TO ARMS; OR A CALL TO THE VOLUNTEERS. BY MR. COURTENAY. YE Volunteers, hark to my Song, And the Spirit of Britons proclaim, To the standard of loyalty throng, And rival your ancestor's fame. CHORUS. Then wield the sword, and load the gun, The Tyrant may embark his host His slavish Conscript cheer; With blood we've often dy'd their coast, But when were Frenchmen here ? Then wield, &c. And dare they venture now to come, Or touch the British shore'; Awake the fife, and beat the drum, And bid the cannon roar. Then wield, &c. Array'd in arms, rush on the foe, Compel the slaves to fly; THE SPIRIT OF BRITAIN. I See, as in the days of old, Britannia's warlike Spirit rise ; I see him vigorous and bold; "To arms! my gallant Sons!" he cries. Defy the ravening power of France: Her threat'ning and her guile defy: For British hearts with Freedom glow; Boid in your steady ranks advance; We'll conquer, or will die. Then wield, &c. To rob and murder is their trade, Such is the war they wage, The matron and the beauteous maid, Are victims of their rage. Then wield, &c. For all that's dear thy soldier fights, Then wield, &c. The hardy Swiss, on Freedom's rock, Then wield, &c. And on your righteous cause rely. With you no nation can compare, For freedom and for upright laws : Ye know your rights, and knowing dare Be valiant in your righteous cause. Ye will, with ready heart and hand, Immediate to your shores descend: My Britons! heirs of endless fame, Whom no assailant shall dismay; How graceful in their bright array; How graceful is the gallant youth, Whose heart with martial ardour glows! The Champion of a nation's truth! His dear, dear country's hope and A pillar in our peerless state: What light'ning flashes in his eye! Full let the mighty descant flow, For him who breathes heroic fire; And hurls defiance at the foe. A gentler breath pervades the sky! Her melting blue-eye's dewy ray? And lay the proud oppressor low. And lay him spuruing in the dust! For HEAVEN on your endeavor smiles: TO HEAVEN for timely succour trust! SCOTCH SONG. By J. H. M. TUNE Cameronian's Rant. O What an unco noise an din there is thro' a the land man, An' greater wark to face a foe auld England's fouks ne'er fand man : But they the Deil a bit need care, Anither road that day man. An' do ye think that Scotland's lads will An' Geordie Rae-sic lads as thae Wad gar wee Bonny dance man, Then Scotia's and England's lads may tak their cog an' gill man, For while they haud the gither firm, let come what foe there will man; Guid faith he'll prove a scabby tyke, That puts his nose intill our bike, Ilk bee wad be in sic a fyke, That a' wad rin, wi' sword and gun, The wark begun, 'twad be but fun To Scotch an' English lads man. Then come sit down, neer fash your thumb', let's sing our sang at ease man, An' let wee Bonaparte. come whenever The Cameronian's Rant man. Manchester Gazetteer. FRENCH The Army of England-so christen'd, To storm us pretensions may make, But those who to secrets have listen'd, Think Ireland they mean to attack; Tho' some have with confidence said it, Let who will sit down at the loss, I ne'er to the tale can give credit, That ever the Channel they'll cross. With ourselves, &c. 'Tis said, those who know their prescriptions, No soul that has tasted reveres, Are going to plague the Egyptians, And humble the Dey of Algiers. The banks of the Nile they may scour, And plant what they please on the soil; Like locusts the country devour, But ne'er shall subdue Britain's isle. With ourselves, &c.* Heavenly Freedom's hallow'd flowers, To this isle their sweets impart; Whilst, without, the tempest lowers, Sun-beams play upon the heart. Mark the contrast, I adjure ye! The Tyrant's breast with torture Passion's slave-who, like a Fury, Painful vigils doom'd to keep, If If engaged in festive riot, He's with Jaffa's scenes accurst! Vultures fierce his vitals tearingHark! his very heart-strings burst! Can you o'er so weak a creature, The flag of scorn in triumph bear; Tis repugnant to your nature Rather shed the pitying tear. Cease, then, Britons, from invective, Spare a wretch sunk deep in woe: A prey to torments more effective CONSCIENCE, HIS ETERNAL foe. S. Ta, ra, la, la, la, Arreite ton brass, Ca n'ira pas, ça n'ira pas-Soyez sur ça n'ira pas ! We say the English dog is spawn De mastiff-dat is right; That all your scheme will be forsake Ta, ra, la, la, la, Arrette ton bras, : VOL I THE ANTI-GALLICAN. NUMBER X. ODE TO PATRIOTISM. Dulce e decorum est pro patria mori. By Valour's pride, his daring Son, And hurl, with giant strength, destruction on your foes. If brilliant deeds, if deathless fame, And glow with his unrivall'd fire; Again in hostile troops advance, And crush the base designs of France; Nobly a Tyrant's power subdue, And in illustrious YORK another HENRY view. Our pomp, our commerce to confound, Spain erst, her floating terrors bore; Cherburgh, alike of haughty Gaul, But why in ancient records trace Their baffled schemes, their unredeem'd disgrace; HOR. |