Each girl, giv'n over, betray'd by her lover,

To hartshorn, or salts, or salt-water, may fly; But we've an elixir, will properly fix her,

If properly she'll the prescription apply. The recipe's wholesome,'tis beauty's best balsam;

For which we refuse, tho,' to pocket a fee, As gratis we give it, girls grateful receive ito

So here's to the practice of Love's beaume de vie.

FROM the east breaks the morn; The wild heath, and the mountain so high;

Shrilly ope's the staunch houud,

The steed neighs to the sound, And the floods and the valleys reply.

Our forefathers, so good,

Prov'd their greatness of blood,
By encountring the pard and the boar:

Ruddy health bloom'd the face,

Age and youth urg'd the chase,
And taught woodlands and forests to roar.

Hence of noble descent,

Hills and wilds we frequent, Where the bosom of pature's reveal'd;

Though in life's busy day

Man of man makes a prey,
Still let ours be the prey of the field.

With the chase in full sight,
Gods ! how great the delight!

HIQW How our mutual sensations refine!

Where is care? where is fear?

Like the winds in the rear !
And the man's lost in something divine,

Now to horse, my brave boys!

Lo! each pants for the joys That anon shall enliven the whole;

Then at eve we'll dismount,

Toils and pleasures recount, And renew the chase over the bowl.


LO, patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see,

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; A tight water-boat, and good sea-room give me,

And t'ent to a little I'll strike. Though the tempest top-gallant-mast smack

smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck! stow the yards! and bowse erery

thing tight! And under the reef'd foresail we'll scud. Avast! nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft,

To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack! Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day,

About souls, heaven, mercy, and such; And, my timbers, what lingo be'd coil and belay! Why, 'twas just all as one as high Dutch.


But he said howasparrow can't founder, d'ye see,

Without orders that come down below; And niany fine things, that prov'd clearly to me

That Providence takes us in tow; For, says he, do you mind me, let stormse'er so oft

lake the top-sails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

I said to our Pol! (for, d'ye see, she would cry),

When last we weigh'd anchor for sea; What argufes suiv'ling, and piping your eye?

Why, what a dama'd fool you must be! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room

for us all, Both for seamen and lubbess ashore! And if to old Davy I should go, dear Poll,

Why you never will hear of me more. What then? all'sa hazard-come don't be so soft;

Perhaps I may laughing come back; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor


D'ye mind me, a sailor should be ev'ry inch

All one as a piece of the ship; And with her brave the world, without off'ring

to finch, From the monent the anchor 's a-trip, As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,

Nought's a trouble from duty that springs; For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's iny

friend's; And as for my life, 'tis my king's,


E'en when my time comes, ne'er believe me so

As with grief to be taken aback;
That same little cherub that sits up aloft,
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!
HALL, Burgundy! thou juice divine !

Inspirer of my song!
The praises giv’n to other wine,

To thee alone belong!
Of poignant wit, and rosy charms,

Thou can'st the pow'r improve;
Care of its sting thy balm disarms,
Thou noblest gift of Jove!

Care of its sting, &c.
Bright Phoebus, on the parent-vines

From whence thy current streams,
Sweet-smiling, through the tendril shines,

And lavish darts his beams.
The pregnant grape receives his fires,

And all his force retains;
With that same warmth our brain inspires,
And animates our strains.

With that, &c.
From thee my Chloe's radiant

New sparkling beams receives;
Her cheeks imbibe a rosier dye;

Her beauteous bosom heaves.
Summon'd to love by thy alarms,

O! with what nervous heat!
Worthy the fair, we fill their arms,
And oft our bliss repeat.
Worthy the fair, &c.


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The stoic, prone to thought intense,

Thy softness can unbend;
A cheerful gaiety dispense,

And make him taste a friend.
His brow grows clear, he feels content,

Forgets his pensive strife;
And then concludes his time well spent
In honest social life.

And then, &c.

E'en beaux, those soft amphibious things,

Wrapt up in self and dress,
Quite lost to the delight that springs

From sense thy pow'r confess.
The fop with chitty maudlin face,

That dares but deeply drink, Forgets his cue and stiff grimace; Grows free, and seems to think.

Forgets his cue, &c.


ARK! the din of distant 'war,

Ilow noble 'is the clangor!
Pale death ascends his ebon car,

Clad in terrific anger.
A doubtful fate the soldier tries,

Who joins the gallant quarrel;
Perhaps on the cold ground he lies,
No wife, no friend, to close his eyes,

Though nobly mourn'd;

Perhaps return'd,
He's crown'd with vict'ry's laurel.


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