I've a spanking wife at Portsmouth gates,

A pigmy at Goree,

An orange-tawny up the Straights,

A black at St. Lucie.

Thus whatsomever course I bend,

I leads a jovial life:

In every mess I finds a friend,
In every port a wife.

Will Gaft by death was ta'en aback,
I came to bring the news;

Poll whimpered sore,-but what did Jack?-
Why, stood in William's shoes.

She cut, I cashed, but in the end

She loved me as her life;

And so she got an honest friend,
And I, a loving wife.

Thus be we sailors all the go:
On fortune's sea we rub,

We works, and loves, and fights the foe,
And drinks the generous bub:
Storms that the mast to splinters rend
Can't shake our jovial life:

In every mess we find a friend,

In every port a wife.

BY THE SPANGLED STARLIGHT.

Music--at Messrs. Monro and May.

By the spangled starlight sheen,

Haste we to our Fairy Queen;
Over mount and meadow green,
Dance it, trip away.

By the spangled starlight sheen,
Haste we to our Fairy Queen;
Over mount and meadow green,
Dance it, trip away.

Dive we deep for jewels rare,
To deck Titania's flowing hair!

Where the purple violets sleep
We our midnight revels keep,
Where the pleasant places be,
There are we there are we.

By the spangled, &c.

In the yellow cowslip's bell,

Find we where the dew-drops dwell;

Steal we honey from the cell of the humble humble bee. In the yellow cowslip's bell,

Find we where the dew-drops dwell;

Steal we honey from the cell of the humble humble bee.
Swift as lover's wishes fly,

We can compass earth and sky
To our fairy court can bring,
Ev'ry bright and lovely thing

To our fairy, &c.

By the spangled, &c

OLD TOWLER.

Music-at Walker's, Soho Square

BRIGHT Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,

Arise the burden of my song,

This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, chevy,

Harkforward, harkforward, tantivy,

Hark, hark, tantivy,

This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;

The upland wilds they sweep along,
O'er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game
is rous'd, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, &e

Poor stag, the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,

The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,

But yet he honours each by turns
They each become his care.

With a hey, ho, &e.

BRITANNIA'S NAME.

BRITANNIA'S name from age to age
Has like her cliffs stood fast,
And promises in history's page,
In honour long to last,
Her sailors rulers of the sea,
Her soldiers of that soil,

On which the industrious peasantry,
To give it value, toil.

All, all shall hail Britannia's name,

As glory hands it down to fame.

Then sing our tars who boldly roam,
Our glory to ensure;

And sing our soldiers who at home
That glory well secure:

And sing our peasants, at a word,

Who of mankind the friend,

Would turn each ploughshare to a sword,

Their country to defend.

All, all shall sing, &e.

PERHAPS IT'S AS WELL AS IT IS.

WRITTEN BY JAMES BRUTON, ESQ.
Music at Wybrow's.

By my pa' and ma' I am styled
A wicked little madcap wild;
They advise me in wedlock to fix,
And to leave off my tomboy tricks.
Though scarcely of twenty turned,
Yet offers by dozens I've spurn'd-

And perhaps it's as well as it is.
My first was an ancient youth,
Who offer'd his gold and his truth:
T' accept of the last I was loth,
But I couldn't have one without both;
My hand to the swain would I give,
But then he for years might live-
So perhaps it's as well as it is.

My next was a young man of wealth,
Who to church once convey'd me by stealth
But e'er I'd said "love and obey,"

My mama came and bore me away;

Cried she, Girl, what would you have done!
That man's but a younger son."

So perhaps it's as well as it is.

But, gents, now what am I to do?
My sad case I must leave to you:
I vow I'll be steady and staid,
If you wont let me die an old maid.
There's a dear youth sits there I adore-
I could, but I dare not say more;

But perhaps it's as well as it is.

BY THE GAILY CIRCLING GLASS.

Music at Duncomb's, Middle-Row, Holborn. By the gaily circling glass

We can see how minutes pass:

By the hollow cask are told'
How the waning night grows old:
Soon, too soon, the busy day
Drives us from our sport and play:
What have we with day to do?
Sons of care, 'twas made for you.
By the screeching of the owl,
By the empty butts that roll,
By the chirping on the thorn
We foretell the approach of morn.
Fill, oh! fill the vacant glass,
Let no precious moments slip:
Flout the moralizing ass,

Joys find entrance at the lip.

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

CAN ye lo'e, my dear lassie, the hills wild and free, Whare the sang o' the shepherd gars a' ring wi' glee? Or the steep, rocky glens whare the wild falcons bide? Then on wi' the tartan, an' fy let us ride.

Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie, that ne'er were in riggs? Or the bonnie lowne howes where the sweet robin

biggs?

Or the sang o' the lintie, when wooin' his bride?
Then on wi' the tartan, an' fy let us ride.

Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie, that loups amang linns ?
Or the bonnie green holmes whare it cannily rins

Wi' a cantie bit housie sae snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan, an' fy let us ride.

CARE, THOU CANKER.

Music at Z. T. Purday's, Holborn.

CARE, thou canker of our joys,
Now the tyrant's reign is o'er;

Fill the merry bowls my boys,

Join in Bacchanalian roar.