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ADDITIONAL STANZAS.

From the "Humming Bird.” Canterbury, 1786.

Augmented still in story,

Our ancient fame shall rise, And Wolfe, in matchless glory,

Shall soaring reach the skies; Quebec shall own, with great renown,

And France, with awful wonder;
His deeds can tell how great he fell,
Amidst his god-like thunder.
Then sing in praise of men of Kent,

All loyal, brave, and free:
Of Britain's race, if one surpass,

A man of Kent is he.

:

And though despotic power

With iron reins may check, Our British sons of freedom Their

parent cause will back : With voice and pen they forthwith stand,

Brave Sawbridge soon will tell them, That virtue's cause and British laws, Bold men of Kent won't fail them. Then sing in praise of men of Kent,

All loyal, brave, and free:
Of Britain's race, if one surpass,

A man of Kent is he.

When royal George commanded

Militia to be raised,
The French would sure have landed,

But for such youths as these :
Their oxen stall, and cricket-ball,

They left for martial glory;
The Kentish lads shall win the odds
Your fathers did before

ye.
Then sing in praise of men of Kent,

All loyal, brave, and free:
Of Britain's race, if one surpass,

A man of Kent is he. These stanzas were added in honour of General Wolfe, a native of the

county of Kent.

A SOLDIER, A SOLDIER FOR ME.

From the “Humming Bird.” Canterbury, 1786.

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A SOLDIER, a soldier, a soldier for me-

His arms are so bright,
And he looks so upright,
So gallant and gay,

When he trips it away,
Who is so nice and well-powder'd as he ?
Sing rub a dub rub; a dub rub a dub; a dub a dub dub dub;-

Thunder and plunder!
A soldier, a soldier, a soldier for me.

Each morn when we see him upon the parade,

He cuts such a flash,
With his gorget and sash,
And makes such ado,

With his gaiter and queue,
Sleeping or waking, who need be afraid ?

Sing rub a dub, &c.

Or else when he's mounted, so trim and so tall,

With broadsword in hand,
The whole town to command,
Such
capers, such

prances,
Such ogling, such glances,
Our hearts gallop off, and are left at Whitehall.
Sing taran tantaran ; tantaran tantaran tan-

Trumpet and thump it,
A soldier, a soldier, a soldier for me!

A soldier, &c.

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A KNAPSACK AND A CHEERFUL HEART.

The music, founded by CHARLES DIBDIN upon the old melody," John, come, kiss me now," appears in the “ Convivial Songster,” 1780. The original melody is to be found in “Queen Elizabeth's Virginal Book;” Durfey's “ Pills to Purge Melancholy;" and in other collections. “It is,” says Mr. Chappell,“ one of the songs parodied in Andre Hart's “ Compendium of Godly Songs," on the strength of which it has been claimed as a Scottish tune, although it has no Scottish character, nor has hitherto been found in any old Scotch copy."

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WE soldiers drink, we soldiers sing,
We fight our foes, and love our king,
With all our wealth two words impart,
A knapsack and a cheerful heart.

While the merry, merry fife and drum
Bid intruding care be dumb,
Sprightly still we sing and play,
And make dull life a holiday.

Though we march, or though we halt,
Or though the enemy we assault;
Though we're cold, or though we're warm,
Or though the sleeping town we storm,

Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c.

Are lasses kind, or are they shy,
Or do they pout they know not why?
While full the knapsack, light the heart,
Content we meet, content we part.

For the merry, merry fife and drum, &c.

We sigh not for the toils of state ;
We ask not of the rich or great;
For, be we rich, or be we poor,
Are purses full, or duns at door:

Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c.

Thus we drink, and thus we sing;
We beat our foes, and love our king,
While all our wealth two words impart,
A knapsack and a cheerful heart.

For the merry, merry fife and drum
Bid intruding care be dumb,
Sprightly still we sing and play,
And

make dull life a holiday.

THE SOLDIER.

W. SMYTH. From AIKIN'S “Vocal Poetry," 1810.

What dreaming drone was ever blest,

By thinking of the morrow? To-day be mine—I leave the rest

To all the fools of sorrow; Give me the mind that mocks at care,

The heart, its own defender; The spirits that are light as air,

And never beat surrender.

On comes the foe—to arms- -to arms!

We meet-'tis death or glory; 'Tis victory in all her charms,

Or fame in Britain's story; Dear native land! thy fortunes frown,

And ruffians would enslave thee; Thou land of honour and renown,

Who would not die to save thee?

'Tis you,

'tis I, that meets the ball ; And me it better pleases In battle with the brave fall,

Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow-chair,

With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of aches and care,

Nor longer loved nor needed.

But thou—dark is thy flowing hair,

Thy eye with fire is streaming, And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,

Health sits in triumph beaming ; Then, brother soldier, fill the wine,

Fill high the wine to beauty ; Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,

Thy country and thy duty.

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.

From THOMAS DIBDIN'S “Cabinet.” The music arranged by W. RBEVE, from the

old English melody of the “Rogue's March."

DADDY Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say,

If ever I lived upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be little Britain !
Says Freedom, “ Why, that's my own island!”
Oh, 'tis a snug little island !

A right little, tight little island !
Search the globe round, none can be found

So happy as this little island.

Julius Cæsar the Roman, who yielded to no man,

Came by water—he couldn't come by land;
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their backs on,
And all for the sake of our island.
Oh, what a snug little island !

They'd all have a touch at the island !
Some were shot dead, some of them fled,

And some stay'd to live on the island.

Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman,

Cried, “D-n it, I never liked my land !
It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy,
And live on your beautiful island.”
Says he, “ 'Tis a snug little island :

Shan't us go to visit the island ?”
Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,

And he kick'd up a dust in the island.

But party deceit help'd the Normans to beat;

of traitors they managed to buy land;
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been lick’d,
Had they stuck to the king of their island.
Poor Harold, the king of our island,

He lost both his life and his island.
That's all very true: what more could he do?

Like a Briton he died for his island !

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