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By Jorwerth (10)-Cynan-Howel's name,
By all that fills the rolls of fame,

Unfold your banners, rend the air,

And proudly show the shields (11) you bear!

Sons (12) of Snowden, yours the meed,
Nobly live, or nobly bleed;

Your Country, Parents, Children, save,

Or fill one great and glorious grave!

(10) Llewllyn ap Jorwerth, Gryffyth ap Cynan, and Howel Dda (or the good) Princes of Wales,

(11) In the ages of contention and discord, before the incorporation by which we became one great and happy people, the now neglected language of Shields, of Chivalry, and Arms, was that which symbolically recorded the actions of those to whom their country was indebted for safety in the hour of danger: whose names it is honourable to recollect, and whose exploits it is glorious to emulate. Of those of Gwyerd ap Rhys Gôch, Ednyfed Vychan, Carwed of Twrcelyn, Meurig, from Hêdd Moelwynog, Howel y Fwyall Dafydd Gam (see History, battle of Cressy and Poictiers) and that of the Lloyds of Bod Idris in Iâl, are particularly instructing and entertaining. (12) Llangciau'r Eryri.

RD. LLWYD.

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WAR ADDRESS.

RISE, ye Britons, march to glory,
Dauntless stand 'midst war's alarms;
Tell the Youth of future story,

That their Sires were great in arms.

What, tho' Despot Frenzy threaten
Louder than the raging waves;
Free born Warriors fight for Britain;
Gallia's Soldiers are but Slaves.

Tyrant! tho' thy troops victorious,

Darken yonder distant shore; Here you'll find a contest glorious; Come, but you return no more.

Here, no Turkish host parading,

Here, no tame Italian band,
Views afar the Foe invading,

March resistless o'er the land.

Here, each virtuous feeling tender,
Here, each dear domestic tie,
Arms our every brave Defender,

Arms, to Conquer, or to Die.

Come,

Come, ye Bands inur'd to plunder,

Come, and find a narrow bed; Vengeance soon shall point her thunder On your Despot's guilty head. Sure the ghost of many a Hero, Wand'ring o'er the Syrian plains, Murder'd by this modern Nero, Of your faithless Chief complains. Hear the bloody Foe declaring Rome's fam'd motto now his own; Hear him vow, with front all daring, Carthage must be overthrown. Rise, ye Britons! every mother,. Spouses, Sisters, Daughters call: Rise, each Husband, Father, Brother, Nor live to weep your Country's fall. Times.

THE SWISS EMIGRANT. FAREWELL, farewell, my native land, A long farewell to life and thee! Ou thy last rock I lingering stand,

Thy last rude rock how dear to me!

Once more I view thy vallies fair,

But dimly view with tearful eye; Once more I breathe thy healthful air, But breathe it in how deep a sigh! Ye vales with downy verdure spread, Ye groves that drink the sparkling

stream,

As bursting from the mountain's head

Its foaming waves in silver gleam.

Ye lakes that catch the golden beam That floods with fire yon peak of

snow,

As evening vapours bluely steam

And stilly roll their volumes slow ;— Scenes, on this bursting heart impress'd

By ev'ry thrill of joy, of woe; The bliss of childhood's vacant breast, Of warmer youth's impassion'd glow;

The tears by filial duty shed,

Upon the low, the peaceful tomb; Where sleep, too blest, the rev'rend dead,

Unconscious of their country's doom. Say! can Helvetia's patriot child,

A wretched exile, bear to roam, Nor sink upon the lonely wild, Nor die to leave his native home? His native home-no home has he→→→ He scorns in the vile yoke to bow, He scorns the land no longer free, Alas-he has no country now! Ye snow-clad Alps whose nightly mound,

Great NATURE's adamantine wall, In vain opposed your awful bound

To check the prone-descending Gaul. What Hunter now with daring leaps

Shall chase the Ibex o'er your rocks, Who clothe with vines your craggy steeps,

Who guard from wolves your rambling flocks?

While low the free-born sons of toil

Lie sunk amid the slaughter'd brave, To freedom true, the stubborn soil

Shall pine, and starve the puny slave.

Spoilers, who pour'd your rav'ning bands

To gorge on Latium's fertile plains, And fill'd your gold-rapacious hands From regal domes and sculptured

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Beyond the dread Atlantic deep,

One gleam of comfort shines for me; There shall these bones untroubled sleep,

And press the earth of Liberty. Wide, wide, that waste of waters rolls, And sadly smiles that distant land, Yet there I hail congenial Souls,

And Freemen give the Brother's hand. COLUMBIA hear the Exile's prayer!

To him thy fostering love impart, So shall he watch with patriot care,

So guard thee with a filial heart.

Yet O! forgive, with anguish fraught, If sometimes start th' unbidden tear, As tyrant Memory wakes the thought, "Still, still, I am a stranger here." Thou vanquish'd land, once proud and free,

Where first this fleeting breath I

drew,

This heart must ever beat for thee, In absence near—in misery true!

BRAVURA SONG. Written by Mr. CROSS of the Royal Circus, and sung in the Burletta Spectacle of John Bull and Bonaparte.

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THE British Lion's rous'd! his growl, This plant is fraught with magic pow'r

Appals the sons of plunder, Biting the dust, with hideous howl, Their knells we'll knoll in thunder! With the dangers that threaten our efforts shall tally, Temerity's legions indignant we'll scourge, And while round the standard imperial we rally!

Cry, God for us, for England, and
King George.

A Tyrant leads the impious horde,
The slaves! defeat's decreed 'em,

A King belov'd, a God ador'd!

We serve! our cause is freedom!

1

On children spoilt and naughty; So we a rod in pickle keep

For thee, oh! BONAPARTE. And tho' the Tree of Freedom die, Thy Laurels lose their hue, We have a Gard'ner to supply Enough of Rue for you.

Morning Post.

BRITONS STRIKE HOME. HARK! the devoted foe's afloat! Hark! 'twas the cannon's brazen throat, And the shrill clarion's piercing note, That struck mine ear!

Ia

In terrible array advance,
Britons, to meet the sons of France;
Teach them to curse the sad mischance
That brought them here.

Ye generous youth, who guard the land
Where Freedom takes her awful stand,
To crush with her resistless hand

Fell Tyranny,

Strike home: nor spare your trusty steel,
Till every Caitiff foeman feel

What 'tis to violate the weal
Of Liberty.

Monstrous! Shall miscreant Frenchmen dare

Base chains for Britons to prepare,
Or hope our guileless hearts t' ensnare
By Perfidy?

Gascons, your threats and wiles we

scorn,

You come but to a hope forlorn, For never yet was Briton born

For Slavery!

Strike home, ye generous youth, strike home;

That unborn ages yet to come,
May ever, when they hear the drum

Beat Fictory,

Exclaim, "Twas thus our Fathers fought,

Twas thus our Fathers' Fathers bought The Laurels, which they proudly

thought

Gave Immortality."

General Evening Post.

THE INVASION;

OR, THE BRITISH WAR SONG.

WHILST happy in our native Land,
So great, so fam'd in story,
Let's join, my friends, with heart and
hand,

To raise our COUNTRY'S GLORY; When Britain calls, her valiant Sons Will rush in crowds to aid herSnatch, snatch your muskets, prime your guns,

And crush the fierce Invader!

Whilst ev'ry Briton's song shall be, “ O give us Death—or Victory!” Long had this favour'd Isle enjoy'd

True comforts, past expressing, When France her hellish arts employ'd To rob us of each blessing:

These from our hearths by force to tear (Which long we've learn'd to cherish)

Our frantic foes shall vainly dare;

We'll keep 'em, or we'll perishAnd ev'ry day our song shall be,

"O give us Death—or Victory!” Let France in savage accents sing

Her bloody Revolution;

We prize our Country, love our King,
Adore our Constitution:
For these we'll every danger face,

And quit our rustic labours;
Our ploughs to firelocks shall give place,
Our scythes be chang'd to sabres.
And clad in arms, our song shall be,

“O give us Death—or Victory!" Soon shall the proud Invaders learn, When bent on Blood and Plunder, That British bosoms nobly burn,

To brave their cannon's thunder: Low lie those heads, whose wily arts

Have plann'd the World's undoing! Our 'vengeful blades shall reach those

hearts

Which seek our Country's ruin; And night and morn our song shall be, “O give us Death-or Victory!” When, with French blood our fields manur'd,

The glorious struggle's ended, We'll sing the dangers we've endur'd,.

The blessings we've defended : O'er the full bowl our feats we'll tell, Each gallant deed reciting;

And weep o'er those who nobly fell, 、 Their country's battle fightingAnd ever thence our song shall be, “ Tis Valour leads to Victory.”

Anti-Jacabin.

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VOL. I..

THE

ANTI-GALLICAN,

NUMBER V.

ODE TO MY COUNTRY.
BRITONS! hands and hearts prepare;

The angry tempest threatens nigh,
Deep-toned thunders roll in air,

Lightnings thwart the livid sky;
Thron'd upon the winged storm,

Fell DESOLATION rears her ghastly form,
Waves her black signal to her hell-born brood,
And lures them thus with promis'd blood:

"Drive, my sons, the storm amain!
Lo, the hated, envied land,
Where Piety and Order reign,

And Freedom dares maintain her stand,
Have you not sworn, by night and hell,
These from the earth for ever to expell?

Rush on, resistless, to your destin'd prey,

Death and rapine point the way."

Britons! stand firm! with stout and dauntless heart
Meet unappall'd the threatening Boaster's rage;

Yours is the great, the unconquerable part

For your lov'd hearths and altars to engage,

And sacred Liberty, more dear than life-
Yours be the triumph in the glorious strife.

Shall theft and murder braver deeds excite

Than honest scorn of shame and heavenly love of right?

T

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