Hafte to arms and form the line
That leads to martial glory.

CHORUS.

Charge the mufket, point the lance,
Brave the worst of dangers;
Tell the bluftering fons of France,
That we to fear are ftrangers.

Britain, when the lion's rous'd,
And the flag is rearing,
Always finds her fons difpos'd
To drub the foe that's daring.

Charge the mufkét, &c.

Hearts of oak with speed advance;
Pour your naval thunder,

On the trembling fhores of France,

And ftrike the world with wonder.

Charge the mufket, &c. ́

Honour for the brave to fhare,

Is the nobleft booty ;

Guard your coafts, protect the fair;

For that's a Briton's duty.

Charge the mufket, &c.

What if Spain fhould take their parts,

And form a bafe alliance?

All unite and English hearts,

May bid the world defiance.

CHORUS.

Beat the drum the trumpet found,
Manly and united ;

Danger face, mantain your ground,
And fee your country righted.

SONG 215.

A QUIRE of bright beauties:

In fpring did appear,

To chufe a May-lady

To govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white,

And the shepherds in green,

The garland was given,

And Phillis was queen.

But Phillis refus'd it,
And fighing did say,

I'll not wear a garland,
While Pan is away.

While Pan and fair Syrinx,

Are fled from the shore, The graces are banish'd,

And love is no more:

The foft god of pleasure

That warm'd our defires,

Has broken his bow,

And extinguifh'd his fires; And vows that himself

And his mother will mourn,

Till Pan and fair Syrinx
In triumph return.

Forbear your addreffes,
And court us no more;

For we will perform

What the deity fwore: But if you dare think

Of deferving our charms, Away with your fheep hooks,

And take to your arms: Then laurels and myrtles

Your brows fhall adorn,

When Pan and fair Syrinx
In triumph return.

SONG 216.

THE TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.

DIOGENES furly and proud,

Who fnarl'd at the Macedon youth, Delighted in wine that was good, Because in good wine there was truth

But growing as poor as a Job,
Unable to purchase a flask,
He chofe for his manfion a tub,
And liv'd by the scent of the cask.

Heraclitus ne'er wou'd deny

A bumper, to cherish his heart;
And when he was maudlin wou'd cry,
Because he had empty'd his quart :·
Tho' fome are fo foolish to think,
He wept at mens follies and vice,
'Twas only his cuftom to drink,

Till the liquor flow'd out of his eyes.

Democritus always was glad

To tipple and cherish his foul;
Would laugh like a man that was mad,
When over a good flowing bowl;
As long as his cellar was ftor'd,
The liquor he'd merrily quaff;
And when he, was drunk as a lord,
At them that were fober he'd laugh.

Wife Solon, who carefully gave

Good laws unto Athens of old,
And thought the rich Crofus a flave
(Tho' a king) to his coffers of gold;
He delighted in plentiful bowls,

But drinking, much talk would decline,
Because 'twas the cuftom of fools,
To prattle much over their wine.

Old Socrates ne'er was content,

Till a bottle had hightened his joys, Who in's cups to the oracle went,

Or he ne'er had been counted fo wife : Late hours he moft certainly lov'd, Made wine the delight of his life, Or Xantippe would never have prov'd Such a damnable fcold of a wife.

Grave Seneca, fam'd for his parts,
Who tutor❜d the bully of Rome,
Grew wife o'er his cups and his quarte,

Which he drank like a mifer at home;
And, to fhew he lov'd wine that was good,
To the laft, (we may truly aver it,)
He tinctur'd his bath with his blood,
So fancy'd he dy'd in his claret.

Pythagoras did filence enjoin,

On his pupils who wisdom would feek; Because he tippled good wine,

Till himself was unable to speak ; And when he was whimfical

grown,

With fipping his plentiful bowls,

By the ftrength of the juice in his crown, He conceiv'd tranfmigration of fouls.

Copernicus too, like the reft,

Believ'd there was wifdom in wine, And thought that a cup of the best Made reafon the brighter to fhine;