o far as to want to cut off one of his fingers that had a ring on it; which they would actually have done, had he not had the good fortune, by the extraordinary efforts he made, to get the finger from them which they wanted to cut off.

"6 Could you imagine, Sir, that, with all this, the troops who had rendered themselves so odious by so many acts of cruelty, should carry their gallantry so far, as to employ the protection of the fair sex! What happened at Hachmuler in the bailiwick of Springe, will prove and explain what I mean.. A body of the King's hunters having come up with a body of the French troops near that village, and being on the point of charging them, the latter carried off from the village a reinforcement of women and maids, whom they placed in their first rank, whether it was to excite the humanity or complaisance

BRITONS!

of the hunters, or to give a turn to the action of which they feared the issue.

"The ready money extorted by the runaways, and the value of the other things which they carried off and destroyed, amount to immense sums. But I will not enlarge on this head, but shall end this faithful narrativé, supported by incontestible proofs, without adding any of those reflexions which your good sense and probity will easily suggest.

"Amidst the unfeigned grief with which I am overwhelmed for the sufferings of a multitude of my Countrymen, I ever remain,

Yours, &c.

Such is the boasted HUMANITY OF THE GREAT NATION—and' such is the treatment that Britons may

EXPECT SHOULD WE EVER BE CURSED

BY A VISIT FROM THE BONAPARTIAN
FRATERNITY.

TO ARMS!

TO YOU THE AVENGER DELEGATES HIS POWER.

THE Dogs of War, again in blood,
Their iron fangs prepare to dye;

And MARS impending o'er the flood,

His crimson banner waves on high.

BRITONS, ARISE: TO ARMS! To you in charge is given,

To dart the lightnings of avenging HEAVEN.

Through the blue vault the cannons roar,
Spreads wide the dreadful note of death;
The peal resounds from Gallia's shore,

Issued by mad Ambition's breath.

BRITONS, ARISE: TO ARMS! To you in charge is given,
To show'r destruction on the curs'd of HEAVEN.

The blood-stain'd legions of the foe,

Advance their standards high in air;

And steel'd to pity human woe,

Fervent, the work of Hell prepare.

Britons, arise; TO ARMS! To you in charge is given,

To blast the projects of the curs'd of HEAVEN.

High tow'ring o'er their marshall'd host,

The Cormorant marks his destin'd prey;
The Vulture hovers round the coast,
Wheeling impatient for the fray.

BRITONS, ARISE: TO ARMS! To you the charge is given,
To hurl the avenging thunderbolt of HEAVEN.

The storm comes on!-the battle roars!

BRITANNIA'S SONS will never yield:
And see! the wide destruction pours

On every foe who dared the field!

THE FIGHT IS O'ER! The charge to Britain given,
Ascends, accomplish'd, to the GOD OF HEAVEN.

LINGO DRAWN FOR THE MILITIA.
NUNQUAM audivi such terrible news,
As at this present tempus my senses confuse;
I'm drawn for a miles-I must go cum marte,
And, comminus ense, engage Bonaparte.

Such tempore nunquam videbant majores,
For then their opponents had different mores:
But we will soon prove to the Corsican vaunter,
Tho' times may be chang'd-BRITONS never mutantur.'
Me Hercle! this Consul non potest be quiet,
His word must be lex-and when he says fiat;
Quasi Deus, he thinks we must run at his word:
What! runaway Britons!!!-the thought is absurd.
Per mare, I rather au led to opine,

To meet British naves he would not incline;
Lest he should in mare profundum be drown'd,
Et cum Alga, non Lauro, his caput be crown'd.

But allow that this Boaster in Britain could land,
Multis cum aliis at his command:

Here's lads who will meet, aye and properly work 'em,
And a hundred to one but they sink them in orcum.

Nunc, let us, amici, join manus et cordes,
And use well the vires Di Boni afford us;
Then let nations combine, Britain never can fall;
She's multum in parvo- a match for them all.

A. Z.

THE CORSICAN PIRATE,

As written by Mr. CROSS, and sung by Jack Junk, in the Military
Spectacle of that Name.

VOL. I.

DID you never hear of the CORSICAN PIRATE?
DID

A self-set-up-scarecrow to frighten mankind?
A braggodocio bully, and such a nation liar that
Half he assarts is but falsehood you'll find!

He says,

"as how he's valiant," but that's all my eye!
A brave man ne'er yielded to cruelty's sway:
And because for his own wants he'd not a supply,
By poison he doom'd his poor wounded to die!
And then like a lubber the swab sneak'd away.

As for me, I'm a BRITON, and only desire that
I yard arm and yard arm may grapple this Pirate,
With tol de rol, &c.

Black Barnaby says, (d'ye see he's our chaplain)
The wickedest sometimes may prosper o'er worth;
But conscience so oft with his black heart's a grappling,
The Devil himself would not be in his birth!
He offers protection to the vassels he subdues,

A Murderer's protection, he has practis'd it oft;
Then boasts his religion, why dash my old shoes,
The Atheist is any one's, Turks, Christians, or Jews!
How dares the blasphemer 'ere look up aloft!

As to me, I'm a BRITON, the upstart to fire at ;
I'll die but I'll sink this damn'd Corsican Pirate.
With tol de rol, &c.

A stop must be put to his murders and robbing,
His blood-hounds no longer prowl o'er land or main ;
A brave British Tar gave the thief once a drubbing!
And a brave British Tar soon will drub him again!
He thinks himself invincible, but let the swab alone,
Zounds! only give him rope enough!—the flag of fate's unfurl'd,
Our
army
and our navy
have invincibles o'erthrown,
And we've a few invincibles, my hearties, of our own,
Who wil gladly overthrow this disturber of the world,
Invincible Britons! who only desire, that
They die may, or sink this damn'd Corsican Pirate!
With tol de rol, &c.

FRENCH INVASION.

Tune-" To Anacreon in Heaven."

TO teach JOHNNY BULL a la mode de Paris,
Some half-starv❜d Republicans made declaration,

That they would instruct him like them to be free,
When this answer was inade from our loyal old nation:

"Ye ragged banditti, your freedom we pity,

And mean to live happy, while frantic you sing

Your fam'd Ca Ira, and IIymn Marseillois,

For the true Briton's song shall be, GOD SAVE THE KING!'

"Our forefathers bled on the scaffold and plain,

To establish a government wise, just, and pure;
We'll defend it till death, and reject with disdain
A Corsican quack, who our laws can't endure.
Shall your dire guillotine in Old England be seen?
No! we mean to live happy, while frantic you sing
Your fam'd Ca Ira, and Hymn Marseillois,

་

For the true Briton's song shall be, GOD SAVE THE KING!

This answer of England to Gaul swiftly flew,
When BONY pretended to give himself airs:

"Soon, soon," he exclaim'd, "shall that proud Island rue,
And New Carthage be humbled, defend it who dares:
They freedom abuse and my kindness refuse;
I'll enlighten their noddles; with us they shall sing
Our fam'd Ca Ira, whilst our Hymn Marseillois
Shall re-echo instead of their GOD SAVE THE KING!'

But shall resolute Britons by threats be dismay'd!

No! we 're ready to meet them, though twenty to one.
From our scabbards leap forth every sword! Who's afraid,
Though they're joined by the Dutchman and blustering Don?
In Battle we 'll shew to our sans culotte foe,

That in spite of their efforts we never will sing
Their fam'd Ca Ira, or Hymn Marseillois;

For the true Briton's song shall be, GOD SAVE THE KING!'

If we fall in the conflict, how noble the cause!

The stone shall record it that stands on our grave;

Here lies one who defended his country and laws,

And died his religion and monarch to save.

This and more might be said, but, we are not yet dead,
And can all of us yet, with one heart and voice, sing,
Not the French Ca Ira, nor Hymn Marseillois,
But the true Britons loyal song, GOD SAVE THE KING!

SONG,

WHEN Britons of old were unpolish'd and poor,

Surrounded by labour and strife;

Yet Liberty guarded the latch of their door,

And they lov'd her as dear as their life;
She season'd the cup which Industry bestow'd,
She smil'd on the manly repast,

And the Peasant, who tasted her benefits, vow'd
Her honours for ever should last.

To his King, and his Country, his children and wife,
His fondest affections were given,

And the blessings he held as the comforts of life,
He deem'd the best favours of Heaven;

He fought, and he suffer'd, he toil'd, and he bled,
Till Peace was the fruit of his pains,

Till the laurel of Victory shaded his head,
And Plenty beam'd over his plains.