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All must die when fate shall will it,

Providence ordains it so,
Every bullet has its billet.

Man the boat, boys—Yeo, heave yeo.
“ Life's at best a sea of trouble,

He who fears it is a dunce ;
Death, to me, an empty bubble,

I can never die but once.
Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it.
Yet I have a tear for woe;".

Every bullet has its billet, &c.
Shrouded in a hammock, glory

Celebrates the falling brave;
Oh! how many, famed in story,

Sleep below, in ocean's cave.
Bring the can, boys—let us fill it,
Shall we shun the fight ? oh, no!

Every bullet has its billet, &c.

Sons of freedom, hear my story

Mercy well becomes the brave ;
Humanity is Briton's glory,-

Pity and protect the slave!
Free-born daughters, who, possessing

Eyes that conquer, hearts that save,
Greet me with a sister's blessing,

Pity and protect the slave.

THE GIRL THAT I PRIZE. Whilst the votary of Bacchus drives care from the

soul, And the votary of pleasure defies all controul,

I don't envy their transports, such joys I despise,
While blest with the heart of the girl that I prize.
When smiling she meets me, I cannot reveal,
How charming she looks, or what joys I then feel ;
While a blush paints her cheeks, and love brightens

her eyes,

I am blest with the heart of the girl that I prize.


Her mouth with a smile,
Devoid of all guile,

Half open to view
Is the bud of the rose,
In the morning that blows,

Impearld with the dew.
More fragrant her breath,
Than the flower-scented heath

At the dawning day ;
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lily's perfume,

Or the blossoms of May.


SWEETEST flow'rets blushing there
In balmy dew-drops that they bear,
Are beautiful, my lovely fair,

Just like thee.
The moon that ripples in the stream,
With soft and yet with playful beam;
The landscape in the night's calm gleam
Seems but a sweet enchanting dream,

Just like thee.

So may our life be clouded never,
Till death's dull mandate bid us sever,
Then may I sink to peace for ever,

Just like thee.


If not with thee I'm blest,

In vain I twine the bower ;
If not to deck thy breast,

In vain I wreath the flower.
Such scenes as these no joys can prove,
On earth, no joy without


love. Awaken'd by the genial year,

The warblers trill their lay ;
The verdant fields bedeck'd appear
With all the sweets of May.

Such scenes, &c.


Oh! twine a wreath of evergreen,

And with it deck the brow
Of him who, 'mid life's varied scene,

Ne'er breaks his plighted vow:
Of him, when forc'd by honour's call,

In climes afar to roam,
Whose anxious thoughts will ever turn
To her he leaves at home.

Oh! twine a wreath, &c.
How few, 'mid pleasure's dazzling scenes,

Reflect on kindness past !
How few, who wealth and power obtain,

Are faithful to the last!

Too oft, in youth's gay sunny days,

Men play the tyrant's part ; They first ensnare, and then alas! Deceive the guileless heart.

Oh! twine a wreath, &e.

SYMPATHY. In thee I bear so dear a part,

By love so firm am thine,
That each affection of the heart,

By sympathy is mine.
When thou art griev'd, I grieve no less,

My joys by thine are known ;
And ev'ry good thou would'st possess,

Becomes in wish my own.

RISE, CYNTHIA, RISE. Rise, Cynthia, rise, the ruddy morn, On tiptoe stands to view thy face ; Phæbus by fleetest coursers borne, Sees none so fair in all his race. The circling hours which lay behind, Would draw fresh beauties from thine eye, Yet, ah! in pity to mankind, Still wrapt in pleasing visions lie.

AMIDST the myrtles as I walk,
Love and myself thus enter talk ;
Tell me, said I, in deep distress,
Where I may find my shepherdess.


If I had a beau for a soldier would go,
Do you think I'd say no, no, no not I;

When his red coat I saw,
Not a sigh would it draw,
But I'd give him eclat,

For his bravery.
If an army of Amazons e’er came to play,
As a dashing White Sergeant I'd march away.
When my soldier was gone, d’ye think I'd take on,
Set moping forlorn, no, no, not I ;
His fame may concern,

bosom would burn
When I saw him return,

Crown:d with victory.
If an army of Amazons e’er came to play,
As a dashing White Sergeant I'd march away.

How my

HOME, SWEET HOME. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Still, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, Which, go through the world, you will not meet else where.

Home, home, Sweet home! There is no place like home,

There is no place like home. An exile from home, pleasure dazzles in vain, Ah! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again ; The birds singing sweetly, that came to my callGive me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home, &c.

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