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Then say what pleasure can inspire

To that of coursing? sweet employ!
Except when homeward we retire,
Our bottles and our friend enjoy:

The brook and brake,

We then forsake,
For sportsmen know no grief or care;.

Then sweet the born,

Across the lawn,
Awakes the trembling, timid hare.

UNKENNEL THE HOUNDS. UNKENNEL, uncouple the hounds:

And wind the echoing horn, Hark! hark! the huntsman sounds

Tantivy to welcome the morn, To horse, to horse, and away we fly, Chevy-ho! and hark forward! for Renard must die, Unkennel, to cover he flies,

But all his cunning's in vain, Yoicks! yoicks! the huntsman cries,

Tantivy, upon him again! To parth, to earth, he would vainly try, Chevy-ho! and hark forward! for Renard must die. NAVAL SONGS.

THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,

As all its lessening turrets bluely fade,
He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,

And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now each dear domestic scene he know,

Recall’d and cherish'd in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,

Its colors mellow'd not impair’d by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart,

Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This the last wish that would with life depart,

To meet the smiles of her he loves again. When morn first faintly draws her silver line,

Or eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave, When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,

Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,

Attends his little bark from pole to pole: And when the beating billows round him roar,

Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Cary'd is her name in many a spicy grove,

In many a plaintain-forest, waving .wide, Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,

And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail,

Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend,

And hark! what mingled murmurs swell the gale,

In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl'd; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,

And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

THE SAILOR AND SOLDIER. The sailor he fears not the roar of the seas,

But with courage all danger surmounts; O’er his biscuit and can he reposes at ease,

And with pleasure each action recounts. Contented, the soldier, in dreadful campaign,

Feels bless'd, 'midst the thunder of war; Nor envies the sailor, who ploughs the deep main,

Any prize—but the gain of a scar. In Liberty's cause, may the battles they've fought,

With freedom and peace be repaid; In the terrors of war may the honors they've sought

Gain them laurels that never fade.

Poor Joe the marine, was at Portsmouth well known,

No lad in the corps dress'd so smart;
The lasses ne'er look'd on the youth with a frown,

His manliness won every heart.
Sweet Polly, of Portsea, he took for his bride,

And surely there never was seen
A couple so gay march to church side by side,

As Polly and Joe the marine.
The bright torch of Hymen was scarcely in blaze,
When thundering drums they heard rattle,

And Joe in an instant was forced to the seas

To give the bold enemy battle.
The action was dreadiul: each ship a mere wreck,

Such slaughter few sailors have seen;
Two hundred brave fellows lay strew'd on the deck,

And among them poor Joe the marine. But victory, faithful to true British tars,

At length put an end to the fight,
And homeward they steer’d, full of glory and scars,

And soon had fam’d Portsmouth in sight.
The ramparts were crowded the heroes to greet,

And foremost sweet Polly was seen,
The very first sailor she happened to meet,

Told the fate of poor Joe the marine.
The shock was severe, swift as lightning's fork'd dart

Her poor head with wild frenzy fir’d, She few from the crowd, softly cried, 'my poor heart!

Clasp'd her hands, faintly sigh’d, and expir’d.
Her body, was laid 'neath a wide spreading yew,

And on a smooth stone may be seen,
One tear-drop let fall, all ye lovers so true,

On Polly of Portsea, and Joe, the marine.

I'm a tough true hearted sailor,

Careless and all that, d’ye see,
Never at the times a railer

What is time or tide to me?
All must die when fate shall will it,

Providence ordains it 80;
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, &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, &c.


Ar Wapping I landed, and called to hail Mog,

She had just shaped her course to the play,
Of two rums and one water I ordered my grog,

And to speak her soon stood under way; But the Haymarket I for old Drury mistook,

Like a lubber so raw and so soft, Half a George handed out, at the change did not

Mann'd the ratlines and went up aloft.
As I mounted to one of the uppermost tiers,

With many a coxcomb and Airt,
Such a d-nable squalling saluted my ears,

I thought ther'd been somebody hurt:
But the devil a bit, 'twas your outlandish rips,

Singing out with their lanterns of jaws,
You'd a a swore you'd been taking of one of their

trips 'Mongst the Caffrees or wild Catahaws. What's the play, ma’am? says I, to a good natured

The play-o'tis the Uproar, you quiz,

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