And likewise Will Bulmer was one of our number,

For he had a mind to drink claret.

Full glasses went round, till I could not see,

O then they were all willing that I should go free
But the devil may pay their reckoning for me,
For now I have got out of Limbo.

With many a foul step I stagger'd home at last,
And it happened to be without falling;

I got on my bed, and nothing I said,

But my wife she began with her bawling;

;

She rung me such a peal, though she'd been not well, As if she would have rais'd all the devils in hell,

You might have heard her as far as the sound of Bow-bell,

Then I wish'd that I'd stay'd there in Limbo.

SONG IX.

THE LAUNCHING OF THE STRICKLAND.

BY THE SAME.

Tune, Robin Hood and the Tanner.

GOOD people draw near, and I'll let you hear,
With a hey down, down and a dee,

What happen'd the other day,

It was on twelfth-eve, if you will me believe,

The people came flocking this way.

When I squeez'd along in the thick of the throng, I see men a splitting of blocks;

01 knew what they meant; it was their intent For to launch a ship off o' the stocks.

There I see Mother's Lull, O a bottle he had full,
I suppose❜t to be very good wine;

They booz'd it about, till it was almost out,
It's customar' at such a time.

D

Frank stood on his guard, ready to discharge

The bottle he held in his hand

He was to call her the Strickland, but he had been tipling,

For he was scarce able to stand.

Howsomever, Blue and Black, he stood to his tack,
And just as the ship was a starting,
The bottle he threw, indeed it is true,

But he miss'd the ship, and hat the captain.

O he hat him on the breast, I vow and protest,
I wouldn't have been in his place;

He did him surprise, he might ha' drove out his eyes,

If the bottle had hit in his face.

So God bless the king, this joke we will sing
On Saturday-night when we're tipling

We'll drink to our wives, the captain, men and boys,
And all that belong to the Strickland.

SONG X.

A NEW SONG, CALLED

HARK TO WINCHESTER,

OR, THE YORKSHIRE VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO THE GOOD FOLKS OF STOCKTON.

Tune. Push about the Jorum.

YE Stockton lads and lasses too,

Come listen to my story,
A dismal tale, because 'tis true,
I've now to lay before ye:
We must away, our rout is come

We scarce refrain from tears, 0:

Shrill shrieks the fife, rough roars the drum,—
March Yorkshire Volunteers, O!

Fal lal lal la ral.

Yet ere we part, my comrades say,
Come, Stockhore,* you're the poet,

If e'er you'd pen a greatful lay,

"Tis now the time to show it.

* Herbert Stockhore, a private, the pretended author.

Such usage fair in this good town,
We've met from age and youth, Sirs.
Accept our grateful thanks and own,
A poet sings the truth, Sirs.

Fal, lal, &c.

Ye lasses too, of all I see,

The fairest in the nation;

Sweet buds of beauty's blooming tree,

The top of the creation; Full many of our lads I ween,

Have good good wives and true, Sirs,

I wonder what our leaders mean,
They have not done so too, Sirs.

Fal lal, &c.

Perhaps but hark! the thund'ring drum,
From love to arms is beating;

Our country calls; we come, we come,
Great George's praise repeating;
He's great and good, long may he here
Reign, every bliss possessing;

And long may each true volunteer

Behold him Britain's blessing.

Fal lal, &c.

Our valiant Earl shall lead us on

The nearest way to glory,

Bright Honour hails her darling son,
And Fame records his story: