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So true to his love, and in battle so brave,
The myrtle and laurel entwine o'er his grave.
For his country he fell, when by victory crowned-
The flag shot away, fell in tatters around:

The foe thought he'd struck-but he sung avast!
And the colours of England he nailed to the mast.
Then he died like a true British sailor.

IS THERE A HEART.

Is there a heart that never loved?
Nor felt soft woman's sigh!
Is there a man can mark unmoved,
Dear woman's tearful eye?

Oh, bear him to some distant shore,
Or solitary cell,

Where nought but savage monsters roar,
Where love ne'er deigned to dwell.
For there's a charm in woman's eye,
A language in her tear,

A spell in every sacred sigh,

To man-to virtue dear.

And he who can resist her smiles,

With brutes alone should live ;
Nor taste that joy which care beguiles,
That joy her virtues give.

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DRINK to me only with thine eyes.

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from my soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It would not wither'd be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent it back to me;

Since then, it grows and smells I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

O SAY NOT WOMAN'S LOVE IS BOUGHT

OH! say not woman's love is bought,
With vain and empty treasure ;
Oh! say not woman's heart is caught,
By every idle pleasure.

When first her gentle bosom knows
Love's flame, it wanders never;
Deep in her heart the passion glows,
She loves, and loves for ever.

Oh! say not woman's false as fair;
That like the bee she ranges;
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare,

As fickle fancy changes:

Ah, no, the love that first can warm

Will leave her bosom never:

No second passion e'er can charm,
She loves, and loves for ever!

LET THE WAITER BRING CLEAN GLASSES.

LET the waiter bring clean glasses,

With a fresh supply of wine,

For I see by all your faces

In my wishes you will join.

It is not the charms of beauty
Which I purpose to explain,
We awhile will leave that duty
For a more prevailing theme.
To the health I'm now proposing,
Let's have one full glass at least,
No one here can think't imposing-
"Tis the founder of the feast.

MARCH TO THE BATTLE-FIELD.

MARCH to the battle-field,

The foe is now before us;
Each heart is Freedom's shield,
And heaven is shining o'er us!
The woes and pains, the galling chains,
That kept our spirit under,
In proud disdain, we've broke again,
And tore each link asunder !
March to the battle-field,

The foe is now before us!
Each heart is Freedom's shield,

And heaven is shining o'er us!

Who for his country brave
Would fly from her invader?
Who, his base life to save,

Would, traitor-like, degrade her?

Our hallowed cause, our home and laws, 'Gainst tyrant Power sustaining; We'll gain a crown of bright renown, Or die, our rights maintaining! March to the battle-field,

The foe is now before us; Each heart is Freedom's shield, And heaven is smiling o'er us!

TOM BOWLING.

HERE a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has brought him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,

And now he's

gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare ;

His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft;

But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When he who all commands,

Shall give (to call life's crew together)
The word to pipe all hands,

Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;

For tho' his body's under hatches

His soul is gone aloft.

HE THAT WILL NOT MERRY BE.

He that will not merry merry be,
With a generous bowl and a toast,
May he in Bridewell be shut up,
And fast bound to a post:
Let him be merry merry there;
And we'll be merry merry here;
For who can know, where we shall go
To be merry another year?

He that will not merry merry be
And take his glass in course,

May he be obliged to drink small beer,
Ne'er a penny in his purse:

Let him be merry, &c.

He that will not merry merry be
With a company of jolly boys,
May he be plagued with a scolding wife,
To confound him with her noise.
Let him be merry, &c.

He that will not merry merry be
With his mistress in his bed;
Let him be buried in the church-yard,
And me be put in his stead.
Let him be merry &c.

GIVE ME THE RUBY GRAPE.

LET lovers sing of roses sweet,

Exclaims the toper gay,

Such strains, for maudlin fancies meet
Bear far from me away.
My fancy manly strains would ape,
A noble theme proposes.
Give, oh give me the ruby grape,
And mingle it with roses.

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