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BRITON'S DEFIANCE OF FRANCE.

Tune-Cann of Grog.

MAD with the plunder of the world,
France like a fury raves,

And shakes her blood-stain'd lance to fight
The masters of the waves:
Firm as the rock that skirt our coast,
At all her threats we smile,
And swear upon our unsheath'd, swords,
That free shall be our isle.
And swear, &c.

A bastard Briton he must be,
His heart contains no oak,
Whose base-born mind could tamely bind.
To bear the Gallic yoke:
No! let her pale-fac'd standard fly,
Where freedom ne'er was known;
And tho' all Europe bend the knee,
Let England stand alone.

And tho' all, &c.

And should these sons of plunder come
To Albion's rocky shore,
Their frantic troops shall see a sight
They never saw before;

A nation generous and great,

In one determin'd band,

Prepar'd to crush them at a blow

And save their native land.

Prepar'd to, &c.

Oh! call to mind the gallant deeds
Your noble sires have done,
And may the spirit of the sire,
Descend upon the son;

Then Britons of the good old breed,
Affrighted Françe shall see,
And find, when Englishmen unite,
Old England must be free,
And find, &c.

ENGLISH ALE.

D'YE mind me? I once was a sailor,
And in different countries I've been,
If I lie may I go for a taylor-

But a thousand fine sights I have seen :
I've been cram'd with good things like a wallet,
And I've guzzled more drink than a whale,
But the very best stuff to my palate,

Is a glass of your English good ale.

Your doctors may boast of their lotions,
And ladies may talk of their tea;
And I envy them none of their potions,
A glass of goud stingo for me:
The doctor may sneer if he pleases,
But my recipe never will fail,
For the physic that cures all diseases,
Is a bumper of good English ale.

When my trade was upon the salt ocean,
Why there I bad plenty of grog,
And I lik'd it, because I'd a notion
It sets one's good spirits agog;
But since upon land I've been steering,
Experience has alter'd my tale,
For nothing on earth is so cheering
As a bumper of English good ale.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.

I AM a friar of orders grey,
And down the vallies I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison does fill my scrip,
My long bead roll I merrily chaunt,
Where'er I walk no money I want;

And why I'm so plump the reason I tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or 'squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar.

After supper of heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.
Myself, by denial, I mortify-
With a dainty bit of a warden pie:
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin;
With old sack wine I'm lin'd within:
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong,
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar.

WHEN WAR'S ALARMS.

WHEN war's alarms entic'd my Willy from me,
My poor heart with grief did sigh;

Each fond remembrance brought fresh sorrow on me,
I 'woke ere yet the morn was nigh.
No other could delight him,

Ah! why did I e'er slight him:
Coldly answering his fond tale?
Which drove him far,

Amidst the rage of war,

An left silly me thus to bewail.

But no longer, tho' a maid forsaken,
Thus will mourn, like yonder dove;
For, ere the lark to-morrow shall awaken,
I'll go seek my absent love.

The hostile country over,

I'll fly, to seek my lover,
Scorning ev'ry threat'ning fear:
Nor distant shore,

Nor cannon's roar,

Shall longer keep me from my dear.

COME BUY MY SWEET POSIES.

THE father of Nancy a forester was,
And an honest old woodman was he,
And Nancy, a beautiful innocent lass,
As the sun in its circuit could see.

She gather'd wild flowers, and lilies, and roses,
And cry'd thro' the village" Come buy my sweet
posies."

The charms of this fair one a villager caught,

A noble and rich one was he,

Great offers he made, but by Nancy was taught

That a poor girl right honest might be.

She still gather'd wild flowers, and lilies, and roses, And cry'd thro' the village" Come buy my sweet posies."

The father of Nancy a forester was,

And a poor little stroller was she,

But her lover so noble soon marry'd the lass,
She's as happy as maiden could be:

No more gather'd wild flowers, and lillies, and roses,
Nor cry'd thro' the village" Come buy my sweet

posies."

THE TINKER.

MY daddy was a tinker's son,
And I'm his boy, 'tis ten to one;
Here's pots to mend! was still his cry,
Here's pots to mend! aloud bawl I.
Have ye tin pots, kettles, or cans,
Coppers to solder, or brass pans.
Of wives my dad had near a score,
And I have twice as many more:
And what's as wonderful as true,

My daddy was the lord (upon my soul he was) the
Lord knows who?

Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan,
For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

Once I in budget snug had got
A barn-door capon, and what not.
Here's pots to mend! I cry'd along,
Here's pots to mend! was still my song.
At village wake-oh! curse his throat,
The cock crow'd out so loud a note.
The folk in clusters flock'd around,
They seiz'd my budget, in it found
The cock, a gammon, pease and beans,
Besides a tinker (yes by the Lord) a tinker's ways
and means.

Tan ran tan, &c.

Like dad, when I to quarters come,

For want of cash; the folks I hum.

Here's kettles to mend: bring me some beer
The landlord cries" You'll get none here!
You tink'ring dog pay what you owe."
In rage I squeeze him gainst the door,

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