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 learn'd 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.
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, 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, with the exception of the two first verses, which are Fielding's. (See "Don Quixote in England," 1733). It was introduced in the opera of "The Haunted Tower."
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.
This song was arranged as a glee by Dr. Cooke, and became a great favourite at the period of Nelson's death.
Anonymous. From an engraved music-sheet, printed about 1780.
melody. The author of the music unknown.
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 spheres,
Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.
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 Frenchman's ears,
With a towrow, 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 doubt or fear,
Then sing tow row, row row, row row row, for the British grenadier.
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the looped 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." Th music by HANDEL, from the opera of "Scipio."
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.
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 we 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.
TOM D'URFEY. Sung to an old English melody; author unknown.
WHEN Harold was invaded,
And, failing, lost his crown,
And Norman William waded
Through gore to pull him down ;
When counties round, with fear profound,
To mend their sad condition,
And lands to save, base homage gave,
Bold Kent made no submission.
Sing, sing in praise of men of Kent,
So loyal, brave, and free:
'Mongst Britain's race, if one surpass,
A man of Kent is he.
The hardy stout freeholders,
That knew the tyrant near,
In girdles and on shoulders
A grove of oaks did bear;
Whom when he saw in battle draw,
And thought how he might need 'em,
He turn'd his arms, allow'd their terms,
Replete with noble freedom.
Then sing in praise, &c.
And when, by barons wrangling,
Hot faction did increase,
And vile intestine jangling
Had banish'd England's peace,
The men of Kent to battle went,
They fear'd no wild confusion,
But, join'd with York, soon did the work,
And made a bless'd conclusion.
Then sing in praise, &c.
The gen'rous, brave, and hearty,
All o'er the shire we find;
And for the low-church party,
They're of the brightest kind.
For king and laws they prop the cause
Which high-church has confounded;
They love with height the moderate right,
But hate the crop-ear'd Roundhead.
Then sing in praise, &c.
The promis'd land of blessing,
For our forefathers meant,
Is now in right possessing,
For Canaan sure was Kent:
The dome at Knoll, by fame enroll'd,
The church at Canterbury,
The hops, the beer, the cherries here,
May fill a famous story.
Sing, sing in praise of men of Kent,
So loyal, brave, and free:
'Mongst Britain's race, if one surpass,
A man of Kent is he.
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