Five and three-pence a-piece lads advance; hand it out,
We'll purchase a licenfe and lend it about.

Sing and cry, &c.

Then the tea table fee; I declare then I'm vexed, Cries out old lady Pyeball, "Our teeth they'll tax next, "I fhould trick e'm at that tho' I have but one tooth," "'Tis quite right," cried a beauty all sweetness and truth, "Take the tax, take each feather that plays on my head, "I fhall drefs the more plain-but the poor will get bread." Sing and cry, &c.

Then my countrymen, emulate this charming fair,
Deck the heart, nor regret how neglected the hair,
While frizeurs, and footmen, and fops, cry peccavi,
We fhall all drefs more decent and they'll mann the navy:
Let our rulers go on then of honour fecure,

Each tax upon luxury's bread for the poor.

Then hold all this croaking, and grumbling as fun,

By fuch nonfenfe old England can ne'er be undone.

THEN SAY, MY SWEET GIRL, CAN YOU LOVE ME,

DEAR Nancy, I've fail'd the world all around,

And seven long years been a rover,

To make for my charmer each fhilling a pound,
But now my hard perils are over.

I've fav'd, from my toils, many hundreds in gold,
The comforts of life to beget;

Have borne in each climate the heat and the cold,
And all for my pretty brunette.

Then fay, my sweet girl can you love me?

Tho' others may boast of more riches than mine,
And rate my attractions e'en fewer;

At their jeers and ill-nature I'll scorn to repine,
Can they boast of a heart that is truer?

Or, will they for thee plough the hazardous main,
Brave the feafons both ftormy and wet?

If not, why I'll do it again and again,

And all for my pretty brunette.
Then fay, my sweet girl, &c.

When order'd afar, in purfuit of the foc,
I figh'd at the bodings of fancy,

Which fain would perfuade me I might be laid low,
And ah! never more fee my Nancy:

But hope, like an angel, foon banish'd the thought,
And bade me fuch nonfenfe forget:

I took the advice, and undauntedly fought,

And all for my pretty brunette,

Then fay, my sweet girl, &c.

THE GALLEY SLAVE.

OH, think on my fate! once I freedom enjoy'd,
Was as happy as happy could be,

But pleasure is fled! even hope is destroy'd,
A captive alas! on the fea.

I was ta'en by the foe, 'twas the fiat of fate,

To tear me from her I adore,

When thought brings to my mind my once happy eftate, I figh! while I tug at the oar.

Hard, hard is my fate! Oh how galling my chain,
My life's fteer'd by mifery's chart,

And though 'gainst my tyrants I fcorn to complain,
Tears gufh forth to ease my full heart.

I difdain e'en to fhrink, tho' I feel sharp the lafh;
Yet my breaft bleeds for her I adore,

While around me the unfeeling billows will dash.
I figh! and still tug at the oar.

How fortune deceives, I had pleasure in tow,
The port where the dwelt we'd in view,
But the wish'd nuptial niorn was o'er-clouded with woe,
And dear Anna! I hurried from you.

Our shallop was boarded, and I borne away,

To behold my dear Anna, no more,

But defpair wastes my fpirits, my form feels decay,-

He figh'd and expir'd at the oar.

WHEN THE FANCY STIRRING BOWL.

WHEN the fancy ftirring bowl,

Wakes its world of pleasure,
Glowing vifions gild my foul,

And life's an endless treasure.
Mem❜ry decks my wafted heart,
Fresh with gay defires;
Rays divine my fenfes dart,
And kindling hope infpires.

Then who'd be grave,

When wine can fave

The heaviest foul from finking;

And magic grapes

Give angel's fhapes

To ev'ry girl we're drinking!

Here fweet benignity and love,
Shed their influence round me,

Gather'd ills of life remove,

And leave me as they found me.
Tho' my head may fwim, yet true
Still to nature's feeling,
Peace and beauty fwim there too,
And rock me as I'm reeling.
Then who'd be grave, &c,

On youth's foft pillow tender truth,
Her penfive leffon taught me;
Age foon mock'd the dream of youth,
And wifdom wak'd and caught me,
A bargain then with love I knock'd,
To hold the pleafing gipfy,
When wife to keep my bofom lock'd,
But turn the key when tipfy.
Then who'd be grave, &c.

When time affuag'd my heated heart,
The grey beard, blind and fimple,
Forgot to cool one little part,

Juft flufh'd by Lucy's dimple.
That part's enough of beauty's type
To warm an honest fellow;
And tho' it touch me not when ripe,
It melts me ftill when mellow.

Life's

It

Then who'd be grave, &c.

's a voyage, we all declare, With scarce a port to hide in: may be fo with pride or care, That's not the fea I ride in.