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Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound;

Come, if you dare, the foes rebound.
We come, we come, we come, we come,
Says the double, double, double beat of the thund'ring

Now they charge on amain ;

Now they rally again.
The gods from above the mad labour behold;
And pity mankind that will perish for gold.

The fainting Saxons quit their ground;

Their trumpets languish in the sound. They fly! they fly! they fly! they fly! Victoria ! Victoria! the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory's won,

To the plunder we run ;
We return to our lasses like fortunate traders,
Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'a invaders.


GLEE for Three Voices.

J. M. HARRIS. Comrades, replenish the heart-cheering bowl, Let wine, rosy wine, now inspire ev'ry soul; Oh may jolly Bacchus, our patron divine, Round Venus's myrtle his ivy entwine!

E. Belchambers.

GLEE for Three Voices.

Come, thou rosy-dimpled boy,
Source of every beart-felt joy;
Leave the blissful bow'rs awhile,
Paphos and the Cyprian isle :
Visit Britain's rocky shore,
Britons too thy pow'r adore.
Britons, hardy, bold, and free,
Own thy laws, and yield to thee,
Source of every heart-felt joy,
Come thou rosy-dimpled boy.

Haste to Sylvia, haste away,
This is thine and Hymen's day;
Bid her thy soft bondage wear,
Bid her for love's rites prepare.
Let the nymphs with many a flow's
Deck the sacred nuptial bow'r.
Thither lead the lovely fair
And let Hymen too be there.
This is thine, and Hymen’s day,
Haste to Sylvia, haste away.

Only while we love we live,
Love alone can pleasure give;
Pomp and pow's, and tinsel state,
Those false pageants of the great,

Crowns and sceptres, envied things,
And the pride of eastern kings,
Are but childish empty toys,
When compar'd to love's sweet joys.
Love alone can pleasure give,
Only while we love, we live.

Mr. Parrat.

GLEE for Three Voices.

J. BATTISHILL. Come bind my hair, ye wood-nymph’s fair,

With ivy wreaths come bind my brows; Hence grief and woe, and pain and care !

To Bacchus I'll devote my vows.

Dull cynic rules are fit for schools,

Let those digest the food who can; But love and wine shall still be mine,

O let me laugh out all my span!

No wounds of love e'er let me feel,

But such as spring from eyes and shapes ; A curse on those that come by steel,

I hate all blood, but blood of grapes.

Then fill up high the bowl,

That I may drink and laugh at fools of sense ; Why need we fear to want next year, 'Twill be all one an hundred herice.

Thos. Moseen,


GLEE for Three Voices.


Cupid no more shall give me grief,

Nor anxious cares oppress my soul ; While gen'rous Bacchus gives relief,

And drowns 'em in a flowing bowl.

Celia! thy scorn I now despise,

Thy boasted empire I disown;
This takes the brightness from thine eyes,

And makes it sparkle in my own.


GLEE for Three Voices.

W. HORSLEY, M.B. Come, Lelia, fill the goblet up,

Reach round the rosy wine; Think not that we will take the cup,

From any hand but thine.

A draught like this 'twere vain to seek,

No grape can such supply;
It steals its tint from Lelia's cheek,
Its brightness from her eye.

Carlisle's Specimons of Arabian Poetry. ROUND for Three Voices.


Come, ye fairy-footed hours,
Fill your laps with fragrant flowers ;
Mingle with the wanton breeze,
Sporting round the shady trees :
I your favor'd guest will be
Child of sweetest Liberty.

Nature calls me to the grove,
There together will we rove;
Vernal blossoms grace the earth ;
There we'll dance with sportive mirth-
We, alive to gaiety,
Children of sweet Liberty.

Gentle zephyrs, young and gay,
Now to nature homage pay;
Mingle with our lively band,
All your fragrance now expand;
Join to aid the harmony
Thus inspired by Liberty.


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