VOL. I.

courage, so long shall no death nor revolution have power to deprive France of some BONAPARTE to annoy them.

Britons! awake! arise! Danger must be faced Blood must be shed! Children must be left fatherless! Widows must mourn! But, if we shall prevail in the strife, we become the first nation in the world-the saviours of the common liberties of mankind. And never can we contend with such odds in our favour, as when we contend to repulse an invading foe.

Away, then! away with every tendency to dreams of reconciliation with France, till we shall have evinced, upon trial, that there are none whom we may not conquer, none upon earth BY

WHOM WE CAN BE SUBDUED!'

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE BRITONS MARCH,
Or, the Marche des Marseillois Parodied;
BY OLD NICK.

YE Sons of Briton 'wake to glory,

Hark, Hark! what myriads bid you

rise!

Your Children, Wives, and Grandsires hoary,

Behold their tears and hear their cries;

Shall FRANCE'S TYRANT mischief breeding,

With hireling hosts a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate our land,

WHILE PEACE AND LIBERTY LIE BLEEDING?

TO ARMS, to arms, ye Brave! Th' avenging sword unsheath,
March on, all hearts resolv'd on Victory or Death!

Now, now the dang'rous Storm is rolling,

Which treach'rous foes, confederate raise;

The dogs of war let loose are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze!
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While BONAPARTE's guilty stride
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands imbruing?
C¢

To ARMS! &c,.

O Liberty! can Man resign thee,
Once having felt thy gen'rous flame;
Can dungeons bolts and bars confine thee
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?

Too long the world has wept bewailing

That lawless France should brave the field,
But Freedom is our Sword and Shield,

And all her Arts are unavailing!

To ARMS! to arms! ye Brave! &c.

The Birth, Parentage and Education, Life, Character, and Behaviour, of the Consul BONAPARTE.

I'LL tell

A TALE FOR JOHN BULL.

To the tune of Good Queen Bess.

you such a story now as never has been told, John, By modern novel-writers, or by fabulists of old, John,

And what is wonderful in these romancing times, John,

You'll find as much of truth, as of wonder in my rhimes, John.
Oh! the melancholy days of Tyrant Bonaparte,

Cursed be the memory of Tyrant Bonaparte.

In the middle of that sea, where Nelson spread your fame, John,
A little Island shews its head, and Corsica 's its name, John,
Where a pettifogging Lawyer and a vixen of a Wife, John,
Contriv'd by hook or crook to bring an urchin into life, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

Oh curs'd for ever be the night, with curses deep and hearty,
When this urchin saw the light, this Devil Bonaparte!
Lawyers as you know, are ever mischief brooding o'er, John,
But mischief such as this, never Lawyer hatch'd before, John,
Oh! the melancholy days, 'c,

Young Boney soon was sent to France, and got his education,
At a free-school which the good old King, had founded for the nation,
For which to shew his gratitude, he kindly did contrive, John,

1

To help the rascal Robespierre, to take away his life, John,

Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

At Toulon next he chanc'd to meet a villain called Barras, John,

Who seas had shed of human blood, and wish'd to shed still more, John, Young Boney was as covetous of murder to the full,, John,

And got by way of recompence, his master's cast-off Trull, John,

Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

So

So hand in hand to Paris went, these Spoilers of Creation,
And every place with murder fill'd, and endless desolation,
By grape-shot from the cannon's mouth in one devoted day, John,
All weltering in their own hearts blood, two thousand bodies lay, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c,

To Italy he now repair'd as General in Chief, John,

And murders there committed such as almost pass belief, John,
Where'er he set his cloven foot, the marks of blood appear, John,
Destruction went before his face, and curses in his rear, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

And next to Egypt's coasts he led his rapine fatted train, John,
And with depopulation wild he fill'd each fertile plain, John,
And quick through Alexandria which he had ta'en by storm, John,
Murder, rapes, and pillage, stalk'd in ev'ry frightful form, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

Old Nile drew back his hoary head and in dread horror stood, John,
But Carnage soon fill'd up his bed with streams of human blood, John,
The Crocodiles were choaked with gore, and soon it did appear, John,
No monster could in thirst of blood with Bonaparte compare, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

But Oh! what tongue can justly paint the horrors of that day, John,
When Jaffa's sons all prisoners before his forces lay, John,
His troops around the captives drawn had orders giv'n to fire, John,
While spying through a glass he grinn'd to see the Turks expire, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

But not content Five Thousand Foes to murder in cold blood, John,
His own troops next were sacrificed to his ensanguin'd mood, John,
Near twice three hundred Soldiers who were wounded by his side, John,
Were serv'd with draughts of Opium, and agonized died, John.

Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

With conquest proud 'fore Acre next, he muster'd all his force, John,
But soon was by Sir Sidney Smith compelled to change his course, John,

A handful of your Soldiers there defeated all his host, John,
And forced the vengeful murderer to sculk from off the coast, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

Then sneaking back to France again he seiz'd the sword of state, John,
And slavery has now become the Frenchman's darling fate, John,
And well it were if France alone composed the slavish train, John,
But ah! the Dutch, Italians, Swiss, all groan beneath his chain, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

And now he swears your valiant son's he'll shortly add to these, John,
And make the boldest, mercy ask, upon his bended knees, John,
And humbly praise his clemency, and prostrate sue for grace, John,
While wife and daughters ravish'd are before his tortur'd face, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

But never sure could you survive such aggravated ill, John,

Nor bear to see your females yield to his accursed will, John,

Then quick prepare with ardent zeal to meet him on the Strand, John,
And make each Frenchman's grave the spot on which he dares to land, John.
Oh! the melancholy days, &c.

SELECTED POETRY.

SONG

FOR THE ENGLISH VOLUNTEERS.

BY JOHN O'KEEFE, ESQ.

Air, "With Swords on their thighs the bold Yeomen are seen."
WHEN swell'd with ambition Old Satan rebell'd,

When angel apostates from bliss were expell'd,
And Mercy indignant, set seal on their doom,
Then MAN was created to fill up their room.

But ere his election, desert he must prove,
As justice divine is co-equal with love;
A place of probation this earth was assign'd,
And Reason's bright lamp to illumine his mind.

His terms of existence by Man should be known;
The land he first breathes in, THAT land be his own;
That dear spot invaded, the foe from it driven,
Our tenure secur'd by a charter from Heaven.

For midway in skies a fair temple is plac'd,
To Liberty sacred! By her we 're embrac'd,
She cries; My lov'd Children, remain ever free!
Fight! conquer! 'tis glory to conquer for me.
The demon cast downwards now ranges below;
Eternal his rancour, as endless his woe.

To chain us in thraldom his pride and his boast,
In hopes we may forfeit those joys which he lost.
Tho' Father of Lies, we believe now his word,
Why wait for his coming? ALL! gird on the sword!
And shew, that by guarding our house and our field,
A Briton deserves the sweet comforts they yield.

Morning Post.