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 The same fortunate month, in the ninety and five,

The Republican Wolves swore they’d eat us alive;

But gallant brave Bridport sent Monsieur a knock,

And silenced the crow of the Gallican Cock. etc.

In the year ninety-seven, on St. Valentine’s day.

The Dons thought their numbers our fleet would dismay,

But ere the day clos’d in the Temple of Fame,

Emblazon’d with glory was Jarvis’s name. Hearts, etc,

O! had I seven mouths, like the fam’d river Nile,

Of a Syren the song, of Apollo the stile,

On the triumphs of Egypt for ever I’d dwell,

While Nelson and Glory the chorus should swell. etc.

With the treasures, the ships, & the legions of France,

To cherish rebellion, the wretches advance;

But Warren made Monsieur exclaim with an—Ah!

By Gar, we’ve enough of your Erin go Bragh! etc.

The broom the proud Dutchman had hoisted of yore,

Bold Duncan has struck to insult us no more;

He sinks like the natives of France and of Spain,

And the broom of Britannia shall long sweep the main.





HE rising Aurora now gilds the sweet morn,

And renders all eager to welcome the horn,

What thousands of transports the chace will impart,

When timorous Reynard,

When timorous Reynard we boldly will start, etc.

Hence with your dull lovers who languish forlorn,

And sigh for their Chloes, neglecting the horn;

We true jolly sportsmen at large ever rove, We, etc.

And only the chacing,

And only the chacing engages our love, etc.

The fresh blooming morn our presence invites,

To take endless pleasures and rural delights:

Then why do you tarry, when raptures await;

Our witness to crown, and our bless to complete?