THE SOLDIER'S GLEE."

From "Deuteromelia; or, the Second Part of Musick's Melodie," &c., 1609.
WE be soldiers three,

Pardonnez moi je vous en prie;
Lately come forth of the low country,
With never a penny of monie.

Here good fellow, I drink to thee!
Pardonnez moi je vous en prie;
To all good fellows wherever they be,
With never a penny of monie.
And he that will not pledge me this,
Pardonnez moi je vous en prie;
Pays for the shot whatever it is,
With never a penny of monie.

Charge it again boy, charge it again,
Pardonnez moi je vous en prie;
As long as there is any ink in thy pen,
With never a penny of monie.

COME, IF YOU DARE.

JOHN DRYDEN.

From the opera of " King Arthur."

COME, if you dare, our trumpets sound;
Come, if you dare, the foes rebound!
"We come, we come!"

Says the double beat of the thund'ring drum,
Now they charge on amain,

Now they rally again;

The gods from above the mad labour behold,
And pity mankind that will perish for gold.

The fainting foemen quit their ground,
Their trumpets languish in the sound-
They fly they fly!

"Victoria! Victoria!" the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory's won,

To the plunder we run;

Then return to our lasses like fortunate traders,

Triumphant with spoils of the vanquished invaders.

The morality of this admired song-admired for its music, not for its poetry-is by no means of the best. Plunder, even of an invader, should form no part of the true soldier's aspirations. "The angels above the mad labour behold" might be suggested as an inprovement upon the paganism "The gods from above.'

RULE BRITANNIA.

JAMES THOMSON, author of "The Seasons," born 1700, died 1748.

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sang the strain;

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must in their turn, to tyrants fall;

Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all:

Rule Britannia, &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

As the loud blasts that tear thy skies,
Serve but to root thy native oak:

Rule Britannia, &c.

Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to hurl thee down,
Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame,
And work their woe-but thy renown:
Rule Britannia, &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine:

All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore encircle thine:

Rule Britannia, &c.

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,

And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule Britannia, &c.

This celebrated song was first sung in the "Masque of Alfred," a performance which was the joint production of James Thomson and David Mallet. The Masque was written by command of the Prince of Wales, father of George III., for his entertainment of the Court, and was first performed at Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of H.R.H. the Princess of Wales.

THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE.

WILLIAM COLLINS, born 1720, died 1756.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould;
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

HENRY FIELDING AND RICHARD LEVeridge.

WHEN mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food,
It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood;
Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.
Oh! the Roast Beef of old England,

And oh the old English Roast Beef.

But since we have learned from effeminate France
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance,
We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong.
And kept open house with good cheer all day long,
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops were known
The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown,

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never return'd back again;
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain,

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

O then we had stomachs to eat and to fight,

And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right!
But now we're a-hum!-I could, but,-good night!

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

The Roast Beef of Old England was first printed in Walsh's "British Miscellany," n.d. (about 1740). It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, but the two first verses are Fielding's. (See "Don Quixote in England," 1733).

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.

Anonymous. From an engraved "Music-sheet," printed about 1780.

SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules.

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these;

But of all the world's brave heroes, there's none that can compare, With a tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British Grenadier.

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball,

Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;

But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,

Sing tow, row row, row row, row row, to the British Grenadiers.

Then Jove, the god of thunder, and Mars, the god of war,
Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car,

And all the gods celestial, descending from their sphere,
Behold with admiration the British Grenadier.

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades;

Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand-grenades,
We throw them from the glacis, about the Frenchmen's ears,
With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British Grenadiers.

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,
The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,
Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears,
Then sing tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British Grenadiers

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those

Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes.
May they and their commanders live happy all their years,
With a tow, row row, row row, row row, for the British Grenadiers

THE SOLDIER'S DRINKING-SONG.

From the "Convivial Songster."

LET'S drink and sing,

My brother-soldiers bold,

To country and to king,

Like jolly hearts of gold!

If mighty George commands us, we're ready to obey;
To fight the foe, alert we go, where danger points the way.
Nor wounds nor slaughter fright us,

Nor thund'ring cannon-balls;

Nor beds of down delight us

Like scaling city walls.

With sword and gun,

We'll make the foe to fly:

No Britons dare to run,—

All Britons dare to die.

And when, at length returning with honour, gold, and scars
We cheerful come to view the home we left for foreign wars,
Again we'll meet the danger,

Again renew the fight,

And tell the list'ning stranger
What foes are put to flight.

Then drink and sing,

My brother-soldiers bold,

To country and to king,

Like jolly hearts of gold!

While merry fifes so cheerful our sprightly marches play,

While drums alarm our bosoms warm, they drive our cares away. Content we follow glory,

Content we seek a name,

And hope in future story

To swell our country's fame.