Hark! hark! don't your hear, they are now in the dale?

The horn, how melodious it sounds!

Poor Puss in a fright, how she strives to prevail, And fly from the cry of the hounds.

And fly, &c.

Though up to the hills and the mountains she scale,
Whose tops seem to join to the sky;

We mount in the air like a kite in a gale,
And follow the hounds in full cry:

Though into the copse there for refuge she flies,
We kill her, it's twenty the odds:

While echo surrounds us with hooting and cries, We seem to converse with the gods.

We seem, &c.

Our freedom with conscience is never alarm'd ;
We are strangers to envy and strife;
When blest with a wife, we return to her arms,
Sport sweetens the conjugal life.

Our days pass away in a scene of delight,
Which kings and their courtiers ne'er taste;
In pleasures of love we revel all night,

Next morning return to the chase.

Next morning, &c,

Sweet Kitty of the Clyde.

A BOAT danc'd on Clyde's bonny stream,

When winds were rudely blowing,

There sat what might a goddess seem
Of the waves beneath her flowing;

But no; a mortal fair was she,
Surpassing a' beside,

And youths a' speer'd her choise to be--
Sweet Kity o' the Clyde.

I saw the boatman spread a sail,
And, while his daftness noting,
The boat was upset by the gale-
I saw sweet Kitty floating;
I plung'd into the silver wave,
Wi' Cupid for my guide,

And thought my heart weel lost to save
Sweet Kity o' the Clyde.

But Kitty's aye a high-born fair,
A lowly name I carry,

Nor can wi' lordly thanes compare,
Who woo the maid to marry;
But she ne scornfu' looks on me,
And joy may yet betide;
For hope dares flatter mine may be
Sweet Kity o' the Clyde.

The Lion and Lamb.

WHY what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping? A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way;

'Tis nonsense for trifles I own to be piping, But they that ha'n't pity, why I pity they :

Says the captain, says he, I shall never forget it, If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham,

'Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it,

But, duty appeas'd, 'tis in mercy a lamb,

There was bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one. not caring,

Helterskelter to work, pelt away, cut and drive, Swearing he, for his part, had no notion of sparing, And has for a foe, why he'd eat him alive.

But when that he found an old pris'ner he'd wounded,

That once sav'd his life as near drowning he swam; The lion was tam'd, and with pity confounded, He cried over him just all as one as a lamb.

That my friend, Jack, or Tom, I should rescue from danger,

Orlay my life down for each lad in the mess, Is nothing at all: 'tis the poor wounded stranger, And the poorer, the more I shall succour distress, For however their duty bold tars may delight in, And peril defy, as a bugbear or flam;

Though the lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting, He'll feel more by compassion when turn'd to a lamb.

The heart and the eye, you see, feel the same motion, And if both shed their drops 'tis all to the same end;

And thus 'tis that ev'ry tight lad of the ocean, Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.

If my maxim's disease, 'tis disease I shall die on, You may snigger and titter, I don't care a damn! In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion,

But, the battle once ended, the heart of a lamb.

My Dog and my Gun.

EVERY mortal some favourite pleasure pursues, Some to White's run for play, some to Batson's for news;

To Shuter's droll phiz others thunder applause,
And some triflers delight to hear Nichols's noise;
But such idle amusements I'll carefully shun,
And my pleasure's confin'd to my dog and my gun.

Soon as Phoebus has finish'd his summer's career,
And his maturing aid blest the husbandman's care;
When Roger and Nell have enjoy'd harvest home,
And, their labours being o'er, are at leisure to

roam;

From the noise of the town and its follies I run, And range o'er the fields with my dog and my gun.

When my pointers around me carefully stand,
And none dares to stir but the dog I command;
When the covey he springs, and I bring down my
bird,

I've a pleasure no pastime beside can afford:
No pastime nor pleasure that's under the sun,
Can be equal to mine with my dogs and my gup.

When the covey I've thinn'd, to the woods I repair, And I brush through the thickets devoid of all fear! There I exercise freely my levelling skill,

And with pheasants and woodcocks my bag often fill;

For death (where I find them) they seldom can shun,

My dogs are so sure, and so fatal my gun.

My spaniels ne'er babble, they're under command; Some range at a distant, and some hunt at hand: When a woodcock they flush, or a pheasant they spring,

With heart-cheering notes how they make the woods ring;

Then for music let fribbles to Ranelah run,
My concert's a chorus of dogs and a gun.

When at night we chat over the sport of the day, And spread o'er the table my conquer'd spoils lay; Then I think of my friends, and to each send a

part;

For my friends to oblige is the pride of my heart : Thus vices of town and its follies I shun,

And my pleasures confine to my dogs and my gun.

Push the Grog about.

"TWAS Saturday night, the twinkling stars, Shone on the rippling sea:

No duty call'd the jovial tars,
The helm was lash'd a-lee.