A NEW SONG.A NEW SONG.

Good people all I pray draw near,We have entered in another year,The markets now they must come down,Both in country and in town;The farmers now begin to grin,Their corn to market must bring in,The ports are opened now you see,In spite of all their roguery.They’ve risen the barley, flour, and meal,I think they must have hearts like steel,And wages are so very low,Fills poor men’s hearts with grief and woe;The potatoes too, you all must know,Have proved poor people’s overthrow,If they had been good, I am very sureThey never would have rais’d the flour.The rich have all things at command,While poverty rages through the land,And bread it is so very dear,Draws from poor people many a tear;The store houses are breaking down with grain,No wonder that the poor complain,In the midst of plenty you plainly see,They are dying from want and poverty.The Americans have provisions in store,From the black sea they will send us more,The millers and farmers will look blue,They’ll not know which way for to do;I hope that trade may flourish once more,Upon this our native shore,Then the working man will be right gladTo see his children well cloth’d and fed.The maltsters and brewers they stamp and swear,With sugar and treacle must brew their beer,For all the malt that they do use,Must all be made into barley loaves;So drunkards all I tell to you true,It’s old hock you must bid adieu!No more of that will be I vow,So you must drink all treacle now.Now, to conclude and make an end,I hope the times they soon will mend,Send trade and commerce to our shore,Then the working men will grieve no more,In peace and unity, they will unite,Then all the nation will be right,I hope I have said nothing wrong,So now I finish off my song.

Good people all I pray draw near,

We have entered in another year,

The markets now they must come down,

Both in country and in town;

The farmers now begin to grin,

Their corn to market must bring in,

The ports are opened now you see,

In spite of all their roguery.

They’ve risen the barley, flour, and meal,I think they must have hearts like steel,And wages are so very low,Fills poor men’s hearts with grief and woe;The potatoes too, you all must know,Have proved poor people’s overthrow,If they had been good, I am very sureThey never would have rais’d the flour.

They’ve risen the barley, flour, and meal,

I think they must have hearts like steel,

And wages are so very low,

Fills poor men’s hearts with grief and woe;

The potatoes too, you all must know,

Have proved poor people’s overthrow,

If they had been good, I am very sure

They never would have rais’d the flour.

The rich have all things at command,While poverty rages through the land,And bread it is so very dear,Draws from poor people many a tear;The store houses are breaking down with grain,No wonder that the poor complain,In the midst of plenty you plainly see,They are dying from want and poverty.

The rich have all things at command,

While poverty rages through the land,

And bread it is so very dear,

Draws from poor people many a tear;

The store houses are breaking down with grain,

No wonder that the poor complain,

In the midst of plenty you plainly see,

They are dying from want and poverty.

The Americans have provisions in store,From the black sea they will send us more,The millers and farmers will look blue,They’ll not know which way for to do;I hope that trade may flourish once more,Upon this our native shore,Then the working man will be right gladTo see his children well cloth’d and fed.

The Americans have provisions in store,

From the black sea they will send us more,

The millers and farmers will look blue,

They’ll not know which way for to do;

I hope that trade may flourish once more,

Upon this our native shore,

Then the working man will be right glad

To see his children well cloth’d and fed.

The maltsters and brewers they stamp and swear,With sugar and treacle must brew their beer,For all the malt that they do use,Must all be made into barley loaves;So drunkards all I tell to you true,It’s old hock you must bid adieu!No more of that will be I vow,So you must drink all treacle now.

The maltsters and brewers they stamp and swear,

With sugar and treacle must brew their beer,

For all the malt that they do use,

Must all be made into barley loaves;

So drunkards all I tell to you true,

It’s old hock you must bid adieu!

No more of that will be I vow,

So you must drink all treacle now.

Now, to conclude and make an end,I hope the times they soon will mend,Send trade and commerce to our shore,Then the working men will grieve no more,In peace and unity, they will unite,Then all the nation will be right,I hope I have said nothing wrong,So now I finish off my song.

Now, to conclude and make an end,

I hope the times they soon will mend,

Send trade and commerce to our shore,

Then the working men will grieve no more,

In peace and unity, they will unite,

Then all the nation will be right,

I hope I have said nothing wrong,

So now I finish off my song.

Come gentlemen listen awhile,And hear how they carry the jest on,I’m sure it will cause you to smile,Such fun there is at the Election.To Brentford the Voters repair,Two Knights of the Shire to elect,Old Nero each Slave doth ensnare,Whilst the Free vote for Byng and Burdett.Fal de ral lal de ral lal de ral.The mob are all silent and hush’d,To hear Orator Tub on the green,Some with laughter are ready to burst,And others with malice spleen,He tells you a terrible tale,Of a Damn’d Diabolical Crew,Who Innocents starv’d in a Jail,And the worst of it is—IT IS TRUE!Fal lal de ral.There’s the case of poor Mary Rich,Indeed ’tis a horrible story,Much about it he’s not time to preach,But look round and you’ll see it before you.Can you such a monster approve,Whose voice on the Hustings doth falter?His conduct your anger must move—Give your Vote—give the Rascal a Halter.Fal de ral.At four the Poll closes and thenHis heart with fear bounces and capers,’Till his carriage he’s safely within,Surrounded by all the Thief-takers.There’s Myrmidons sturdy and bold,For the Quorum they care not a button.They’d bother em all I am told,If led on by Commodore Dutton.Fal lal de ral.But Byng is a Man you’ve twice try’d,From his duty he never did flinch,He scorns Aristocracy’s pride,And Despots will fight inch by inch.Then Electors now give him a voice.And however the Tyrants may fret,Join him with the man of your choice,Independent Sir Francis Burdett.Fal de ral.Sir Francis, the Friend of the Poor,Ever staunch in Humanity’s cause,Disdaining a minister’s lure,Stands forth in support of our laws,His Mind is untainted and pure,Then him place at the head of the set,In his hands Freedom’s Cause is secure,For Liberty dwells in the soul of Burdett.Fal de ral lal de ral lal de ral.

Come gentlemen listen awhile,

And hear how they carry the jest on,

I’m sure it will cause you to smile,

Such fun there is at the Election.

To Brentford the Voters repair,

Two Knights of the Shire to elect,

Old Nero each Slave doth ensnare,

Whilst the Free vote for Byng and Burdett.

Fal de ral lal de ral lal de ral.

The mob are all silent and hush’d,To hear Orator Tub on the green,Some with laughter are ready to burst,And others with malice spleen,He tells you a terrible tale,Of a Damn’d Diabolical Crew,Who Innocents starv’d in a Jail,And the worst of it is—IT IS TRUE!Fal lal de ral.

The mob are all silent and hush’d,

To hear Orator Tub on the green,

Some with laughter are ready to burst,

And others with malice spleen,

He tells you a terrible tale,

Of a Damn’d Diabolical Crew,

Who Innocents starv’d in a Jail,

And the worst of it is—IT IS TRUE!

Fal lal de ral.

There’s the case of poor Mary Rich,Indeed ’tis a horrible story,Much about it he’s not time to preach,But look round and you’ll see it before you.Can you such a monster approve,Whose voice on the Hustings doth falter?His conduct your anger must move—Give your Vote—give the Rascal a Halter.Fal de ral.

There’s the case of poor Mary Rich,

Indeed ’tis a horrible story,

Much about it he’s not time to preach,

But look round and you’ll see it before you.

Can you such a monster approve,

Whose voice on the Hustings doth falter?

His conduct your anger must move—

Give your Vote—give the Rascal a Halter.

Fal de ral.

At four the Poll closes and thenHis heart with fear bounces and capers,’Till his carriage he’s safely within,Surrounded by all the Thief-takers.There’s Myrmidons sturdy and bold,For the Quorum they care not a button.They’d bother em all I am told,If led on by Commodore Dutton.Fal lal de ral.

At four the Poll closes and then

His heart with fear bounces and capers,

’Till his carriage he’s safely within,

Surrounded by all the Thief-takers.

There’s Myrmidons sturdy and bold,

For the Quorum they care not a button.

They’d bother em all I am told,

If led on by Commodore Dutton.

Fal lal de ral.

But Byng is a Man you’ve twice try’d,From his duty he never did flinch,He scorns Aristocracy’s pride,And Despots will fight inch by inch.Then Electors now give him a voice.And however the Tyrants may fret,Join him with the man of your choice,Independent Sir Francis Burdett.Fal de ral.

But Byng is a Man you’ve twice try’d,

From his duty he never did flinch,

He scorns Aristocracy’s pride,

And Despots will fight inch by inch.

Then Electors now give him a voice.

And however the Tyrants may fret,

Join him with the man of your choice,

Independent Sir Francis Burdett.

Fal de ral.

Sir Francis, the Friend of the Poor,Ever staunch in Humanity’s cause,Disdaining a minister’s lure,Stands forth in support of our laws,His Mind is untainted and pure,Then him place at the head of the set,In his hands Freedom’s Cause is secure,For Liberty dwells in the soul of Burdett.Fal de ral lal de ral lal de ral.

Sir Francis, the Friend of the Poor,

Ever staunch in Humanity’s cause,

Disdaining a minister’s lure,

Stands forth in support of our laws,

His Mind is untainted and pure,

Then him place at the head of the set,

In his hands Freedom’s Cause is secure,

For Liberty dwells in the soul of Burdett.

Fal de ral lal de ral lal de ral.

J. Catnach, Printer, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.

For Fleetwood and Strickland hurrah!Hurrah, for the Radicals true,Now the polling is done, and the election is wonBy the Banners of Green and Sky-blue;The Tories may now go and mourn,No longer they’ll carry the sway,For the brave Preston lads, the Whigs and the Rads,Have torn all their laurels away.For the Preston Reformers hurrah,A glorious struggle they’ve made,To pull tyranny down, and victory crownThe friends of Reform and Free Trade;No longer shall liberty’s sons,Crouch down to the bigotted few;Now the election is won Reform marches on,In spite of what Tories can do.So hurrah for the Black Fleet, hurrah!For the spinners and weavers also,Now the banners shall wave, and the music shall play,And our members in triumph shall go;The faction that dared to oppose,Before the voice of the people does fly;So the victors shall sing till the welkin does ring,With voices that reach to the sky.To the land that we live in hurrah!Where the banner of freedom’s unfurl’d,May it soon have to wave o’er the last tyrant’s grave,And liberty reign o’er the world;The children that yet are unborn,Shall sing of the deeds we have done,How their fathers so brave would no longer be slaves,But fought till the battle was won.

For Fleetwood and Strickland hurrah!

Hurrah, for the Radicals true,

Now the polling is done, and the election is won

By the Banners of Green and Sky-blue;

The Tories may now go and mourn,

No longer they’ll carry the sway,

For the brave Preston lads, the Whigs and the Rads,

Have torn all their laurels away.

For the Preston Reformers hurrah,A glorious struggle they’ve made,To pull tyranny down, and victory crownThe friends of Reform and Free Trade;No longer shall liberty’s sons,Crouch down to the bigotted few;Now the election is won Reform marches on,In spite of what Tories can do.

For the Preston Reformers hurrah,

A glorious struggle they’ve made,

To pull tyranny down, and victory crown

The friends of Reform and Free Trade;

No longer shall liberty’s sons,

Crouch down to the bigotted few;

Now the election is won Reform marches on,

In spite of what Tories can do.

So hurrah for the Black Fleet, hurrah!For the spinners and weavers also,Now the banners shall wave, and the music shall play,And our members in triumph shall go;The faction that dared to oppose,Before the voice of the people does fly;So the victors shall sing till the welkin does ring,With voices that reach to the sky.

So hurrah for the Black Fleet, hurrah!

For the spinners and weavers also,

Now the banners shall wave, and the music shall play,

And our members in triumph shall go;

The faction that dared to oppose,

Before the voice of the people does fly;

So the victors shall sing till the welkin does ring,

With voices that reach to the sky.

To the land that we live in hurrah!Where the banner of freedom’s unfurl’d,May it soon have to wave o’er the last tyrant’s grave,And liberty reign o’er the world;The children that yet are unborn,Shall sing of the deeds we have done,How their fathers so brave would no longer be slaves,But fought till the battle was won.

To the land that we live in hurrah!

Where the banner of freedom’s unfurl’d,

May it soon have to wave o’er the last tyrant’s grave,

And liberty reign o’er the world;

The children that yet are unborn,

Shall sing of the deeds we have done,

How their fathers so brave would no longer be slaves,

But fought till the battle was won.

See! see! where freedom’s noblest champion stands,Shout! shout! illustrious patriot band,Here grateful millions their generous tribute bring,And shouts for freedom make the welkin ring,While fell corruption and her hellish crewThe blood-stained trophies gained at Peterloo.Soon shall fair freedom’s sons their right regain,Soon shall all Europe join the hallowed strain,Of Liberty and Freedom, Equal Rights and Laws,Heaven’s choicest blessing crown this glorious cause,While meanly tyrants, crawling minions too,Tremble at their feats performed on Peterloo.Britons, be firm, assert your rights, be bold,Perish like heroes, not like slaves be sold,;Firm and unite, bid millions be free,Will to your children glorious liberty,While cowards—despots long may keep in view,And silent contemplate the deeds on Peterloo.

See! see! where freedom’s noblest champion stands,

Shout! shout! illustrious patriot band,

Here grateful millions their generous tribute bring,

And shouts for freedom make the welkin ring,

While fell corruption and her hellish crew

The blood-stained trophies gained at Peterloo.

Soon shall fair freedom’s sons their right regain,Soon shall all Europe join the hallowed strain,Of Liberty and Freedom, Equal Rights and Laws,Heaven’s choicest blessing crown this glorious cause,While meanly tyrants, crawling minions too,Tremble at their feats performed on Peterloo.

Soon shall fair freedom’s sons their right regain,

Soon shall all Europe join the hallowed strain,

Of Liberty and Freedom, Equal Rights and Laws,

Heaven’s choicest blessing crown this glorious cause,

While meanly tyrants, crawling minions too,

Tremble at their feats performed on Peterloo.

Britons, be firm, assert your rights, be bold,Perish like heroes, not like slaves be sold,;Firm and unite, bid millions be free,Will to your children glorious liberty,While cowards—despots long may keep in view,And silent contemplate the deeds on Peterloo.

Britons, be firm, assert your rights, be bold,

Perish like heroes, not like slaves be sold,;

Firm and unite, bid millions be free,

Will to your children glorious liberty,

While cowards—despots long may keep in view,

And silent contemplate the deeds on Peterloo.

John Harkness, Printer, Preston.

TUNE—Irish Molly O.

As old John Bull was walking one morning free from pain,He heard the Rose, the Shamrock, and the Thistle to complain,An alteration must take place together they did sing,In the Corn Laws and Poor Laws, and many another thing.CHORUS.Conversing on the present time together they did range,All classes thro’ Great Britain now appear so very strange,That England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales must quickly have a change.The railroads all through England have great depression made;Machinery of every kind has put a stop to trade;The innkeepers are weeping in agony and grief,And the ostlers swear they’ll buy a rope and go to felo-de-se.The steam boats to old Belzebub the watermen do wish,For they say they’ve nearly ruined them and drowned all the fish,Of all their new inventions that we have lately seen—There was none begun or thought upon when Betty was the queen.Behold the well-bred farmer, how he can strut along,Let a poor man do whatever he will he’s always in the wrong,With hard labour and low wages he hangs his drooping head,They won’t allow him half enough to find his children bread.The farmers’ daughters ride about well clad and pockets full,With horse and saddle like a queen and boa like a bull,In their hand a flashy parasol, and on their face a veil,And a bustle nearly seven times as big as a milking pail.The nobles from the pockets of John Bull are all well paid;Sometimes you hardly know the lady from the servant maid,For now they are so very proud, silk stockings on their legs,And every step they take you think they walk on pigeon’s eggs.The tradesman he can hardly pay his rent and keep his home,And the labourer has eighteen pence a day for breaking stones,In former days the farmer rode a donkey or a mule,There never was such times before since Adam went to school.Some can live in luxury while others weep in woe,There’s very pretty difference now and a century ago,The world will shortly move by steam it may appear strange,So you must all acknowledge that England wants a change.

As old John Bull was walking one morning free from pain,

He heard the Rose, the Shamrock, and the Thistle to complain,

An alteration must take place together they did sing,

In the Corn Laws and Poor Laws, and many another thing.

CHORUS.

Conversing on the present time together they did range,All classes thro’ Great Britain now appear so very strange,That England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales must quickly have a change.

Conversing on the present time together they did range,

All classes thro’ Great Britain now appear so very strange,

That England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales must quickly have a change.

The railroads all through England have great depression made;Machinery of every kind has put a stop to trade;The innkeepers are weeping in agony and grief,And the ostlers swear they’ll buy a rope and go to felo-de-se.

The railroads all through England have great depression made;

Machinery of every kind has put a stop to trade;

The innkeepers are weeping in agony and grief,

And the ostlers swear they’ll buy a rope and go to felo-de-se.

The steam boats to old Belzebub the watermen do wish,For they say they’ve nearly ruined them and drowned all the fish,Of all their new inventions that we have lately seen—There was none begun or thought upon when Betty was the queen.

The steam boats to old Belzebub the watermen do wish,

For they say they’ve nearly ruined them and drowned all the fish,

Of all their new inventions that we have lately seen—

There was none begun or thought upon when Betty was the queen.

Behold the well-bred farmer, how he can strut along,Let a poor man do whatever he will he’s always in the wrong,With hard labour and low wages he hangs his drooping head,They won’t allow him half enough to find his children bread.

Behold the well-bred farmer, how he can strut along,

Let a poor man do whatever he will he’s always in the wrong,

With hard labour and low wages he hangs his drooping head,

They won’t allow him half enough to find his children bread.

The farmers’ daughters ride about well clad and pockets full,With horse and saddle like a queen and boa like a bull,In their hand a flashy parasol, and on their face a veil,And a bustle nearly seven times as big as a milking pail.

The farmers’ daughters ride about well clad and pockets full,

With horse and saddle like a queen and boa like a bull,

In their hand a flashy parasol, and on their face a veil,

And a bustle nearly seven times as big as a milking pail.

The nobles from the pockets of John Bull are all well paid;Sometimes you hardly know the lady from the servant maid,For now they are so very proud, silk stockings on their legs,And every step they take you think they walk on pigeon’s eggs.

The nobles from the pockets of John Bull are all well paid;

Sometimes you hardly know the lady from the servant maid,

For now they are so very proud, silk stockings on their legs,

And every step they take you think they walk on pigeon’s eggs.

The tradesman he can hardly pay his rent and keep his home,And the labourer has eighteen pence a day for breaking stones,In former days the farmer rode a donkey or a mule,There never was such times before since Adam went to school.

The tradesman he can hardly pay his rent and keep his home,

And the labourer has eighteen pence a day for breaking stones,

In former days the farmer rode a donkey or a mule,

There never was such times before since Adam went to school.

Some can live in luxury while others weep in woe,There’s very pretty difference now and a century ago,The world will shortly move by steam it may appear strange,So you must all acknowledge that England wants a change.

Some can live in luxury while others weep in woe,

There’s very pretty difference now and a century ago,

The world will shortly move by steam it may appear strange,

So you must all acknowledge that England wants a change.

“THE CAP, THOSE WHOM IT FITS MAY WEAR IT.”

O the general Electiom is coming they say,What an huhabolu and a bustle there’ll be,With the new candidates to be Parliament men,And the old ones who wished for to go back again.There’ll be all sorts of shuffling and all kinds of rigs,There’s some will call Tories and some will call Whigs,There’s some will wear colours, blue, orange, and red,And to prove which is best, they’ll break each other’s heads.O the general Election is coming they say,What canvassing, coaxing, and thumping there’ll be,While some will shout —— and —— so clever,And others bawl —— and free trade for ever.O the Whigs for ten years have cut a great swell,But now by the Tories they’ve been wollop’d well,And to pay off the bad boys with a good tit for tat,They are sending them home to see how they like that.This has caused amongst Tories and Whigs a great rout,And many may go tell their mothers the’re out,While some of the boobies will do a deal worse,By loosing their election, and emptying their purse,O the Elections are coming, what doings there’’ll be,Such gutting and guzzling you never did see,There’ll be cheap beef and ale for poor voters just then,With Wine, Turtle, and Venison for gentlemen,There will be open houses in every street,Where the Birds of a feather may daily meet,And sly Booots attends to collect all their senses;Crying, landlord, fill up now, and damn all expenses.Then to see the great nobs, who a canvassing go,In the house, or the garret, or the cellar below,Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life,He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife,Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child,Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled,Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat,Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote.And then at the last, when all other means fail,To catch them they try to put salt on their tails,Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no!They only give friends a small present or so.Or perhaps if you have a nice Bird, Dog, or Cat.To sell, they will give you five sovereigns for that,He’s a very good customer, that is quite true,So I’ll vote for ——, pray what less can I do?O the Election is coming, what meeting and speeching,All their knavish tricks to all the world teaching;What rogues, fools, and shufflers, each other they call,And stick their good characters up on the wall.Each party seem ready the other to mill,About rural policy, or the new poor-law bill.While the Elections are on, what patriots they are,But when they get in, the d——l may care.

O the general Electiom is coming they say,

What an huhabolu and a bustle there’ll be,

With the new candidates to be Parliament men,

And the old ones who wished for to go back again.

There’ll be all sorts of shuffling and all kinds of rigs,

There’s some will call Tories and some will call Whigs,

There’s some will wear colours, blue, orange, and red,

And to prove which is best, they’ll break each other’s heads.

O the general Election is coming they say,What canvassing, coaxing, and thumping there’ll be,While some will shout —— and —— so clever,And others bawl —— and free trade for ever.

O the general Election is coming they say,

What canvassing, coaxing, and thumping there’ll be,

While some will shout —— and —— so clever,

And others bawl —— and free trade for ever.

O the Whigs for ten years have cut a great swell,But now by the Tories they’ve been wollop’d well,And to pay off the bad boys with a good tit for tat,They are sending them home to see how they like that.This has caused amongst Tories and Whigs a great rout,And many may go tell their mothers the’re out,While some of the boobies will do a deal worse,By loosing their election, and emptying their purse,

O the Whigs for ten years have cut a great swell,

But now by the Tories they’ve been wollop’d well,

And to pay off the bad boys with a good tit for tat,

They are sending them home to see how they like that.

This has caused amongst Tories and Whigs a great rout,

And many may go tell their mothers the’re out,

While some of the boobies will do a deal worse,

By loosing their election, and emptying their purse,

O the Elections are coming, what doings there’’ll be,Such gutting and guzzling you never did see,There’ll be cheap beef and ale for poor voters just then,With Wine, Turtle, and Venison for gentlemen,There will be open houses in every street,Where the Birds of a feather may daily meet,And sly Booots attends to collect all their senses;Crying, landlord, fill up now, and damn all expenses.

O the Elections are coming, what doings there’’ll be,

Such gutting and guzzling you never did see,

There’ll be cheap beef and ale for poor voters just then,

With Wine, Turtle, and Venison for gentlemen,

There will be open houses in every street,

Where the Birds of a feather may daily meet,

And sly Booots attends to collect all their senses;

Crying, landlord, fill up now, and damn all expenses.

Then to see the great nobs, who a canvassing go,In the house, or the garret, or the cellar below,Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life,He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife,Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child,Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled,Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat,Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote.

Then to see the great nobs, who a canvassing go,

In the house, or the garret, or the cellar below,

Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life,

He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife,

Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child,

Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled,

Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat,

Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote.

And then at the last, when all other means fail,To catch them they try to put salt on their tails,Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no!They only give friends a small present or so.Or perhaps if you have a nice Bird, Dog, or Cat.To sell, they will give you five sovereigns for that,He’s a very good customer, that is quite true,So I’ll vote for ——, pray what less can I do?

And then at the last, when all other means fail,

To catch them they try to put salt on their tails,

Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no!

They only give friends a small present or so.

Or perhaps if you have a nice Bird, Dog, or Cat.

To sell, they will give you five sovereigns for that,

He’s a very good customer, that is quite true,

So I’ll vote for ——, pray what less can I do?

O the Election is coming, what meeting and speeching,All their knavish tricks to all the world teaching;What rogues, fools, and shufflers, each other they call,And stick their good characters up on the wall.Each party seem ready the other to mill,About rural policy, or the new poor-law bill.While the Elections are on, what patriots they are,But when they get in, the d——l may care.

O the Election is coming, what meeting and speeching,

All their knavish tricks to all the world teaching;

What rogues, fools, and shufflers, each other they call,

And stick their good characters up on the wall.

Each party seem ready the other to mill,

About rural policy, or the new poor-law bill.

While the Elections are on, what patriots they are,

But when they get in, the d——l may care.

Britannia now lament for our Hero that is dead,That son of Mars, brave Wellington, alas, his spirit’s fled.That general of a hundred fights, to death he had to yield,Who brav’d the cannons’ frightful blaze upon the battle field.CHORUS.Britannia weep and mourn, his loss all may deplore,That conquering hero Wellington, alas, he is no more.The destructive wars of Europe does not disturb him now,Great laurels of bright victory sit smiling on his brow,For the burning sands of India he trac’d with valour bright,And against that daring Tippoo Saib so valiant he did fight.Where cannons loud did rattle, spread death and sad dismay,The Duke was always ready with his men to lead the way.Fortified cities he laid low, that general of renown,Intrenchments and their batteries he quickly levelled down.Thro’ Portugal and Spain his enemy did pursue,With the veteran sons of Britain he march’d to Waterloo,And there he made a noble stand upon that blood-stain’d day,And fought the French so manfully and made them run away.At Vittoria,—Badagoz, and Talevara too,On the plains of Salamanca, the French he did subdue,With the veteran sons of Britain wherever he did go,Amidst thundering peals of cannon he conquer’d every foe.On the plains of Waterloo where thousands they lay dead,The iron balls in showers flew around his martial head,While his valiant men and generals lay bleeding in their gore,The laurels from the French that day brave Wellington he tore.Napoleon was as brave a man as ever took the field,And with the warlike sons of France he said he would not yield;But the reverse of fortune that day did on him frown,By Wellington and his army his eagles were pulled down.Now let him rest in peace, and none upbraid his name,On his military glory there never was a stain,The steel-clad Cuirasiers of France that day at Waterloo,He quickly made them face about and cut their armour through.Brave Ponsonby and Picton they fell upon that day,And many a valiant soldier brave in peace their ashes lay,And that brave Duke that led them on his spirit’s took its flight,To see him laid down in his tomb will be a solemn sight.

Britannia now lament for our Hero that is dead,

That son of Mars, brave Wellington, alas, his spirit’s fled.

That general of a hundred fights, to death he had to yield,

Who brav’d the cannons’ frightful blaze upon the battle field.

CHORUS.

Britannia weep and mourn, his loss all may deplore,That conquering hero Wellington, alas, he is no more.

Britannia weep and mourn, his loss all may deplore,

That conquering hero Wellington, alas, he is no more.

The destructive wars of Europe does not disturb him now,Great laurels of bright victory sit smiling on his brow,For the burning sands of India he trac’d with valour bright,And against that daring Tippoo Saib so valiant he did fight.

The destructive wars of Europe does not disturb him now,

Great laurels of bright victory sit smiling on his brow,

For the burning sands of India he trac’d with valour bright,

And against that daring Tippoo Saib so valiant he did fight.

Where cannons loud did rattle, spread death and sad dismay,The Duke was always ready with his men to lead the way.Fortified cities he laid low, that general of renown,Intrenchments and their batteries he quickly levelled down.

Where cannons loud did rattle, spread death and sad dismay,

The Duke was always ready with his men to lead the way.

Fortified cities he laid low, that general of renown,

Intrenchments and their batteries he quickly levelled down.

Thro’ Portugal and Spain his enemy did pursue,With the veteran sons of Britain he march’d to Waterloo,And there he made a noble stand upon that blood-stain’d day,And fought the French so manfully and made them run away.

Thro’ Portugal and Spain his enemy did pursue,

With the veteran sons of Britain he march’d to Waterloo,

And there he made a noble stand upon that blood-stain’d day,

And fought the French so manfully and made them run away.

At Vittoria,—Badagoz, and Talevara too,On the plains of Salamanca, the French he did subdue,With the veteran sons of Britain wherever he did go,Amidst thundering peals of cannon he conquer’d every foe.

At Vittoria,—Badagoz, and Talevara too,

On the plains of Salamanca, the French he did subdue,

With the veteran sons of Britain wherever he did go,

Amidst thundering peals of cannon he conquer’d every foe.

On the plains of Waterloo where thousands they lay dead,The iron balls in showers flew around his martial head,While his valiant men and generals lay bleeding in their gore,The laurels from the French that day brave Wellington he tore.

On the plains of Waterloo where thousands they lay dead,

The iron balls in showers flew around his martial head,

While his valiant men and generals lay bleeding in their gore,

The laurels from the French that day brave Wellington he tore.

Napoleon was as brave a man as ever took the field,And with the warlike sons of France he said he would not yield;But the reverse of fortune that day did on him frown,By Wellington and his army his eagles were pulled down.

Napoleon was as brave a man as ever took the field,

And with the warlike sons of France he said he would not yield;

But the reverse of fortune that day did on him frown,

By Wellington and his army his eagles were pulled down.

Now let him rest in peace, and none upbraid his name,On his military glory there never was a stain,The steel-clad Cuirasiers of France that day at Waterloo,He quickly made them face about and cut their armour through.

Now let him rest in peace, and none upbraid his name,

On his military glory there never was a stain,

The steel-clad Cuirasiers of France that day at Waterloo,

He quickly made them face about and cut their armour through.

Brave Ponsonby and Picton they fell upon that day,And many a valiant soldier brave in peace their ashes lay,And that brave Duke that led them on his spirit’s took its flight,To see him laid down in his tomb will be a solemn sight.

Brave Ponsonby and Picton they fell upon that day,

And many a valiant soldier brave in peace their ashes lay,

And that brave Duke that led them on his spirit’s took its flight,

To see him laid down in his tomb will be a solemn sight.

J. Harkness, Printer, 121, Church Street, Preston.

On the 14th of September, near to the town of Deal,As you may well remember who have a heart to feel,Died Wellington, a general bold, of glorious renown,Who beat the great Napoleon near unto Brussels town.CHORUS.So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.He led the British army on through Portugal and Spain,And every battle there he won the Frenchmen to restrain,He ever was victorious in every battle field,He gained a fame most glorious because he’d never yield.He drove Napoleon from home, in exile for to dwell,Far o’er the sea, and from his home, and all he loved so well.He stripped him quite of all his power, and banished him away,To St. Helena’s rocks and towers the rest of his life to stay.Then on the throne of France he placed Louis the king by right,In after years he was displaced all by the people’s might,But should the young Napoleon threaten our land and laws,We’ll find another Wellington should ever we have cause.He’s dead, our hero’s gone to rest, and o’er his corpse we’ll mourn,With sadness and with grief oppress’d, for he will not return,But we his deeds will not forget, and should we ere again,Follow the example that he set, his glory we’ll not stain.So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

On the 14th of September, near to the town of Deal,

As you may well remember who have a heart to feel,

Died Wellington, a general bold, of glorious renown,

Who beat the great Napoleon near unto Brussels town.

CHORUS.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,

He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

He led the British army on through Portugal and Spain,And every battle there he won the Frenchmen to restrain,He ever was victorious in every battle field,He gained a fame most glorious because he’d never yield.

He led the British army on through Portugal and Spain,

And every battle there he won the Frenchmen to restrain,

He ever was victorious in every battle field,

He gained a fame most glorious because he’d never yield.

He drove Napoleon from home, in exile for to dwell,Far o’er the sea, and from his home, and all he loved so well.He stripped him quite of all his power, and banished him away,To St. Helena’s rocks and towers the rest of his life to stay.

He drove Napoleon from home, in exile for to dwell,

Far o’er the sea, and from his home, and all he loved so well.

He stripped him quite of all his power, and banished him away,

To St. Helena’s rocks and towers the rest of his life to stay.

Then on the throne of France he placed Louis the king by right,In after years he was displaced all by the people’s might,But should the young Napoleon threaten our land and laws,We’ll find another Wellington should ever we have cause.

Then on the throne of France he placed Louis the king by right,

In after years he was displaced all by the people’s might,

But should the young Napoleon threaten our land and laws,

We’ll find another Wellington should ever we have cause.

He’s dead, our hero’s gone to rest, and o’er his corpse we’ll mourn,With sadness and with grief oppress’d, for he will not return,But we his deeds will not forget, and should we ere again,Follow the example that he set, his glory we’ll not stain.

He’s dead, our hero’s gone to rest, and o’er his corpse we’ll mourn,

With sadness and with grief oppress’d, for he will not return,

But we his deeds will not forget, and should we ere again,

Follow the example that he set, his glory we’ll not stain.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,

He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

There is nothing now talked on wherever you go,Among old folks or young be them high or low,But the Crimean heroes I vow and declare,That has smothered the Russians in this very year,On the 8th of September, Eighteen hundred & fifty-fiveThe wounded old bear from his den did arise;He curs’d and he swore and he fell off his stool,He lost all Malakoff and Sebastopol too.Chorus.Then hurrah jolly soldiers and sailors likewise,With the brave sons of France you blackened his eyes,You knock’d off his muzzle and stole all his grub,And his teeth is all rotten and he can’t chew his cud.The soldiers of France went at it like steel,Determined to conquer and make the Russians feel,That they were the lads that could do it like fun,Then crack went their rifles and the Russians did run;The hearts of oak thundered, their guns had began,As hearts of oak only ball’d at the Redan;The French blaz’d away with courage so cool,Now England and France has Sebastopol.The Russian bears did grumble and said it is no jokeTo smother in rubbish with powder and smoke,And to be without water our thirst for to quench,When a thundering big bomb shell came in from the French,They all turned dizzy some spued and some spit,And the Russian commander in his breeches did s—t,For he had got the skitters with Johnny Bull’s pills,Our shot is the doctors that find out their ills.At last they retreated, these bears from their den,They got nearly roasted with shot and with shell,Dingdong they did trot unto to the North side,If they’d stopt any longer we’d have tickled their hides,The Russian commander these words he did say,We must now all hook it without more delay,We can stop no longer in Sebastopol;If we do they will choke us with long iron tools.So come my brave fellows let’s sing and let’s dance,Both Turkey, Sardinnia, old England and France;We will all have a jig while the music does play,We have nothing to fear for the Russians will pay;And when we come home we will all keep a pig,Our wives shall have bustles made of Russian wigs,We will all take a bumper and drink good health,So down with the Russians and up with the French.

There is nothing now talked on wherever you go,

Among old folks or young be them high or low,

But the Crimean heroes I vow and declare,

That has smothered the Russians in this very year,

On the 8th of September, Eighteen hundred & fifty-five

The wounded old bear from his den did arise;

He curs’d and he swore and he fell off his stool,

He lost all Malakoff and Sebastopol too.

Chorus.

Then hurrah jolly soldiers and sailors likewise,With the brave sons of France you blackened his eyes,You knock’d off his muzzle and stole all his grub,And his teeth is all rotten and he can’t chew his cud.

Then hurrah jolly soldiers and sailors likewise,

With the brave sons of France you blackened his eyes,

You knock’d off his muzzle and stole all his grub,

And his teeth is all rotten and he can’t chew his cud.

The soldiers of France went at it like steel,Determined to conquer and make the Russians feel,That they were the lads that could do it like fun,Then crack went their rifles and the Russians did run;The hearts of oak thundered, their guns had began,As hearts of oak only ball’d at the Redan;The French blaz’d away with courage so cool,Now England and France has Sebastopol.

The soldiers of France went at it like steel,

Determined to conquer and make the Russians feel,

That they were the lads that could do it like fun,

Then crack went their rifles and the Russians did run;

The hearts of oak thundered, their guns had began,

As hearts of oak only ball’d at the Redan;

The French blaz’d away with courage so cool,

Now England and France has Sebastopol.

The Russian bears did grumble and said it is no jokeTo smother in rubbish with powder and smoke,And to be without water our thirst for to quench,When a thundering big bomb shell came in from the French,They all turned dizzy some spued and some spit,And the Russian commander in his breeches did s—t,For he had got the skitters with Johnny Bull’s pills,Our shot is the doctors that find out their ills.

The Russian bears did grumble and said it is no joke

To smother in rubbish with powder and smoke,

And to be without water our thirst for to quench,

When a thundering big bomb shell came in from the French,

They all turned dizzy some spued and some spit,

And the Russian commander in his breeches did s—t,

For he had got the skitters with Johnny Bull’s pills,

Our shot is the doctors that find out their ills.

At last they retreated, these bears from their den,They got nearly roasted with shot and with shell,Dingdong they did trot unto to the North side,If they’d stopt any longer we’d have tickled their hides,The Russian commander these words he did say,We must now all hook it without more delay,We can stop no longer in Sebastopol;If we do they will choke us with long iron tools.

At last they retreated, these bears from their den,

They got nearly roasted with shot and with shell,

Dingdong they did trot unto to the North side,

If they’d stopt any longer we’d have tickled their hides,

The Russian commander these words he did say,

We must now all hook it without more delay,

We can stop no longer in Sebastopol;

If we do they will choke us with long iron tools.

So come my brave fellows let’s sing and let’s dance,Both Turkey, Sardinnia, old England and France;We will all have a jig while the music does play,We have nothing to fear for the Russians will pay;And when we come home we will all keep a pig,Our wives shall have bustles made of Russian wigs,We will all take a bumper and drink good health,So down with the Russians and up with the French.

So come my brave fellows let’s sing and let’s dance,

Both Turkey, Sardinnia, old England and France;

We will all have a jig while the music does play,

We have nothing to fear for the Russians will pay;

And when we come home we will all keep a pig,

Our wives shall have bustles made of Russian wigs,

We will all take a bumper and drink good health,

So down with the Russians and up with the French.

Oh! boys have you heard of the battle,The allies brave had on the shore,The joybells and cannons did rattle,Announcing it o’er and o’er,The total defeat of the Russians,Was echoed with joy everywhere;Success to John Bull and Napolean,And very soon peace may we hear.Chorus.Then here’s to the army and navy,In Russia they’re on the advance,Supporting the standard of freedom,Success to old England and France.It was on the heights of Alma,The Russians were laying entrench’dLord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud,Commanding the English and French;In front of the fortified walls,The allies marched into the fight,Fifty-eight thousand men in bright armour,Put all the wild Russians to flight,Then here’s, &c.On the twentieth of September,The desperate battle was fought,The Russians will ever remember,Tho’ dearly my boys it was boughtWith the blood of our courageous allies,Who fell on the fortified plain,They brought the flag of old England,Without either blemish or stain.Then here’s, &c.The Russians held up their position,And fought for the space of three hours,Secluded behind their entrenchments,The balls flew around us in showers;At last at the point of the bayonet,The Russians were forced to retreat,And run in the greatest disorder,Compell’d by a total defeat.Then here’s &c.The number that lay dead and wounded,Is awful my friends to recite,Let’s mourn the loss of our allies,Who fell in the desperate fight;They fought them with great desperation,And forced the wild Russians to yield,While cannons did rattle in battle,They conquered and died on the field,Then here’s, &c.

Oh! boys have you heard of the battle,

The allies brave had on the shore,

The joybells and cannons did rattle,

Announcing it o’er and o’er,

The total defeat of the Russians,

Was echoed with joy everywhere;

Success to John Bull and Napolean,

And very soon peace may we hear.

Chorus.

Then here’s to the army and navy,In Russia they’re on the advance,Supporting the standard of freedom,Success to old England and France.

Then here’s to the army and navy,

In Russia they’re on the advance,

Supporting the standard of freedom,

Success to old England and France.

It was on the heights of Alma,The Russians were laying entrench’dLord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud,Commanding the English and French;In front of the fortified walls,The allies marched into the fight,Fifty-eight thousand men in bright armour,Put all the wild Russians to flight,Then here’s, &c.

It was on the heights of Alma,

The Russians were laying entrench’d

Lord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud,

Commanding the English and French;

In front of the fortified walls,

The allies marched into the fight,

Fifty-eight thousand men in bright armour,

Put all the wild Russians to flight,

Then here’s, &c.

On the twentieth of September,The desperate battle was fought,The Russians will ever remember,Tho’ dearly my boys it was boughtWith the blood of our courageous allies,Who fell on the fortified plain,They brought the flag of old England,Without either blemish or stain.Then here’s, &c.

On the twentieth of September,

The desperate battle was fought,

The Russians will ever remember,

Tho’ dearly my boys it was bought

With the blood of our courageous allies,

Who fell on the fortified plain,

They brought the flag of old England,

Without either blemish or stain.

Then here’s, &c.

The Russians held up their position,And fought for the space of three hours,Secluded behind their entrenchments,The balls flew around us in showers;At last at the point of the bayonet,The Russians were forced to retreat,And run in the greatest disorder,Compell’d by a total defeat.Then here’s &c.

The Russians held up their position,

And fought for the space of three hours,

Secluded behind their entrenchments,

The balls flew around us in showers;

At last at the point of the bayonet,

The Russians were forced to retreat,

And run in the greatest disorder,

Compell’d by a total defeat.

Then here’s &c.

The number that lay dead and wounded,Is awful my friends to recite,Let’s mourn the loss of our allies,Who fell in the desperate fight;They fought them with great desperation,And forced the wild Russians to yield,While cannons did rattle in battle,They conquered and died on the field,Then here’s, &c.

The number that lay dead and wounded,

Is awful my friends to recite,

Let’s mourn the loss of our allies,

Who fell in the desperate fight;

They fought them with great desperation,

And forced the wild Russians to yield,

While cannons did rattle in battle,

They conquered and died on the field,

Then here’s, &c.

On a dark lonely night, on the Crimea’s dread shore—There had been bloodshed and strife on the morning before—The dead and the dying lay bleeding around,Some crying for help—there was none to be found.Now God in his mercy He pity’d their cries,And the soldier so cheerfully in the morning doth rise,So forward my lads, may your hearts never fail,You are cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.Now God sent this angel to succour the brave,Some thousands she’s saved from an untimely grave;Her eyes beam with pleasure, she’s bounteous and good,The wants of the wounded are by her understood.With fever some brought in, with life almost gone,Some with dismantled limbs, some to fragments are torn,But they keep up their spirits, their hearts never fail,Now they’re cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.Her heart it means good—for no bounty she’ll take,She’d lay down her life for the poor soldier’s sake,She prays for the dying, she gives peace to the brave,She feels that a soldier has a soul she may save.The wounded they love her, as it has been seen;She’s the soldier’s preserver, they call her their queen!May God give her strength, and her heart never fail,One of heaven’s best gifts is Miss Nightingale.The wives of the wounded, how thankful are they;Their husbands are cared for, how happy are they;Whate’er her country, this gift God has given,The soldiers they say she’s an angel from heaven.Sing praise to this woman, and deny it who can!And all women were sent for the comfort of man;Let’s hope no more against them you’ll rail,Treat them well, and they’ll prove like Miss Nightingale.

On a dark lonely night, on the Crimea’s dread shore—

There had been bloodshed and strife on the morning before—

The dead and the dying lay bleeding around,

Some crying for help—there was none to be found.

Now God in his mercy He pity’d their cries,And the soldier so cheerfully in the morning doth rise,So forward my lads, may your hearts never fail,You are cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Now God in his mercy He pity’d their cries,

And the soldier so cheerfully in the morning doth rise,

So forward my lads, may your hearts never fail,

You are cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Now God sent this angel to succour the brave,Some thousands she’s saved from an untimely grave;Her eyes beam with pleasure, she’s bounteous and good,The wants of the wounded are by her understood.

Now God sent this angel to succour the brave,

Some thousands she’s saved from an untimely grave;

Her eyes beam with pleasure, she’s bounteous and good,

The wants of the wounded are by her understood.

With fever some brought in, with life almost gone,Some with dismantled limbs, some to fragments are torn,But they keep up their spirits, their hearts never fail,Now they’re cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

With fever some brought in, with life almost gone,

Some with dismantled limbs, some to fragments are torn,

But they keep up their spirits, their hearts never fail,

Now they’re cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Her heart it means good—for no bounty she’ll take,She’d lay down her life for the poor soldier’s sake,She prays for the dying, she gives peace to the brave,She feels that a soldier has a soul she may save.

Her heart it means good—for no bounty she’ll take,

She’d lay down her life for the poor soldier’s sake,

She prays for the dying, she gives peace to the brave,

She feels that a soldier has a soul she may save.

The wounded they love her, as it has been seen;She’s the soldier’s preserver, they call her their queen!May God give her strength, and her heart never fail,One of heaven’s best gifts is Miss Nightingale.

The wounded they love her, as it has been seen;

She’s the soldier’s preserver, they call her their queen!

May God give her strength, and her heart never fail,

One of heaven’s best gifts is Miss Nightingale.

The wives of the wounded, how thankful are they;Their husbands are cared for, how happy are they;Whate’er her country, this gift God has given,The soldiers they say she’s an angel from heaven.

The wives of the wounded, how thankful are they;

Their husbands are cared for, how happy are they;

Whate’er her country, this gift God has given,

The soldiers they say she’s an angel from heaven.

Sing praise to this woman, and deny it who can!And all women were sent for the comfort of man;Let’s hope no more against them you’ll rail,Treat them well, and they’ll prove like Miss Nightingale.

Sing praise to this woman, and deny it who can!

And all women were sent for the comfort of man;

Let’s hope no more against them you’ll rail,

Treat them well, and they’ll prove like Miss Nightingale.

There came a tale to England,’Twas of a battle won,And nobly had her warriorsThat day their duty done;They fell like sheaves in autumn,Yet ’mid that fearful scene,Their last shout was for England,Their last breath for their queen.There came a tale to England,Of suffering, want, and woe,Of the night watch in the trenches,Of the sortie by the foe;‘Mid rain, and storm, and sickness,With no rest, no pause between,And there was grief through England,From the humblest to the Queen.Then wrote the Queen of England,God’s blessing on her pen.Oh! tell those wounded soldiers,Those sick, patient, suffering men,There’s no heart in England,Can feel a pang more keen,That day and night her own lov’d troopsAre thought of by their Queen.Then rose a shout through England,From them ’twas wafted o’er,From those sick wounded soldiers,And it rang from shore to shore;From Alma and Balaklava,And Inkerman it came,“God bless the Queen of England”Again we’d do the same.

There came a tale to England,

’Twas of a battle won,

And nobly had her warriors

That day their duty done;

They fell like sheaves in autumn,

Yet ’mid that fearful scene,

Their last shout was for England,

Their last breath for their queen.

There came a tale to England,Of suffering, want, and woe,Of the night watch in the trenches,Of the sortie by the foe;‘Mid rain, and storm, and sickness,With no rest, no pause between,And there was grief through England,From the humblest to the Queen.

There came a tale to England,

Of suffering, want, and woe,

Of the night watch in the trenches,

Of the sortie by the foe;

‘Mid rain, and storm, and sickness,

With no rest, no pause between,

And there was grief through England,

From the humblest to the Queen.

Then wrote the Queen of England,God’s blessing on her pen.Oh! tell those wounded soldiers,Those sick, patient, suffering men,There’s no heart in England,Can feel a pang more keen,That day and night her own lov’d troopsAre thought of by their Queen.

Then wrote the Queen of England,

God’s blessing on her pen.

Oh! tell those wounded soldiers,

Those sick, patient, suffering men,

There’s no heart in England,

Can feel a pang more keen,

That day and night her own lov’d troops

Are thought of by their Queen.

Then rose a shout through England,From them ’twas wafted o’er,From those sick wounded soldiers,And it rang from shore to shore;From Alma and Balaklava,And Inkerman it came,“God bless the Queen of England”Again we’d do the same.

Then rose a shout through England,

From them ’twas wafted o’er,

From those sick wounded soldiers,

And it rang from shore to shore;

From Alma and Balaklava,

And Inkerman it came,

“God bless the Queen of England”

Again we’d do the same.

As the western powers of Europe united all together,In close deliberation they did appear to be,And all their conversation seemed a grand determination,To seize upon Sebastopol and set poor Turkey free!When up steps Omar Pasha, saying here I am amongst you—My country has been oppressed by tyranny and woes,But now England and France in tens of thousands we’ll advance,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.The twentieth of September we ever shall remember,Upon the heights of Alma we made the Russians run,After a weary marching the day was hot and scorching,We fought the first great battle by the setting of the sun,Like hearts of oak we bounded and the enemy wounded,And when the bugle sounded to charge our mighty foes,For England’s home and beauty we nobly did our duty,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.Through rivers, brooks, and fountains, up hills and lofty mountains,Our Generals were mounted in armour bright array,Light infantry advancing with glittering bayonets glancing,Upon the heights of Alma we showed them British play,The cannons roared like thunder we cut their ranks asunder,Though not an equal number unto our mighty foes,We drove them from their quarters and made a dreadful slaughter,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.The cannons loud did rattle all in the field of battle,To see the dead and wounded would grieve your heart full sore,Through fields of blood we waded the enemy invaded,As we beheld our comrades weltering in their gore,With one determination and one loud exclamation,We went with desperation against our mighty foes,We cut them in succession of their guns we took possession,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.Lord Raglan that commander was brave as Alexander,Describes this dreadful battle the first upon record,The legions of France by the side of old England,The power of the Russians could not them retard,With fire and smoke around us nothing could confound us,We gained the heights of Alma regardless of our foes,Though hundreds fell upon the field we made the enemy to yield,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.The brave thirty-third and twenty-third regiments,Also the ninty-fifth and the seventh fusiliers,Under Sir Colin Campbell the gallant highlanders,Died on the field of battle with the brave grenadiers,Like lions they marched in the face of the cannon,While hundreds lay bleeding as you may suppose,They conquered and died on the hill of the Alma,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

As the western powers of Europe united all together,

In close deliberation they did appear to be,

And all their conversation seemed a grand determination,

To seize upon Sebastopol and set poor Turkey free!

When up steps Omar Pasha, saying here I am amongst you—

My country has been oppressed by tyranny and woes,

But now England and France in tens of thousands we’ll advance,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The twentieth of September we ever shall remember,Upon the heights of Alma we made the Russians run,After a weary marching the day was hot and scorching,We fought the first great battle by the setting of the sun,Like hearts of oak we bounded and the enemy wounded,And when the bugle sounded to charge our mighty foes,For England’s home and beauty we nobly did our duty,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The twentieth of September we ever shall remember,

Upon the heights of Alma we made the Russians run,

After a weary marching the day was hot and scorching,

We fought the first great battle by the setting of the sun,

Like hearts of oak we bounded and the enemy wounded,

And when the bugle sounded to charge our mighty foes,

For England’s home and beauty we nobly did our duty,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Through rivers, brooks, and fountains, up hills and lofty mountains,Our Generals were mounted in armour bright array,Light infantry advancing with glittering bayonets glancing,Upon the heights of Alma we showed them British play,The cannons roared like thunder we cut their ranks asunder,Though not an equal number unto our mighty foes,We drove them from their quarters and made a dreadful slaughter,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Through rivers, brooks, and fountains, up hills and lofty mountains,

Our Generals were mounted in armour bright array,

Light infantry advancing with glittering bayonets glancing,

Upon the heights of Alma we showed them British play,

The cannons roared like thunder we cut their ranks asunder,

Though not an equal number unto our mighty foes,

We drove them from their quarters and made a dreadful slaughter,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The cannons loud did rattle all in the field of battle,To see the dead and wounded would grieve your heart full sore,Through fields of blood we waded the enemy invaded,As we beheld our comrades weltering in their gore,With one determination and one loud exclamation,We went with desperation against our mighty foes,We cut them in succession of their guns we took possession,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The cannons loud did rattle all in the field of battle,

To see the dead and wounded would grieve your heart full sore,

Through fields of blood we waded the enemy invaded,

As we beheld our comrades weltering in their gore,

With one determination and one loud exclamation,

We went with desperation against our mighty foes,

We cut them in succession of their guns we took possession,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Lord Raglan that commander was brave as Alexander,Describes this dreadful battle the first upon record,The legions of France by the side of old England,The power of the Russians could not them retard,With fire and smoke around us nothing could confound us,We gained the heights of Alma regardless of our foes,Though hundreds fell upon the field we made the enemy to yield,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Lord Raglan that commander was brave as Alexander,

Describes this dreadful battle the first upon record,

The legions of France by the side of old England,

The power of the Russians could not them retard,

With fire and smoke around us nothing could confound us,

We gained the heights of Alma regardless of our foes,

Though hundreds fell upon the field we made the enemy to yield,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The brave thirty-third and twenty-third regiments,Also the ninty-fifth and the seventh fusiliers,Under Sir Colin Campbell the gallant highlanders,Died on the field of battle with the brave grenadiers,Like lions they marched in the face of the cannon,While hundreds lay bleeding as you may suppose,They conquered and died on the hill of the Alma,This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The brave thirty-third and twenty-third regiments,

Also the ninty-fifth and the seventh fusiliers,

Under Sir Colin Campbell the gallant highlanders,

Died on the field of battle with the brave grenadiers,

Like lions they marched in the face of the cannon,

While hundreds lay bleeding as you may suppose,

They conquered and died on the hill of the Alma,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

You lads of this nation, in every station,I pray give attention, and listen to me,I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,Who served Queen Victoria by land and by sea;They call me a Proosian, an Austrian, a Roosian,And off to Vienna they sent me afar;They’d not me believe then, they vowed I’d deceived them,And called me Friend of the great Russian Czar.Chorus.I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,I’m full of vexation, grief, sorrow, and care,I have got in disgrace, and am now out of place;But I never broke windows round Bel-ge-rave Square.In great London City for me they’ve no pity;And Moon the Lord Mayor to my face told me plain,All the freemen would scout me, and old women rout me,If ever I went to the City again.I’m the son of old Bedford, I’m going to DeptfordTo look for employment, and find out a friend,And then I’ll come back with a pack on my back,Bawling frying-pans, saucepans, and kettles to mend.Chorus, I’m, &c.I have lost all my riches, I have worn out my breeches,I am turned out of place, and have nowhere to go,My state is most shocking, great holes in my stocking,And my poor tender toes peeping out of my shoe—Why should they so serve me, and try for to starve me?I fought for my country and stood by my Queen.Bad luck to the Prussians, the Austrians, and Russians,And jolly bad luck to old Lord Aberdeen.Chorus.I’m, &c.I went like a wary plenipotentiary,To the town of Vienna to settle the war,Where I saw Francis Joseph, King Peter, and Moses,And I fought Alexander, the great Russian Czar;And when I came back they began for to clack,They blamed me and gamed me and pulled out my hair,They threatened to lick me, and nicely they kicked me,Bawling pickled eel’s feet around Bel-ge-rave Square.Chorus.I’m, &c.I love Queen Victoria, I dearly adore her,Although at Vienna I did her displease;I wish all the Russians and Austrians and PrussiansWere tied in a blanket, and smothered with fleas.Oh dear, hey down diddle, I have the Scotch fiddle,I know that I caught it of old Aberdeen,—Now I will so clever sing England for ever,Down with the Russians, and God save the Queen.Chorus.I’m, &c.John Morgan.

You lads of this nation, in every station,

I pray give attention, and listen to me,

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,

Who served Queen Victoria by land and by sea;

They call me a Proosian, an Austrian, a Roosian,

And off to Vienna they sent me afar;

They’d not me believe then, they vowed I’d deceived them,

And called me Friend of the great Russian Czar.

Chorus.

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,I’m full of vexation, grief, sorrow, and care,I have got in disgrace, and am now out of place;But I never broke windows round Bel-ge-rave Square.

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,

I’m full of vexation, grief, sorrow, and care,

I have got in disgrace, and am now out of place;

But I never broke windows round Bel-ge-rave Square.

In great London City for me they’ve no pity;And Moon the Lord Mayor to my face told me plain,All the freemen would scout me, and old women rout me,If ever I went to the City again.I’m the son of old Bedford, I’m going to DeptfordTo look for employment, and find out a friend,And then I’ll come back with a pack on my back,Bawling frying-pans, saucepans, and kettles to mend.

In great London City for me they’ve no pity;

And Moon the Lord Mayor to my face told me plain,

All the freemen would scout me, and old women rout me,

If ever I went to the City again.

I’m the son of old Bedford, I’m going to Deptford

To look for employment, and find out a friend,

And then I’ll come back with a pack on my back,

Bawling frying-pans, saucepans, and kettles to mend.

Chorus, I’m, &c.

I have lost all my riches, I have worn out my breeches,I am turned out of place, and have nowhere to go,My state is most shocking, great holes in my stocking,And my poor tender toes peeping out of my shoe—Why should they so serve me, and try for to starve me?I fought for my country and stood by my Queen.Bad luck to the Prussians, the Austrians, and Russians,And jolly bad luck to old Lord Aberdeen.

I have lost all my riches, I have worn out my breeches,

I am turned out of place, and have nowhere to go,

My state is most shocking, great holes in my stocking,

And my poor tender toes peeping out of my shoe—

Why should they so serve me, and try for to starve me?

I fought for my country and stood by my Queen.

Bad luck to the Prussians, the Austrians, and Russians,

And jolly bad luck to old Lord Aberdeen.

Chorus.I’m, &c.

I went like a wary plenipotentiary,To the town of Vienna to settle the war,Where I saw Francis Joseph, King Peter, and Moses,And I fought Alexander, the great Russian Czar;And when I came back they began for to clack,They blamed me and gamed me and pulled out my hair,They threatened to lick me, and nicely they kicked me,Bawling pickled eel’s feet around Bel-ge-rave Square.

I went like a wary plenipotentiary,

To the town of Vienna to settle the war,

Where I saw Francis Joseph, King Peter, and Moses,

And I fought Alexander, the great Russian Czar;

And when I came back they began for to clack,

They blamed me and gamed me and pulled out my hair,

They threatened to lick me, and nicely they kicked me,

Bawling pickled eel’s feet around Bel-ge-rave Square.

Chorus.I’m, &c.

I love Queen Victoria, I dearly adore her,Although at Vienna I did her displease;I wish all the Russians and Austrians and PrussiansWere tied in a blanket, and smothered with fleas.Oh dear, hey down diddle, I have the Scotch fiddle,I know that I caught it of old Aberdeen,—Now I will so clever sing England for ever,Down with the Russians, and God save the Queen.

I love Queen Victoria, I dearly adore her,

Although at Vienna I did her displease;

I wish all the Russians and Austrians and Prussians

Were tied in a blanket, and smothered with fleas.

Oh dear, hey down diddle, I have the Scotch fiddle,

I know that I caught it of old Aberdeen,—

Now I will so clever sing England for ever,

Down with the Russians, and God save the Queen.

Chorus.I’m, &c.

John Morgan.

Back to Index Next