The Following Two Songs

Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the French would invade our Country.

SONG.

To the Tune of “Ye Gentlemen of England.”

No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, All they wish, all they ask, is a fav’ring wind to blow.

Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low’r, But fairly may we try our valour and our pow’r, That Hist’ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, To the storm ’tis alone the victory we owe.

Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff’rence prove, ’Twixt slaves impell’d by fear, and freemen bound by love; Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow.

SONG.

When storms on the ocean Create high emotion, It pleases the wish Of the monarch of fish, For he gambols and sports in the motion.

Should a shoal of small fry Attempt to draw nigh, With a flap of his tail, Th’ imperial whale Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.

Oh! thus, on the seas, Just with the same ease, Should the enemy come, In ship, boat, or bomb, We will knock them about as we please;

Till at last they shall cry, “We are the small fry, And Britannia’s the whale, By a flap of whose tail, If we dare to approach her we die.”

SONNET,

Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey? No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, Nor hostile sword, nor Nature’s mild decay.

The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, Who watch’d thee in thy sleep, who moan’d if miss’d, And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, Imbu’d with death the hand he oft had kiss’d.

And here, remov’d from Love’s lamenting eye, Far from thy native cat’racts’ awful sound, Far from thy dusky forests’ pensive sigh, Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, And sigh as tho’ she mourn’d a brother gone.

IMPROMPTU,

IN REPLY TO A LADY,

Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled.

How like is childhood to the lucid tide That calmly wanders thro’ the mossy dell, Sweeps o’er the lily by the margin’s side, And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!