Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ?

Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ?

O fall'n nobility, that, overawed,

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Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous fraud.

We feel, at least, that silence here were sin.
Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts→
If easy patrons of their kin

Have left the last free race with naked coasts! They knew the precious things they had to guard: For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word.

Though niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget? We are not cotton-spinners all,

But some love England, and her honor yet. And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand, And hold against the world the honor of the land.

HANDS ALL ROUND.*

FIRST drink a health, this solemn night,
A health to England, every guest;
That man's the best cosmopolite

Who loves his native country best.
May Freedom's oak for ever live
With stronger life from day to day;
That man's the best Conservative
Who lops the mouldered branch away.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's hope confound!

To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

A health to Europe's honest men!
Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails!
From wronged Poerio's noisome den,

From ironed limbs and tortured nails!
We curse the crimes of southern kings,
The Russian whips and Austrian rods-
We likewise have our evil things;
Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods.
Yet hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!
To Europe's better health we drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round"!

What health to France, if France be she,
Whom martial progress only charms?
Yet tell her-better to be free

Than vanquish all the world in arms.
Her frantic city's flashing heats

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

Gigantic daughter of the West,

We drink to thee across the flood,
We know thee and we love thee best,
For art thou not of British blood?
Should war's mad blast again be blown,
Permit not thou the tyrant powers
To fight thy mother here alone,
But let thy broadsides roar with ours.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons,

When war against our freedom springs!