When in manhood promoted, and burning for fame, The myrtle and laurel entwine o'er his grave. The foe thought he'd struck-but he sung, avast! GAFFER GREY. "Oh! why dost thou shiver and shake, And why doth thy nose look so blue ?" And my doublet is not very new, "Then line thy worn doublet with ale, And warm thy old heart with a glass." "Hie away to the house on the brow, And knock at the jolly priest's door." But ne'er gives a mite to the poor. "The lawyer lives under the hill, Warmly fenced both in back and in front." "He will fasten his locks, "The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, And the season will welcome you there." And his merry new year, "My keg is but low, I confess, What then? while it lasts, man, we'll live." When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give. HERE'S A HEALTH TO ALL GOOD LASSES. Here's a health to all good lasses, Let the bumper toast go round; For in that true joys are found. GLORIOUS APOLLO. Whilst we ourselves such a structure might raise. Hands and hearts joining, Sing we, in harmony, Apollo's praise. Here, every generous sentiment awaking, Each social pleasure giving and partaking, Hands and hearts joining, THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. [C. DIBDIN.] 'Twas post meridian, half-past four, With uplift hands and broken hearted. And bade a long adieu to Nancy. Night came, and now eight bells had rung, With tempers labour cannot weary; While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy, And my warm sighs increased the wind, Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy. And now arrived that jovial night, When every true-bred tar carouses, When o'er the grog, all hands delight To toast their sweethearts and their spouses: And when, in turn, it came to me, Next morn a storm came on at four, Poor wretches! they soon found their graves; But love seem'd to forbid the waves, To snatch me from the arms of Nancy. Scarce the foul hurricane was clear'd, Scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattie, When a bold enemy appear'd, And, dauntless, we prepared for battle. And now, while some loved friend or wife, Like lightning rush'd on every fancy, To Providence I trusted life, Put up a prayer, and thought of Nancy. At last, 'twas in the month of May, And England's chalky cliffs together. While hopes and fears rush'd on my fancy, At twelve I gaily jump'd ashore, And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy. MARCH TO THE BATTLE FIELD. [O'MEABA.] March to the battle-field, The foe is now before us ; Each heart is Freedom's shield, And heaven is shining o'er us! In proud disdain we've broke again March to the battle-field, Would fly from her invader? Would, traitor-like, degrade her? The foe is now before us; HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN Sir W. SCOTT.] [Music by Sir H. R. BISHOP. Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow: Sends our shout back agen, Ours is no saplin, chance sown by the fountain, When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade. Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock; |