Your health-'midft toils which you were born

To footh-but not endure:

A thousand perils I muft view,

A thoufand ills affail;

Nor muft I tremble e'en for you,

Dear Nancy of the Dale.

Dear Nancy, &c.

SONG.

What a Charming Thing's a Battle.

Sung by Mr. Bannister.

HAT a charming thing's a battle;

WH

W Trumpets founding, drums a beating;

Crack, crick, crack, the cannons rattle;
Every heart with joy clating!

With what pleasure are we fpying,
From the front, and from the rear,
'Round us in the fmoaky air,

E.

Heads

Heads and limbs, and bullets flying!
Then the groans of foldiers dying,
Just like fparrows, as it were.
At each pop
Hundreds drop,

While the mufkets, prittle prattle;
Kill'd and wounded

Lie confounded;

What a charming thing's a battle!

But the pleafant joke of all,
Is when to close attack we fall,
Like mad bulls each other butting,
Shooting, ftabbing, maiming, cutting;
Horfe and foot,

All go to't;

Kill's the word, both men and cattle
Then to plunder;

Blood and thunder.
What a charming thing's a battle!

SONG.

Sung by Mr. Johnstone, in the Poor Soldier.

EAR Sir, this brown jug that now foams with

DE

De mild ale

(In which I will drink to sweet Kate of the vale)
Was once Toby Philpot, a thirty old foul,
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers, he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd, as in dog-days he fat at his ease,
In his flow'r woven arbour, as gay as you pleafe,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing forrow away,
And with honeft old ingo was foaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a fudden were "thut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt,

His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had refolv'd it again,
A potter found out, in a covert fo fnug,

And with part of fat Toby he made this brown jug:
Now facred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale;
So here's to my lovely fweet Kate of the Vale.

SON G.

Sung by Mr. Doyle, in the Medley, or Harlequin Evey Where.

IVE round the word, difmount, difmount,

GWhile echoed by the fprightly horn;

The toils and pleasures we recount
Of this fweet health-inspiring morn.

Chorus.

'Twas glorious fport, none e'er did lag,
Nor drew amifs, nor made a fland,
But all as firmly kept their pace,
As had Acteon been the fag,
And we had hunted by command
Of the goddess of the chace.
And we had hunted by command
Of the goddess of the chace.

The hounds were out and fnuff'd the air,
And scarce had reach'd the appointed spot,
But pleas'd they heard a layer, a layer,
And prefently drew on the flot.

'Tavas glorious Sport, &c.

And now o'er yonder plain he fleets,

The deep-mouth'd hounds begin to bawl,

And echo note for note repeats,.

While fprightly horns refound a call.

'Twas glorious Sport, &c.

E 2

And now the ftag has loft his pace,

And while ware-haunch the huntfman cries, His bofom fwells, tears wet his face,

He pants, he ftruggles, and he dies.

'Twas glorious Sport, &c.

SONG.

The Storm.

EASE, rude Boreas, bluft'ring railer;
Lift, ye landfmen, all to me;

Meffmates, hear a brother failor

Sing the dangers of the fea :
From bounding billows, firft in motion,
When the diftant whirlwinds rife,

To the tempeft troubled ocean,

Where the feas. contend with skies.

Hark, the boa fwain hoarfely bawling,
By top fail-fheets and haul-yards ftand;
Down top-gallants quick be hauling,
Down your ftay-fails, hands boys, hand.
Now it freshens, fet the. braces,

The lee top-fail fheets let go ;
Luff, boys, luff, don't make wrỳ faces;
Up your top-fails nimbly clew.

Now, all you on down beds fporting,
Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms;
Fresh enjoyment, wanton courting,
Safe from all but love's alarms:
Round us roars the tempeft louder,
Think what fears our minds enthral;
Harder yet, it yet blows harder ;
Hark, again the boatswain calls!

The top.fail-yards point to the wind, boys;

See all clear to reef each courfe;

Let

Let the fore-fheet go, don't mind, boys,
Tho' the weather fhould be worse :
Fore and aft the fprit fail-yard get,
Reef the mizen, fee all clear;
Hands up, each preventer-brace fet,
Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
Peals on peals contending clash;
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes blue lightnings flash;
One wide water all around us,

All above us one black sky;
Different deaths at once furround us,
Hark! what means yon dreadful cry?

The fore-maft's gone, cries ev'r tongue out,
O'er the lee twelve feet 'bove deck;
A leak beneath, the cheft tree's fprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck:
Quick the land-yards cut to pieces,
Comé, my hearts, be ftout aud bold;
Plumb the well, the leak increases;
Four feet water's in the hold!.

While o'er the fhip wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn :
Alas! from hence there's no retreating!
Alas! to them there's no return!
Still the leak is gaining on us,

Both chain pumps are choak'd below:
Heav'n have mercy here upon us!

For only that can fave us now.

On the lee beam is the land, boys!
Let the guns o'er board be thrown ;
To the pump come ev'ry hand, boys;
See, our mizen mast is gone!

The leak we've found, it can't pour faft t;

E-3

We've

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