To render complete those blessings now past, And provide that they might to eternity last, 'Twas instant agreed that a toast should be giv'n, And drank in full bumpers of nectar thro' heav'n-The words of the toast were, (mark it ye free) "May Britons with Britons ever agree,"

By your enemies then you will always be fear'd, And with wine, wit, and women incessantly cheer'd,

Cottage on the Moor.

MY mam is no more, and my dad's in his grave, Little orphans are sisters, and I sadly poor; Industry our wealth, and no dwelling we have, But yon neat little cottage that stands on the moor.

Yon neat little cottage, &c.

The lark's early song does to labour invite;
Contented, we just keep the wolf from the door,
And, Phoebus retiring, trip home with delight,
To our neat little cottage that stands on the moor.
Yon neat little cottage, &c.

Our meals are but homely, mirth sweetens our cheer,

Affection's our inmate, the guest we adore; And heart-ease and health make a palace appear Of our neat little cottage that stands on the moor. Yon neat little cottage, &c.

The Soldier tir'd of war's alarms.

THE soldier, tir'd of war's alarms,
Forswears the clang of hostile arms,
And scorns the spear and shield;
But if the brazen trumpet sound,
He burns with conquest to be crown'd,
And dares again the field.

The Irish Beauty.

I'VE been told I'm the son of my father and mother,
And faith, on my soul, I believe I'm no other:
I'm as pretty a lad as your heart can desire,
And my name's Mr. Paddy Mulwadey, esquire.
Derry down, &c.

One day, says my mother, for I was her joy,
My darling, you now are a hobble-de-hoy;
To get a large fortune, Pat, make out the way,
So sometimes I made love,& sometimes I made hay.

For the first of my pranks was at Little Ratshane, Where a spoonful of love popp'd into my brain : For Juggy Delaney, a neat little soul,

Who's as tall and as straight as a shaverman's pole,

To sing you the beauties of Jugg's my intention, The whole boiling of which I'm now going to unention:

First, if in her face any colour is seen,

It is either au olive, or else bottle-green.

Oh Juggy! sweet Juggy! the joy of my life ; If you search the world round, you can't find such a wife;

For she squints-but the reason of that, I suppose, Is because both her eyes are afraid of her nose.

Of her nose did I say-to be sure and why not?
For, indeed, a most elegant snout she has got,
And her face altogether, deny it who can,
Is as broad and as flat as a big frying pan.

Oh Juggy sweet Juggy! that dear little creature, Has a bloom on her face like a rusty potatoe; Nature's sweet white and red in her countenance

lies,

For the white's in her lips and the red's in her eyes.

Yet her eyes are as black, on my soul, I'm no joker, As two holes in a blanket that's burnt with a poker; And as for their brightness I'll tell you what's more, They're ke two scalded gooseberries stuck in a

door.

For a neat row of teeth-she has two by my soul; And her tongue sticks between like a toad in a hole : Her cheeks, green as leeks, sets me all in a bustle, For she opens her mouth as you'd open a muscle,

She's a neat taper'd waist, like a butt in the middle,
She plays on the jew's harp, and I on the fiddle;
And Juggy's the lady, whenever she's ripe,
For chewing tobacco, or smoaking a pipe.

Then a neat pair of beautiful legs she has got, With the calves at the bottom instead of the top: And she's like a goose-pie above all other things, Because she's all giblets, and gizzards, and wings.

Then as for her singing-Oh bless her sweet pipes, 'Tis just like a short-winded boar in the gripes; When she laughs-or she titters-or strains her sweet throat,

Her cheeks hangs in puckers just like a loose coat.

So Juggy and I were made husband and wife,
And we twain are one flesh for the rest of our life;
And then at our wedding, there was such a collection
Of tag, rag, and bobtail, and all in perfection

Muscle-mongers, oystermen, crimps, & coal-heavers, And butchers, with marrow-bones, smiting their cleavers ;

Scrimp-scalders, sow-gelders, and tailors and tylers; Bawds, bug-killers, bailiffs, and black-pudding boilers,

Then St. Giles's sweet bells did so merrily ring, You'd given five pounds to been out of their hearing;

Then they all stagger'd homewards; and as for the

rest,

Why what follow'd after is easily guess'd.

Polly and Joe the Marine.

POOR JOE the Marine was at Portsmouth well known,

No lad in the corps dress'd so smart ;

The lasses ne'er look'd on the youth with a frown,
His manliness won ev'ry heart.

Sweet Polly of Portsea he took for his bride,
And surely there never was seen,

A couple so gay march to church side by side,
As Polly and Joe the Marine,

The bright torch of Hymen was scarcely in blaze,
When thundering drums they heard rattle,
And Joe in an instant was forc'd to the seas,
To give a bold enemy battle.

The action was dreadful, each ship a mere wreck,
Such slaughter few sailors have seen;

Two hundred brave fellows lay strew'd on the deck And among them poor Joe the Marine,

But victory faithful to true British tars,
At length put an end to the fight,

And homeward they steer'd, full of glory and scars,
And soon had fam'd Portsmouth in sight.

The ramparts were crowded, the heroes to greet, And foremost sweet Polly was seen;

The very first sailor who appear'd in her sight, Told the fate of poor Joe the Marine.