In Flat-bottoms, slily, those schemers were coasting, They threaten'd Invasion, but spite of their boasting, No ribs of Roast Beef had they; but a Rib roasting.

While good English Beef, and good English Brown Beer,

Please our tastes, and each day on our tables appear, What more can we hope for, or what can we fear?

The Spaniards once strove, by the strength of their Guns,

To make us keep Lent, and to turn our Girls Nuns, But we still roast our Beef, for we basted the Dons.

At Minorca indeed, tho' I speak it with grief,
Our Garrison fainted for want of relief,
They grew out of Hopes as they grew out of Beef.

But at Minden, well fed, why we there fac'd about,
Right and Left, Van and Rear, Foot and Horse, put

to rout;

They wou'd be in our Beef-but, avast, they were out.

Toplunder our Cupboards, France sent the Brest Fleet,
We a belly-full gave them without any meat;
They then sold their Plates 'cause they'd nothing to eat.

We came, saw, and conquer'd, the French Lilies droop,

Louisbourg, Montreal, Martinique, Guadaloupe,
Their Towns we toss'd up, just as they swallow Soup.

By the strength of our Beef we our Bulwarks maintain,
As Liberty's first-born, and Lords of the Main ;
And those deeds are witness'd by France and by Spain.

All Knights, by their Titles, in Heraldry shine,
Nay, Writers Romantic have stiled some divine,
But what are their Sirs to Old England's Sir-loin.

Let us honour this Dish, 'tis in dignity chief,
For garnish will give it the noblest relief:

Here's LIBERTY,-LOYALTY,-AYE,-and ROAST

BEEF.

O the Roast Beef, &c.

THE PIPE OF LOVE.

ONE

TUNE.

"Bless'd Age of Gold."

NE Primrose Time a Maiden Brown,
Wishing for what we will not say,
By side of Shepherd sat her down,

And softly ask'd him, wou'd he play?
Mild shone the Sun thro' Redstreak Morn,
And glist'ning Dew-drops pearl'd the grass;
The Rustic, stretch'd beneath the thorn,
Grinning, reply'd-I'll please thee Lass.

All on the green field's turfy bed,

Smiling, the fond one fell along; The thick-leaf'd shade her face o'erspread, While, lisping, she began this song.— "Tis Love which gives Life holidays, "And Love I'll always take thy part; "My Shepherd's pipe so sweetly plays, "It finds the way to win my Heart.

"The Ladies dress'd with silks so fine,
"In golden chairs to visits go;
"On costly dishes they can dine,
"And ev'ry night see ev'ry shew.
"Yet, if 'tis true what I've heard speak,
"Those high degrees lead lonely lives;
"Husbands are willfull, Husbands weak,
"And seldom pipe to please their Wives."

Blue broke the clouds, the day yet young,
The flowers fragrant fill'd the breeze;
Wanton the Lass, half whisp'ring, sung,
Yes Shepherd-once more if you please.
Awaking from embrac'd delight,

She heard her Dame, and dar'd not stay;
They kiss, they part, but first-at Night,
She charg'd him, come again and play.

His Team to geer, home hy'd the Loon,
The love-cheer'd Lass blithe bore her Pail,
And thus she gave her ditty tune,

Tripping it deftly down the Dale.

"Tho' Organ Pipes play music fine,

66

And Fountain Pipes folks run to see: "Tho' thirsty Souls love PIPES of WINE, "The Pipe of Love's the Pipe for me,"

WOU'D

you

way

that Eve

know the
In Eden was caught tripping,

Arch SATAN 'twitch'd her by the sleeve,
And shew'd a Golden Pippin ;
Tempted by the glitt'ring charm,
'Twas said she ill-us'd Adam,
And ever since the same alarm
Bewitches MISS and MADAM.

The Dad of Danae was a Dolt,
To lock a Woman's will in;
A Guinea Shower burst each bolt,
Miss op'd her lap for filling.
Ask Beauties, who for Chapmen wait,
What 'tis they chiefly wish for,

They'll own, tho' most men take their bait,
'Tis only Gold they fish for.

But why shou'd Women bear the blame,
When Men, both out and in, Sir,
Will gamble at the Golden Game,
Nor care they how they win, Sir.
Arts, Science, Office, Trade, confess
Mean mercenary dealings,
All Reas'ning Bipeds, more or less,
Shew selfish fellow-feelings.

Election Agents Truth disgrace,
They've made this an unsound age;
To Brothels brought fair Freedom's face,
And, Pandar-like, took poundage.
But henceforth Britons may we shew,
In Bribes no more our trust is,
But nobly independent go,

And only vote for Justice.

O THOU! from whom each Blessing springs, Earth, Seas, and Skies Director,

To whom we owe the best of Kings,

Be his, be our Protector.

The Tyrant, arm'd with Terror's scourge,
Awes subject slaves t'approve him,
But Free-born Britons bow to GEORGE,
For in our hearts we love him.

Dear Liberty, Celestial Fire,

Remain here unconsuming;

May that spark catch, to Son from Sire,
From Age to Age illuming.
For this is ev'ry Briton's song,
This all we wish to be, boys;
Let Life be short, let Life be long,
But let that Life be free, boys.