Now dash'd upon the billow,
Our op'ning timbers creak!
Each fears a watery pillow,
None stops the dreadful leak!
To cling to slippery shrouds,
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay, till the day.

In the Bay of Biscay O!

At length the wish'd-for morrow,
Broke through the hazy sky,
Absorb'd in silent sorrow,
Each heav'd the bitter sigh:
The dismal wreck to view,
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay, on the day,
In the Bay of Biscay O

Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent!
When heaven, all-bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent!

A sail in sight appears,

We hail her with three cheers!
Now we sail, with the gale,
From the Bay of Biscay O!

Comfort, damsel, why that sigh?

COMFORT, damsel, why that sigh?

Heaven in kindness sends us sorrow

Patience, damsel, heav'n is nigh,
Brighter prospects greets to-morrow,

Weigh'd down by each passing show'r,
Lowly droops the lily's head-
Charg'd with rain, the tender flow'r,
Pensive sinks, its beauty fled.

Rolls the dark storm far away,
See, a livelier hue is giv'n:
The lily glitters doubly gay-

The drop that press'd it, came from heav'n.

Old England for Ever, and Long Live the King.

IN praise of his monarch, for a Briton to sing,
How delightful the task sure must prove,
To recount o'er the deeds of a virtuous king,
Possessing each true Briton's love:

For fifty years thro' all the perils of war,
As well the whole universe knows;

He our country preserv'd, its freedom and laws,
In spite of the threats of our foes;

Then like true loyal Britons, let's chearfully sing, Old England for ever, and long live the king.

To tell all the great deeds that have pass'd since he's reign'd,

In my song were it vain, if I try'd,

What battles were fought, what victories gain'd, What heroes have conquer'd and died,

To reward modest merit was ever his pride,
And his charity's every where known,
While goodness and justice his actions all guide,
And mercy is found at his throne.

Then like true loyal Britons let's chearfully sing,
Old England for ever, and long live the king.

The Village Crim. Con.; or Snob versus Snip.

OH! ye lads and ye laddesses gay,

Come bear with my rhyming a bob;
'Bout a Crim. Con. I've something to say,
"Twixt a dairy-maid, tailor, and snob.
This snob was the boast of the town,
The envy and pride of the lads;
The girls never gave him a frown,

Though some said 'twas 'cause of the brads.

Now, once for all, Snob thought to marry,
And having seen plenty of life,
Not wanting the stuff, wou'd not tarry,
But heel-piece his cares with a wife;
He met with a damsel nam'd Nancy,
Who liv'd at a dairy hard by,
And being the cream of his fancy,
He met of a night on the sly.

Her love Snob thought firm as lump-butter,
That the breath of her lips were as fresh,
And said things no cobler could utter,
As he press'd the doe-skin of her flesh,

Soon the maid felt the butter-milk passion,
Her bosom it heav'd like a churn,

While her heart curdl'd o'er with compassion,
Her eyes from the Snob ceas'd to turn.

The day when the licence was bought,
A tailor who knew Nance a child,
Approach'd with the superfine thought,
Her heart might perhaps be beguil'd.
He had just taken measure of Snob,
To make him a new suit of pye-bald,
And had said, any little odd job

He would any time do, if Snob call'd.

Now Nancy belov'd by the tailor,

Soon prov'd that the spirit was frail; When Snip dar'd with kisses assail her, She gently confess'd he'd prevail. So Snip got a licence and married This dairy-maid, buxom and fair; While Snob all the time at home tarried, Thinking next day the fond bliss to share.

But finding her not come to meet him,
Poor Snob being left in the lurch,
Went out-when the first who should greet
him,

Was Mrs. Snip walking from church.
Cries she, "My dear Snob, I'm just married
To Snip, who is a little way on;"

Replied Snob, "Into court shall be carried This conduct, d-n me, it's Crim. Con."

Yet quickly thought Snob, "Since the licence
I've got to kiss Nance when I will,
Why, as to the rest, it's all nonsense,
So let them be married who will."
Then if the good-humour'd somehow
Can take but the cream of the jest,
The critics, no doubt, will allow
There's skim-milk enough for the rest.

John Lump's Description of the Comet.

OH! what a horrid thing

I'ze seen this very night, sirs,
It would have fre't the king,
Had he but seen the sight, sirs;
And see it now you may,

I'ze only just com❜d from it,
But, "What is this?" you'll say,
Why, sirs, 'tis but the comet!

(Spoken.) Dang it, there it were with a nation great tail as long as our old cow's. I ax'd a man what it were made on ? "Made on, you stupid oaf," says he, "why cheese, to be sure!" but thinks I that's all

Tooral looral la, tooral fooral loddy,

They say if it comes near

"I will roast us all alive, sirs, And I am full of fear

"Tis coming here full drive, sirs,