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,
And hurry to the field,
We'll soon compel the French to run-
JOHN BULL will never yield.

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:

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,
His country calls to arms;
To guard her ancient glorious rights,
And beauty's sacred charms.

Then wield, &c.

The hardy Swiss, on Freedom's rock,
Defy'd the treacherous foe;
Out-number'd, brav'd the battle's shock,
And dealt th' avenging blow,

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:
Ye will, your rights, and native land,
Your roofs and families defend.
From every hill and dale around,

My Britons! heirs of endless fame,
I hear your martial clangor sound;
I hear, with joy your loud acclaim.
My military youth behold!

Whom no assailant shall dismay;
How firm! how resolute and bold!

How graceful in their bright array;
How

How graceful is the gallant youth, Whose heart with martial ardour glows!

The Champion of a nation's truth!
Th' avenger of our wrongs and woes!
On him our expectations wait,

His dear, dear country's hope and
stay,

A pillar in our peerless state:
In glory's crown a brilliant ray.
Now while the martial danger sounds,
And wide the waving banners fly,
How eagerly his bosom bounds!

What light'ning flashes in his eye!
Awake, ye minstrels, wake the lyre;

Full let the mighty descant flow, For him who breathes heroic fire;

And hurls defiance at the foe.

A gentler breath pervades the sky!
And soft the beam of orient day!
Was it a maiden's tender sigh?

Her melting blue-eye's dewy ray?
Cease, gentle maiden, cease to mourn;
Let no alarm your bosom move :
Soon will the valiant youth return,
Victorious, to your faithful love.
Go forth my gallant sons! and save
Your country from a cruel foe:
The rage of bloody conflict brave;

And lay the proud oppressor low.
Despise his menace; scorn his wiles;

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,
Nor a their wives an' weanies scare,
For if they come they'll rue it sair :
We'll gar them jump,
Wi' mony a lump,
An' clumsy thump,
An' steer their rump,

Anither road that day man.

An' do ye think that Scotland's lads will
stan' an' see them come man,
An' file their breeks wi' scornfu' fear, or
hide them up the lum man?
Anither story faith they'll tell,
I ken o' twa three lads mysell,
There's Andrew Smith and Tammy
Bell,

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
he shall please man ;
The present moment still is ours,
Then let's before dame fortune lours
Strive to enjoy't we a' our powers;
An' if by chance, the chaps of France,
Shou'd hither prance, we'll gar them
dance

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
wrings-

Passion's slave-who, like a Fury,
Goads him with her scorpion stings!
To others Providence dispenses,
When with care or toil opprest,
Celestial balm to lull the senses,
And lock them in the arms of rest.
Gallia's Despot ne'er reposes:

Painful vigils doom'd to keep,
His eyes no friendly slumber closes
For Macbeth has murder'd sleep.".

If

If engaged in festive riot,
Banquo's ghosts in thousands rise!
Does he seek domestic quiet?
Blood-stain'd daggers meet his eyes !-
In the tent, for war preparing,

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;
For, though like us he never fawn,
Upon my soul he bite.

That all your scheme will be forsake
I know by what I've spied ;
So, as you'll not the lion 'take,
You must not sell his hide.

Ta, ra, la, la, la, Arrette ton bras,