Yes, brave Sir Sidney, thy chivalrick fame,
Great and illustrious as thy noble name,
Shall live immortal in th' historic page,
And brighter glow to each succeeding age;
Like a fine Claude, as age to age succeeds,
So bright shall seem thy high heroic deeds,
Fame's col❜ring mellow'd down by Truth's bright ray,
Shall shine effulgent as the source of day.

If this bright fame for but one Acre too,

Ye Gods, for millions, what won't Sydney do.
He skill'd like brave Nelson, Hawke, Rodney, Howe,
To make proud Gallia's flag to England's bow ;
Not French themselves, more pliant in the back,
They and their flags a sort of supple jack;
Unlike our Jacks, who stiff as British oak,
Disdain to bend to any foreign yoke.
Which made Linois's squadron so enhance
The unknown merits of our country Dance,
That when our tars began their balls to play,
So ill they lik'd the Dance, they ran away;
Tho' had it been a French cotillion set,

That on the China seas Linois met,

Active as monkies they'd have join'd the Dance,

Cotillion steps the fav'rite ones in France,

Yes, long has proud Gaul felt with galling pain,
Britannia rules the land, Britannia rules the main.
Far diff'rent now from that ill omen'd day,
When England sent her martial sons away,
The sword to tarnish in a brother's blood,
And kinsmen slaughter for the public good:
To quell rebellion 'gainst oppressive acts,
Enforce those laws a British House enacts;
To urge a right which none on earth can claim,
A right t' oppress, if mask'd by friendship's name.
When stern-ey'd justice arms our valiant bands,
Each foe falls prostrate by their conq'ring hands;
With wreaths of laurel ev'ry project's crown'd,
And heaps on heaps lie bleeding on the ground.
Not so when dire oppression guides their breast,
'Then vain their prowess by divine behest;
Impartial Jove ambitious schemes abhors,
And makes abortive all tyrannic wars.

STANZAS

STANZAS,

Written on the Centinary Commemoration throughout Great Britain, of the glorious Revolution, but particularly alluding to a magnificent Celebration of that Event at Chesterfield, in

Derbyshire,

WHEN Freedom's cause the British breast expands,
And makes it glow with ardor scarce its own,

Let not the rapt'rous flame forsake those bands,
Which grac'd the triumph of great Nassau's throne:

What tho' the clarion's sound no longer's heard,
Or loud huzzas re-echo thro' the air,

No flags are seen, or Orange zone begird
The tap'ring waist of Britain's peerless fair!

Yet shall Imagination paint the day,

In brightest colors that her pow'rs can give; And ev'ry Briton sincere homage pay,

To the mild Monarch under whom we live.

To George the Third, our virtuous, patriot King!
Who loves to see his people happy, free;

For which each grateful muse with truth shall sing,
For ever may good George, Great Britain's Sov❜reign be.

When vain parade, and revelling are o'er,

Shall ye forget the cause from whence they flow? Consid'ring that gay festive scene no more,

Than the mock image of a Lord May❜r's show.

If such your Gallic joy, your French-like taste,
Pleas'd only with the pageantry of dress;
With Gauls admire th' Imperial crown of paste,
The mantle, sceptre, royal apishness.

But moral, precepts which the play conveys,

T'assist weak minds the snares of vice to shun;

Think these like them, too trivial for your praise,
Nor let your minds by ought but pomp be won,

THE

THE PROPHECY,

OR,

BONAPARTE KILLED AT LAST

By his own Troops.

YE BRITONS, to your Country true,

In her just cause so hearty,

Shall make the French Invasion rue,

And give proud Bonaparte

Such proofs of Britons' glorious zeal,
When by French slaves invaded,

As soon shall make that Tyrant feel,
His laurels are all faded,

Blasted, like his brilliant fame,

Which once shone with such lustre,

Patriots almost ador'd his name,

Who now against him muster.

Whose hearts since Bonaparte's chang'd,

With such resentment glow;

They in the foremost ranks are rang'd,

To give to him his death-blow.