Acre, Lincelles, and Egypt's bloody plain,
Prove in their fons their virtues bloom again.
When fairly pitted in the tented field,
To Gallic force did British valour yield?
When, if our gallant tars they dar'd to face,
Did Conqueft's meed their puny efforts grace?
And fhall we now, though on their adverse coast
Drawn out in arms appears their favage hoft,
Inflam'd by vengeance, avarice, hate, and luft,
Shall we our own resources dread to trust ?
No! while our hands the patriot fword can rear,
While ev'ry Briton is a Volunteer,

We'll circle round our altars and our throne,
And prove our fathers' virtues are our own.

Like them our hearts with honeft zeal expand,
We love, and can defend, our native land:
Like theirs, our Monarch is his people's friend
He too has fons our Ifland to defend :

And whether on the coafts of faithlefs France,
To check a Defpot's rage, our hosts advance;
Or, our own laws and liberties to fave,
On England's fhores his mad attack we brave;
Let us our great forefathers' worth recall,
Refolv'd to triumph, or like men to fall !

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS TO THE VOLUNTEERS. WRITTEN BY WILLIAM BOSCAWEN, ESQ

SPOKEN BY MR. C. KEMBLE, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, AFTER THE PERFORMANCE OF THE PLAY OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH, FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE PATRIOTIC FUND.

IN Spartan bands to wake heroic fire,

Renown'd Tyrtæus ftrung his martial lyre;
Tyrtæus, lame and weak, unfkill'd to wield
The flying fpear, or grafp the ponderous shield:
Nor by experience taught in juft array

To form the files, and guide the doubtful sway:
Yet, Heav'n-infpir'd, he knew, beyond control,
With, ftrains fublime to roufe the torpid foul,

Swell

Swell with proud hopes the heart, and, by his breath,
Kindle the love of fame, the fcorn of death.
And fhall the British Muse, 'midst war's alarms,

In filence reft, nor call her fons to arms?

Shall Britons yield an unrefifting prey,

And own a bafe Ufurper's foreign sway?
No-when ye march to guard your fea-girt fhore,
"Return victorious, or return no more!"

Greece, in her freedom's most propitious hour,
Wag'd impious wars, in queft of spoil or pow'r;
And Rome, through many an age, unjustly brave,
Fought to opprefs, and conquer'd to enflave.
E'en the bright wreaths our Edwards, Henrys, claim,
Crown'd not the caufe of Freedom, but of Fame;
While fond Ambition, with mifguided zeal,
Sought England's glory more than England's weal.
But when, of old, to chafe a foreign hoft,
The painted guardians of our Albion's coaft,
O'er her white cliffs defcending, from afar
On Cæfar's legions pour'd the tide of war,
When scythed chariots fwept th' enfanguin'd plain;
Then Bards, enraptur'd, fung this patriot strain -
"Ye gen'rous youths, who guard the British fhore,
Return victorious, or return no more!"

Again Britannia founds her juft alarms,
Nor lures by Int'reft, or Ambition's charms;
But prompts to deeds, which fairer trophies yield
Than grac'd e'en Agincourt's immortal field--
And bids you guard, in free and gallant ftrife,
All that adorns, improves, or fweetens life.
Your homes, by faithful Love and Friendship bleft,
Each pledge of Love now fmiling at the breaft;
Your daughters, fresh in bloom, mature in charms,
Doom'd (fhould he conquer) to the Spoiler's arms;
Your fons, who hear the Tyrant's threats with scorn,
The joys, the hopes, of ages yet unborn;
All, all endear this juft, this facred cause,

Your Sovereign's throne, your freedom, faith, and laws:
Champions of Britain's cherish'd rights ye stand,
Protect, preferve, avenge, your native land!
For, lo! The cries, amidst the battle's roar,
"Return victorious, or return no more!"

A NEW

Bo

A NEW SONG OF OLD SAYINGS.

[From the Morning Post.]

ONAPARTE, the bully, refolves to come over
With flat-bottom'd wherries from Calais to Dover:
No perils to him in the billows are found,

For if born to be hang'd he can never be drown'd.
From a Corfican dunghill this fungus did fpring;
He was foon made a captain, and would be a king;
But the higher he rifes the more he does evil,
For a beggar on horfeback will ride to the Devil.
To feize all that we have, and then clap us in jail,
To devour all our victuals, to drink all our ale,
And to grind us to duft, is this Corfican's will-
For they fay all is grift that e'er comes to his mill.
To ftay quiet at home the First Conful can't bear,
Or may hap he would have other fish to fry there
So as fifh of that fort does not fuit his defire,
He leaps out of the frying-pan into the fire.

He builds barges and cock-boats, and craft without end,
And numbers the hofts which to England he'll fend;
But in fpite of his craft, and in fpite of his boats,
He fill reckons, I think, without one of his hofts.
He rides upon France, and he tramples on Spain,
And holds Holland and Italy tight in a chain;
These he hazards for more, though I can't understand
That one bird in the bush is worth four in his hand.
He trufts that his luck will all danger expel,
But the pitcher is brake that goes oft to the well:
And when our brave foldiers this bully furround,
Though he's thought penny-wife, he'll look foolish in pound.
France can never forget that our fathers of yore
Us'd to pepper and bafte her at fea and on fhore;
And we'll fpeedily prove to this mock-Alexander,
What was fauce for the goofe will be fauce for the gander.
I have heard, and have read in a great many books,
Half the Frenchmen are tailors, and t'other half cooks;
We've fine trimmings in ftore for the knights of the cloth,
And the Cooks that come here will but spoil their own broth.

It

!

It is faid that the French are a numerous race,
And perhaps it is true, for ill weeds grow apace:
But come when they will, and as many as dare,
I fufpect they'll arrive the day after the fair.

To invade us more fafely, these warriors boast,
They will wait till a storm drives our fleet from their coast;
'I hat 't will be an ill wind will be soon understood,
For a wind that blows Frenchmen-blows nobody good.

They would treat Britain worse than they've treated Mynheer,
But they'll find they have got a wrong fow by the ear.
Let them come then in fwarms, by this Corfican' led,
And I warrant we'll hit the right nail on the head.

BONAPARTE'S VISIT TO THE SEA.COAST.
AN ODE.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HIS WORTHINESS JOHN

THE

BULL,

BY HIS FRIEND BARDD CLOFF.

[From the fame]

HE Heathen bards fang, that, in days of yere,
The mighty thunderer-ycleped Jove,

To vifit earth, oft left the clouds above:

And thousand little gods his train triumphant bore;
Thefe, on Olympus, round him frisk'd and laugh'd,
And, like French puppies, fawning, lick'd his feet,
Whilft he the lufcious nectar quaff'd,

And fnuff'd the ineenfe sweet!

His wide-ftretch'd ears too gulp'd the votive fongs

That dunn'd them from ten thousand flatt'ring tongues;
Till, flufh'd with infolence and puff'd with pride,

He look'd around with scorn on all the world befide.

But what were all these farces and palaver,
To thofe of Cherbourg, Rouen, or of Havre?
When honour'd with the facred presence
Of all perfection-the quinteffence!

He-by whofe gracious will the French are fed
At laft with liberty-up to the brim!

Not that vague thing, for which their country bled,
But the fweet liberty-of praising Him!!!

Some

Some have fuppos'd, this niggard earth

To him owes ev'ry thing the 's worth;

And though from earth, he, like a mushroom, fprouted,
Yet whether he's a man or not 't is doubted!
Had thofe illuftrious poets, who of old

So many tales 'bout gods and monsters told,
Now liv'd, they need not foar towards the fkies
(So far beyond their reach) to fetch their pleafing lies.
They need but just slip on one fide the pannel,
(As you may fee the showmen do,) ·
And peep at yonder raree-show,

Wherein this thund'rer of the Gauls, fo proud,
Darts like a meteor from his facred cloud,

To caft a wishful eye at us across the Channel!
"Come now, my little girls and boys,"
(Me:hought I heard a fhowman bawl,)
"Leave for a while your dolls and toys;
Step here this fight is worth them all!
There, there-d'ye fee that mighty hero yonder,
That's elevated like a steeple-

The common arbiter of kings and people * !
Who, on the wings of fame, are borne
From Nova Zembla to Cape Horn,
To gaze at this prodigious wonder!

Look how they worship, grin, and fhrug their fhoulders!
O! how they long to be his ftirrup-holders!

See, likewife, yonder lady-who fo fmart is ;

Now, don't you think they are a charming pair?
Look!-how the jewels fparkle in her hair!

Perhaps you think they 're ftolen from fome Queen ?
Poh, poh, young rogues-go home, and fay you 've seen
The Bonapartés!"

The dreadful name no fooner was pronounc'd,

Than all the children friek'd-and from the bugbear bounc'd.

Thus ends the witty fhowman's clatter,
About the folks across the water:

* See the prefect of the department of the Lower Seine's proclamation to the people of Rouen, &c.

But,