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Written by R. B. Sheridan, Esq. M. P..

GOD save great George our King,
Long live our noble King,

God save the King;
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us;

God save the King.
O Lord our God arise,
Scatter his enemies,

And make them fall;
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,

God save us all,

Thy choicest gifts in store,
On George be pleas'd to pour,

Long may he reign ;
May he defend our laws,
And ever give us ca'use
To sing with heart and voice,

God save the King.
From ev'ry latent foe,
From the assassin's blow,

God save the King ;
O'er him thine arm extend,
For Britain's sake defend
Our Father, Prince, and Friend

God save the King.


Old Air, New Accompaniment.

TO Neptune enthron'd as he govern'd the sea,

From my cliff-skirted isle I dispatch'd a petition, That he its protector and patron would be,

When this charter arriv'd without let or condition:
Navigation and trade, no more be afraid,
The ocean is yours, and I'll lend you my aid:

Besides, ,I'll instruct you like me to entwine
The fruits of fair commerce round liberty's shrine.

The news over Gallia immediately flew,
French and Spaniards pretended to give themselves

airs, If Britons are suffer'd their schemes to pursue, There's an end of our projects, our hopes, and our


So they sent out a fleet, which the Englishmen beat,
And a second, sunk, taken, and forc'd to retreat,
Was oblig'd to confess that 'tis we who entwine
The fair fruits of conimerce round liberty's shrine.

Was oblig’d, &c.
Then Mynheer from his mouth in great wrath took his

pipe, And swore our pretensions we sorely should rue, That the time had arriv’d, and the project was ripe,

Shou'd teach poor John Bull a fresh course to pursue.
With this threat he set sail, 'twas of little avail,
They'd the worst on't at sea, and in port they turn’d tail.
But now with true blue they the orange entwine,
And the fruits of fair commerce round liberty's shrine.

But now with true blue, &c.
Then join, sons of Britain, the world to convince,

You have hearts tun'd to harmony, friendship and joy, That your love to each other, your country and prince,

Can never be lessen'd, or suffer alloy. May Britannia still be the Queen of the Sea, May our King, laws, and people for ever be free. And soon with the blessings of peace may we twine, The fruits of fair commerce round liberty's shrine.

And soon with, &c.



Written by Mr. Upton.

The Music by Mr. Reeve:--Sung by Miss Gray.

NOR father nor mother has poor little Nell,

And yet with the wide world before her,
As blythe as a lark, her ground-ivy to sell,

She rises each morn with Aurora.

Thro' courts and thro' alleys, thro' lanes and thro'

streets, And


and down London's great city, -Whoever the poor little wanderer meets Is sure to know Nell by her ditty.

Ground-ivy, ground-ivy,

Come buy my ground-ivy.
Tho' often bare-footed, yet poor little Nell,

Endow'd with sweet health, cheerly trudges,
And if the small store of her ivy can sell,

The grandeur of others ne'er grudges. Content and humility tends on the maid,

And thus up and down London's city, Tho' friendless and often in tatters array'd Poor Nelly thus carols her ditty:

Ground-ivy, ground-ivy,

Come buy my ground-ivy.
Nor friend, nor relation, poor Nelly can boast

To guard or protect her from danger;
Yet still like a tar wreek'd on some foreign coast,

She oft finds relief from a stranger;
Thus fortune, tho' fickle, poor Nelly befriends,

As daily she roves London city;
And tho' for subsistence on chance she depends,
Thus merrily carols her ditty:

Ground-ivy, ground-ivy,
Come buy my ground-ivy.



By Mr. T. Collins,
HARK! hark! the trumpet sounds to arms,
The drum proclaims dread war's alarms

The thund'ring cannon's roar.
But duty still forbids me grieve,
Tho' ev'ry dear delight I leave,

My home! my native shore!

Thro' foreign climes tho' doom'd to range, Think not my love shall ever change

Ah! no, this heart's too true:
And if in battle's fiercest mife
Of Providence I ask for lite-

Dear Mary 'tis for you!
But should you hear some friend relate,
Your constant soldier met his fate-

Oh! heave one pitying sigh!
Yet know that when that sigh you give,
The same kind power


That bade your William die.


Sung by Mr. Incledon, in the Turnpike-gate. CALM the winds; the distant ocean,

Where our ships in triumph ride, Seems to own no other motion

Than the ebb and How of tide,

High perch'd upon his fav’rite spray,

The thrush attention hath bespoke;
The ploughman, plodding on his way,

To listen, stops the sturdy yoke.
But see, the loud-tongu'd pack in view,

The peopled hills the cry resound;
The sportsmen joining chorus too,

And rapt'rous peals of joy go round.
Soon, soon again, the scene, so gay,
In distant murmurs dies

away, Again from lazy echo's cell,

No sound is heard of mirth or woe, Save but the crazy tinkling bell

The shepherd hangs upon the ewe.

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