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So the blessings of thousands shall make up

their lot, And each sporting box vie with Humanity's cot.

XXXIII.

THE BRITISH BOW.

TUNE: True Blue.

Surg at the Apniversary Meeting of the Royal British Bowmen, on the 12th of August, of which Society His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales

is the Patron.

1 When Britain's Isle, untaught to fear,

Was sought by Cæsar's powers, She call’d her gallant Sons of War

To guard her chalky shores, 56 My Children,, draw the British Bow, In Freedom's cause repel the Foe."

2 By it Caractacus maintain'd

For many a year the field; By it Boadicea reign’d;

And taught proud Rome to yield ; Whene'er she drew the British Bow, She broke the ranks and thin'd the foe.

war the

3 To save their cots from beasts of prey

Our fathers form'd the Yew,
In woods impervious to the day

The savage boar they slew,
And oft the stag and bounding roe
Fell victims to the British Bow.

4 Their guard, their pleasure still it prov’d, In peace, in

same, With it in search of food they rov'd,

With it they fought for fame; They fear'd nor beast, nor threat'ning foe, All yielded to the British Bow.

5 The noble art we now restore,

Erst gallant Cambria's boast,
The arms our great forefathers bore

Again adorn our coast,
Our breasts with ancient ardour glow,
Again we draw the British Bow.

6
Array'd the feather'd shaft to send

With art thro' yielding air,
Our lovely quiver'd nymphs attend,

As amiable as fair;
And by their matchless skill bestow
Fresh laurels on the British Bow.

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7
While summer's smiles the fields adorn,

While George protects our train,
We welcome thus a festal-morn

Amidst the flow'ry plain ;
And still would have the world to know
We glory in the British Bow.

8
Allay'd be each corroding care,

Be gloomy thoughts away!
Contentment's smiles let each one wear

To hail this happy day;
And while we bend the British Bow,

Around let blest good humour flow.

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XXXIV.

TIIE ARCHERS' BUGLE.

1
The Bugle sounds, the Archers all
Prepare to meet its cheerful call.
The sun ascends with fervid rays,
And all the valley's in a blaze,
The south wind scarcely stirs the trees,
And odours float in every breeze,

What crouds now throng the verdant lawn, For the Archers shoot for the Bugle horn.

2
The Butts are plac'd, the Targets' dyes
In brilliant circles meet the eyes;
And now behold the archer band,
With quiver'd back, and Bow in hand,
Advance, and anxious draw the lot
To take precedence in the shot,-
While int'rest sways the peopled lawn,
As the Archers shoot for the Bugle horn,

3
Erect and firm, with steady eye,
The strong-nery'd hand they well apply,
The bending bow, th' elastic string
The arrow send with pow'rful spring,
With whirring instantaneous flight,
Like motion of the rapid light.
Surprise and wonder fill the lawn,
As the Archers shoot for the Bugle horn.

4
Tho' all are good, yet some excel,
High-honour'd he who bears the bell ;

which unerring flies
To th’ golden centre, gains first prize;
Best shots and numbers also count,
Three rounds shall give up the amount,

The arrow,

Applause shall reign throughout the lawn,
As the Archer gains the Bugle horn,

5
Oh! happy art, from war to cease,
The amusement now of joy and peace,
Health, cheerfulness and grace are thine,
And brave and fair in sport to join ;
With mirth and reason wisely gay,
The feast concludes the happy day,
And pleasure smiles throughout the lawn,
As the Archers sing to the Bugle horn.

XXXV.

ADDRESS TO A FLY.

THE SENTIMENT FROM STERNE.

1
Au silly, vain and buzzing Fly,
Annoy me not, but from me hie;
I would not hurt one hair of thee,
And why wilt thou thus pester me?

2 Again thou com’st

I have thee nowBut out of window thou shalt go. Go, get thee gone: with pardon flee, There's room i' th' world for thee and me.

J. P.

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