On board a privateer, I knew not what was fear;
Yet, alas! I'm here, and forc'd to go a begging!
Ah! bless your honor! poor Pat O'Connor
Begs for charity!

Ah! give him one poor halfpenny!

Three babies and a wife I left, to give my life,
And fight the enemy;

Yet now each day is night, and in this wretched plight
Poor Pat O'Connor begs for charity!

Ah! give him one poor halfpenny!

My wife, for want of bread, alas! poor girl, she's dead; My babies too are fled, they're gone to Davy's locker! Ah! bless your honor, &c.

I should not be here now, if I, with gallant Howe, My lights had lost at sea;

For then provision's made, they're safe in Greenwich laid.

Poor Pat O'Connor begs for charity!

Ah! give him one poor halfpenny!

I'd rather beg my bread, than e'er it should be said They to the poor-house led a valiant English sailor! Ah! bless your honor, &c.

T. DIBDIN..

SOFT AS THE MORNING.

འ

--ĠOULDING, LOND.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

SOFT as the morning's blushing hue,

Arose my lovely Kate;

-INCLEDON.

DIBDIN.

And, glitt'ring as the vernal dew,
Auspicious beam'd her fate.

But morning dews soon pass away;
So vanish'd Kate's delight:
The hope that flatter'd early day
For ever clos'd at night.

NOTHING LIKE GROG.

PRESTON, LONDON..

-DIBDIN.

Sung by Mr Dibdin.

A PLAGUE of those musty old lubbers
Who tells us to fast and to think,
And patient fall in with life's rubbers,
With nothing but water to drink.

A cann of good stuff! had they twigg'd it,
"Twould have set them for pleasure agog,
And spite of the rules

Of the schools,

The old fools

Would have all of 'em swigg'd it,

And swore there was nothing like grog.

My father, when last I from Guinea
Return'd, with abundance of wealth,
Cry'd, Jack, never be such a ninny

To drink. Said I, father, your health.
So I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it set the old codger agog;

And he swigg'd, and mother,
And sister, and brother,

And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.

T'other day as the chaplain was preaching,
Behind him I curiously slunk;
And while he our duty was teaching,

As how we should never get drunk,
I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it soon set his rev'rence` agog;

And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd,
And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.

Then, trust me, there's nothing like drinking,,
So pleasant on this side the grave;
It keeps the unhappy from thinking,

And makes e'en more valiant the brave.
As for me, from the moment I twigg'd it,
The good stuff has so set me agog,
Sick or well, late or early,

Wind fouly or fairly,

Helm a-lee or a-weather,

For hours together

I've constantly swigg'd it,

And, dam'me, there's nothing like grog.

ANON.

MY MOTHER BIDS ME, ETC.

-CLEMENTI, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

MY mother bids me bind my hair

With bands of rosy hue,

Tie up my sleeves with ribbands rare,
And lace my boddice blue:

"For why," she cries," sit still and weep,
"While others dance and play?"

Alas! I scarce can go or creep,

While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone When those we love were near;

I sit upon this mossy stone,

And sigh when none can hear; And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay,

The village seems asleep or dead,

Now Lubin is away.

ANON.

THE MERMAIDS' SONG.

CLEMENTI, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

NOW the dancing sun-beams play
On the green and glassy sea;
Come, and I will lead the way,

HAYDN,

HAYDN.

Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow:
Follow, follow, follow me;
Follow, follow, follow me.

Come, behold what treasures lie
Far beneath the rolling waves;
Riches, hid from human eye,
Dimly shine in Ocean's caves.
Ebbing tides bear no delay;
Stormy winds are far away:
Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow:
Follow, follow, follow me;
Follow, follow, follow me.

ANON.

FRAGRANT ROSES, ETC.

-CORRI, ETC. LOND. SALIERI.

Sung by Mrs Clendining.

FRAGRANT roses all entwin'd,
"Twixt the fingers of the fair;
And the chaplets so design'd,

For their true-love's brows prepare.
Gift of Venus, blushing, glowing,

Let the lovely rose be seen;
While the lilies, sweets bestowing,

Make the wreath an evergreen.