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Why how now, saucy jade,
Sure the wench is tipsy ; How can you see me made The sport of such a gipsy,
O! 'TIS LOVE! 'TIS LOVE!
O! Tis love! 'tis love ! 'tis love!
From woman's bright eye glancing, O! 'tis love! 'tis love ! 'tis love!
Every heart entrancing,
What soothes the peasant's pain ?
O! 'tis love ! &c.
O! 'tis love !-'tis love! 'tis love!
The warrior doth inspire.
That kindles soft desire.
In palaces or vales,
O!'tis love! &c.
THE LAND WE LIVE IN.
The sparkling liquor fills the glass,
And briskly round the board it goes ; The toast, of course, our favourite lass,
We'll drink confusion to our foes.
Then each in turn, catch the glee,
The song, the toast, is given ;
I give, “ The land we live in."
Huzza ! I gave, “ The land we live in.
His bosom burns with loyal flame;
Of valiant Smith and Nelson's fame.
This toast in turn is given ;
Then let us all, &c.
And wish to gain a foreign shore ;
We shall be plagu'd with them no more.
The song, the toast, &c.
THE OLD COMMODORE. OD'SBLOOD, what a time for a seaman to skulk
Under gingerbread hatches ashore ; What a d-bad job that this batter'd old hulk Can't be riggd out for sea once more. But the puppies, as they pass,
Cocking up their squinting glass,
That's the old commodore-
Here am I in distress, like a ship water-logg'd,
Not a tow-rope at hand, or an oar ;
But the doctor's a son of a w-e.
How nimble are his chops,
A bad case, commodore
Can't say, commodore
For the bullets and the gout
Have so knock'd your hull about, That you'll never more be fit for sea. What, no more to be afloat ? blood and fury! they
Gadzooks! let me not die on shore.
Sailors live in fire and smoke,
The rum old commodore
Whom the devil, nor the gout,
Nor the French dogs to boot,
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.
UPON the plains of Flanders,
Our fathers long ago,
Beneath old Marlborough ;
Our valour bright has stone,
With Wolfe and Abercrombie,
And Moore and Wellington.
That ne'er shall be forgot,
Reeled backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet,
We lead our bold compeers ; But Frenchmen like to stay not
For British grenadiers.
Once bravely at Vimiera
They hoped to play their parts, And sing fal lira, lira,
To cheer their drooping hearts. But English, Scotch and Paddy whacks, We
gave three hearty cheers, And the French soon turned their backs
To the British grenadiers. At St. Sebastiano,
And Badajos' town, Though raging like volcanoes
The shell and shot came down, With urage never wincing,
We scaled the ramparts high, And waved the British ensign
In glorious victory.
And what could Bonaparte,
With all his curassiers,
With British grenadiers ?
Thato march unto our ears,
Of British grenadiers.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
THE worm that crawls about our way,
And dies beneath our feet ;
And finds existence sweet.
A short but happy reign ;
On pleasure's pinions borne,
But man was made to mourn.
His youth the passions rend ; His prime of life is care and pain,
And death, cold death his end. The empty blast of noisy air
Which sweeps the valleys o'er Rages and swells a moment there,
And then is heard no more.
Unmeaning and forlorn,
That man was made to mourn.
Oh, wonders sure, will never cease,
Ri too ral, &c.