THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

WHEN mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman's food,
It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood;
Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.
Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England,

And, oh! for Old England's Roast Beef!

Then, Britons, from all nice dainties refrain,
Which effeminate Italy, France, and Spain;

And mighty roast beef shall command on the main.
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

But since we have learnt from effeminate France,
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance;
We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout and strong,
And kept open house, with good cheer all day long,
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song,-
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
Ere coffee and tea and such slipslops were known;
The world was in terror if e'en she did frown,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never returned back again,
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Oh! then we had stomachs to cat and to fight.
And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right,—
But now, we're a-hum !-I could, but Good night,

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

This song was first printed complete in Walsh's "Tritish Miscellany" about 1740. It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, with the exception of the first two verses which were written by Henry Fielding, for a comedy entitled "Don Quixote in England." This piece was acted at the New-Theatre in the Haymarket, 1733.

THE GROCER's Delight, OR A SUGAR PLUM FOR MASTER BILLY.

WHEN good George the Second did sit on the throne,
A Pitt we could boast, and a Pitt of our own,

A true Whig was he to the very back-bone.
Oh, the true Whigs of old England,
And oh, the Old English true Whigs.

He went to the city to dine with the mayor,

The King and the Queen, and the courtiers were there, The people huzza'd him, which made the King stare. Oh, the true Whigs, &c.

The feast of the Grocers is not the same thing,

His son, Master Billy, is all for the King,
And therefore a different song we must sing
Oh, the back-stairs of St. James's,

And oh, the St. James's back-stairs.

Billy bluster'd and vapour'd, and gave himself airs,
He spoke for the people, and swore he was theirs,
Till Jenkinson usher'd him up the back stairs.

Oh, the back stairs, &c.

Dundas is his counsel, and Thurlow his guide,
The lords of the bed-chamber with him divide,
The bishops, God mend'em, are all of his side.
Oh, the back stairs, &c.

He holds his head high and he talks very big,
For the Commons of England he don't care a fig;
But the House of Lords swear he's an excellent Whig.
Oh, the poor Whigs of Old England!
And oh, the poor Old English Whigs.

Since the fortunate days of King William the Third,
When Nassau to Stuart was wisely prefer'd,
Such doctrines as these are, sure never were heard,
By the staunch Whigs of Old England,
By the Old English staunch Whigs.

Then as Billy stands up for Prerogative strong,
If the Father was right, sure the Son must be wrong,
So let every Englishman join in my song,

Success to the Whigs of Old England!
Success to the Old English Whigs!

From The History of the Westminster El.etion, 1784.

KAIL-BROSE O' AULD SCOTLAND.

WHEN our ancient forefathers agreed wi' the laird
For a piece o'gude ground to be a kail-yard,
It was to the brose that they paid their regard:
O the kail-brose o' auld Scotland,
And O! the Scottish kail-brose.

When Fergus, the first of our Kings, I suppose.
At the head of his nobles, had vanquished our foes,
Just before they began, they'd been feasting on brose,
O! the Kail-brose, &c.

Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose,
Wi' their bonnets and belts, which their dress did compose,
And a bag of oatmeal on their backs to be brose,

O! the Kail-brose, &c.

But now since the thistle is joined to the rose,
And the English nae longer are counted our foes,
We've lost a great deal o'our relish for brose.
O the Kail-brose &c.

Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose,
Likes always to feed on a cog o' gude brose,

And, thanks be to heaven, we've yet plenty of those. O! the Kail-brose, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

OH! THE WHITE VESTS OF YOUNG ENGLAND! OH! the vests of Young England are perfectly white, And they're cut very neatly and sit very tight, And they serve to distinguish our Young Englishmen From the juvenile MANNERS to CONINGSBY BEN;

Sing, "Oh the white vests of Young England, And Oh! the Young English white vests!" Now the Old English vest was some two yards about, For Old England was rather inclined to be stout; But the Young English waist is extremely compress', By the very close fit of the Young English vest.

Sing, "Oh &c."

The Rt. Hon. William Pitt, Chancellor of the Exchequer, was second son of the famous Earl of Chatham who had advocated conciliatory measures in dealing with the American Colonies, a policy which was very distasteful to the King and Court. Whereas his son afterwards supported the views of the King in opposition to the majority in the House of Commons.

The Young English white vest, upon one little score,
May perhaps be considered a bit of a bore,

For it makes the resemblance exceedingly near
'Twixt the Young English Waiter and Young English Peer.
Sing, "Oh! &c."

But what are the odds as concerning the vest,
So long as felicity reigns in the breast?

And Young England to wear what it pleases may claim,
Let us hope all its tailors are paid for the same.
Sing, "Oh! &c."

Punch 1844.

O! THE BROWN BEER OF OLD ENGLAND. WHEN humming brown beer was the Englishman's taste, Our wives they were merry, our daughters were chaste; Their breath smelt like roses whenever embraced;

O! the brown beer of old England,
And, O! the Old English brown beer.

Ere coffee and tea found their way to the town,
Our ancestors by their own fire-sides sat down,
Their bread it was white, and their beer it was brown.
O! the brown beer &c.

Our heroes of old, of whose conquests we boast,
Could make a good meal of a pot and a toast;
O! did we so now, we should soon rule the roast.
O! the brown beer &c.

When the great Spanish fleet on our coast did appear,
Our sailors, each one, drank a jorum of beer
And sent them away with a flea in their ear.
O! the brown beer, &c.

Our clergymen then took a cup of good beer;
Ere they mounted the rostrum, their spirits to cheer;
Then preached against vice, though courtiers were near.
O the brown beer, &c.

Their doctrines were then authentic and bold,
Well grounded on scripture and fathers of old
But now they preach nothing but what they are told.
O! the brown beer, &c.

For since the geneva and strong ratafee,
We are dwindled to nothing,-but stay-let me see
Faith, nothing at all but mere fiddle-de-dee.
O! the brown beer, &c.
From The Universal Songster. Vol, III.

THE FROG AND THE BULL.

ANONYMOUS.

As once on a time a young frog, pert and vain,
Beheld a large ox grazing on the wide plain,
He boasted his size he could quickly attain.
Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England,
And O for Old England's Roast Beef.

Then eagerly stretching his weak little frame;
Mamma, who stood by, like a cunning old dame.
Cried, "Son, to attempt it you're surely to blame,"
Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.

But, deaf to advice, he for glory did thirst,
An effort he ventured more strong than the first,

Till swelling and straining too hard made him burst. Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.

Then Britons, be careful, the moral is clear;
The ox is Old England, the frog is Monsieur,
Whose threats and bravadoes we never need fear,

While we have Roast Beef in Old England.
Sing O for Old England's Roast Beef.

ANONYMOUS.

THE BOILED Beef of OLD ENGLAND.

THAT mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman's food,
And spoon-meat the Frenchman's was once understood,
And mess-bugles at dinner-time still stir the blood,
With "Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England,
And Oh, for Old English Roast Beef."

Yes, "Oh, for Roast Beef," well our soldiers may sigh,
They may sniff it down areas, in cook-shops may eye;
But save in that music, bid life-long good bye,
To the famous Roast Beef of Old England,
The mighty Old English Roast Beef.

For as if we'd ta'en lesson from soup-stewing France,
In our barracks Roast Beef is a dream of romance,
And the man who enlists is condemned in advance,

To sing, "Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,"
And "Blow that Old English Boiled Beef!

What's the odds if at Bouilli the soldier looks blue?
'Tis the rule of the service, and can't be broke through.
Against roast, fry, or bake Colonel North in a stew

Would cry, "Where's the Boiled Beef of Old England,
Oh, where's the Old English Boiled Beef?"
What with those leather collars, their throttles that lock,
And those weary camp-kettles, their hunger that mock,
Our poor British soldiers must surely hate stock,

And sing, "Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,
Oh, Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!"

With the shako that lets the rain into his neck,
And the pack, pouch, and cross-belts, his breathing that
check,

And the barrack-room reeking like any slave-deck,

Keep up the Boiled Beef of Old England.
Keep up the Old English Boiled Beef,

At huge cost let recruits still be drilled, dressed, and taught,
To have them die off twice as fast as they ought,
Let General Routine still set reason at nought,

And sing, "Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,”
And "Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!"
By all means let cur soldiers be served, in the way,
That famed Dr. Kitch'ner said cucumbers may,
First dress 'em with care, and then throw them away,

And sing, "Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,"
And "Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!"
Punch. March 6, 1858.

THE PAUPER'S CHAUNT.*

O WE'RE very well fed, so we must not repine,
Though turkey we've cut, and likewise the chine
But, oh! once a year we should just like to dine
On the Roast Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef.

O, the gruel's delicious, the taters divine-
And our very small beer is uncommonly fine;
But with us we think you would not like to dine,
Without the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

Our soup's very good, we really must own.
But of what it is made arn't very well-known ;
So, without any soup we would much rather dine
On the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

Mince-pies they are nice, and plum-pudding is fine,
But we'd give up them both for "ribs " or 'Sir Line,'
If for once in the year we could but just dine
On the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

"Roast Beef and plum-pudding" is true Christmas fare, But they think that our morals such dainties won't bear. Oh, oh! it is plain ne'er more shall we share

In the Roast Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

From George Cruikshank's Omnibus.

THE SIRLOIN SUPERSEDED.

ONCE mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food.
It has now grown so dear that 'tis nearly tabooed.
But Australian beef, potted, is cheap and is good.

O, the Boiled Beef of Australia!
And O, the Australian Boiled Beef!

It is capital cold; it is excellent hot;
And, if a large number of children you've got,
'Twill greatly assist you in boiling the pot.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

First-rate is Australian mutton, likewise,

For curries, and rissoles and puddings, and pies.
The thrifty good housewife no butcher's meat buys.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

It will make you a hash that is fit for a king.
And the young ones all like it, and that's a great thing.
So Paterfamilias it causes to sing,

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

For the small boys and girls eat the fat with the lean,
Don't leave underdone, but their plates nicely clean-
Where pigs are not kept which helps make all serene.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Australian meat from the bone being free,
The more economical needs must it be.

As there are no joints there's no carving you see,
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

The Poor Law Commissioners had refused to allow any charitable person to send in supplies of roast-beef and plum-pudding upon Christmas Day to the inmates of the Workhouses,

The fleshpots of Egypt were once in high fame;
Australian fleshpots have more than the same,
Old England's roast beef is now rivalled in name.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

The privileged victims who Income-tax pay,
Whose earnings precarious are taken away,
While ceasing to deal with a Butcher, can say
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

'Tis true that your servants, fastidious and fine,
Australian meat in their folly decline.
On skilligolee they hereafter may dine.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c,

Now pour out the wine which we could not afford
Except for Antipodes' meat on the board.

Its inventors' good health!-whilst my helping's encored.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c,

Punch. August 24, 1872.

STIRRING THE PUDDING,

A Song for the Christmas Season.

THE National Pudding all parties protest

By themselves is best plauned, and compounded the best,
And each eager spoon wielder will stoutly aver
All would turn out quite well had himself but a stir.
At the glorious Plum-Pudding of England,
Old England's unequalled Plum-Pudding!
The Stirrers-in-Chief, who've their spoons in the pan,
Have been stirring away on their own special plan
For a tidy long time, and triumphantly say
That no Season has shown, for this many a day,

Such a splendid Plum-Pudding for England,
Such a genuine English Plum-Pudding!

Well we know the old Saw about too many cooks;
But a Saw is not always so sage as it looks;
And a Pudding so big as JOHN BULL'S may require
All the hands and the spoons that toil on and ne'er tire
Of stirring the Pudding of England,
The mighty old English Plum-Pudding!

The proof of the Pudding's in eating, they say;
And JOHN BULL, who must eat it has likewise to pay;
And so, at this season, let's wish them success,
And hope that among them they won't make a mess
Of the rare old Plum-Pudding of England,
The old English Christmas Plum-Pudding!
(Four verses omitted.)

Punch. Dec. 27, 1879.

·:0:

THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.
OH, Britannia, the pride of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free,
It is time that with zealous devotion,
We saw to the Navy for thee.

If tyrants thou still wouldst make tremble,
Thou needest some armour-clads new,

GREAT, great is the task set before us-
Once more 'tis for us to decide
The men who shall freely rule o'er us,
And still by our bidding abide.
Then choose we the leaders whose story
Will ever bear telling anew,
Whose work in the past is their glory,
And stamps them as honest and true,
Chorus.

Then choose we the tried, wise, and true,
Then seek we the tried, wise, and true;
Let truth and consistency rule us,

And choose we the tried, wise, and true.

Oн, Columbia, the gem of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free;
The shrine of each patriot's devotion,
A world offers homage to thee.
Thy mandates make heroes assemble,

When liberty's form stands in view;
Thy banners make tyranny tremble,

When borne by the red, white and blue. When borne by the red, white and blue.

When borne by the red, white and blue, Thy banners make tyranny tremble,

When borne by the red, white and blue.

When war waged its wide desolation,

And threatened our land to deform, The ark then of freedom's foundation,

Columbia rode safe through the storm. With her garland of victory o'er her,

When so proudly she bore her bold crew, With her flag proudly floating before her,

The boast of the red, white and blue.

The wine cup, the wine cup bring hither,
And fill you it up to the brim,

May the memory of Washington ne'er wither,
Nor the star of his glory grow dim.

May the service united ne'er sever

And each to our colors prove true :

THE

ENGLISHMAN.

THERE'S a paper bears a well-known name,
Though it is but a sorry lot;

On the English journals' scroll of fame
It seems but a dirty blot.

On the scribbling ones who by it live
I'll not waste word of song;
Nor for all the ex-Q.C.* could give

To that paper would I belong.

It's a scurrilous journal, deny it who can-
A disgrace to the name of ENGLISHMAN.

From Faust and 'Phisto. 1876.

THE JINGO-ENGLISHMAN.

(New Version of an old Song, adapted to the tastes of the Patriot of the Period.)

THERE'S a Land that's Cock of Creation's walk,
Though it is but a tiny isle,

And to hear its brag, and its tall tall talk,

Might make e'en Bombastes smile.

It holds itself holiest, first in fight,

Most brave, most wise, most strong, And will ne'er admit what it fancies right Can by any chance be wrong.

'Tis the pink of perfection, deny it who can, The Home of the Jingo Englishman!

There's a Flag that floats o'er every sea,

And claims to control the brine;

And if any dare hint that it makes too free,
The result is a deuce of a shine.

For the bouncing boys who walk the deck
Deem the Ocean their own little lot,
And if foreign fools at their pride should check,
They will catch it exceedingly hot.
Right-divine's in its bunting, deny it who can,
Is the Flag of the Jingo-Englishman!

There's a Heart that leaps with a generous glow
A paying cause to defend,
Lets interest rule it in fixing a foe,
And profit in choosing a friend.
It nurtures a deep and abiding love
For possession of power and pelf,
And deems that the duty all others above

Is enshrined in that sweet word "self." 'Tis a rare tough organ, deny it who can, The Heart of your Jingo-Englishman !

The Briton may traverse the Pole or the Zone,
And annex on sea or shore;

He calls an immense domain his own,
But he means going in for more.

* Dr. F. V. Kenealy

Let the wandering stranger seek to know
To what charter such "rights" are owed,
And a flush will rise to the Briton's brow

As he answers-"You be blowed!" There's no end of a pull, deny it who can, In the words, "I'm a Jingo-Englishman!" Punch. November 9, 1878.

THE CHANCERY COURT.

THERE'S a place that bears a well-known name,
Tho' 'tis but a seedy spot;

'Tis the first in the blazing scroll of shame,

And who dare say it is not?

Of the big-wigged ones who shine and live

On laws, on "Flats" and fees,

The choicest the Devil to earth can give

In this little spot one sees;

For a gem in its way, as we've always been taught,

Is that grand Institution-a Chancery Court,

There's a thing that's a terror to every tongue,
No matter when or where,

And to treat that thing as a mere old song

Is more than the richest dare.

For the foolish spirits, who seek that Court,
To its Vultures once fallen a prey,

May struggle in vain to escape what they sought-
They never can get away.

'Tis a gem in its way, spite of evil repute,

No friend sticks so close as a Chancery suit.

The Briton may traverse each legal port

And pay, yet have something to spare ;
He may pass the "Insolvent Debtors' Court,"
And merge at the most nearly bare.
But if once in a Chancery suit he's caught,
Though the world be all his own,

In those hungry clutches, 'twill be as nought,
And they'll fight for his skin and bone.
For a gem in its way, spite of evil report,

Is the sacred shade of a Chancery Court.

From Grins and Groans, Social and Political, (London, W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co.)

:0:

RULE BRITANNIA.

Robert Southey calls this "the political hymn of our Country," and it may certainly be regarded as the British National Song. There has been some controversy as to its authorship, it is generally ascribed to James Thomson, author of "The Seasons," whilst others have assigned it to David Mallet. The arguments are too lengthy to be reproduced here, but the chief points of the discussion are to be found in letters from Mr. William Chappell, and Mr. Julian Marshall, published in "Notes and Queries," August 14, November 20, and December 18, 1886. Possibly both Thomson and Mallet joined in the composition of the ode

(as they styled it), but this question can now never be authoritatively settled. No doubt exists however that the music was composed by Dr. Thomas Arne, and by it, and the chorus, Rule Britannia is known all the world over.

On the 1st August, 1740, a Masque styled Alfred, written by James Thomson and David Mallet, was performed in the gardens of Cliefdon House, in commemoration of the accession of George I., before the Prince and Princess of Wales. The plot of the Masque was based on the gallant struggles of King Alfred with the Danes, it abounded with patriotic allusions, and Rule Britannia was thus introduced in scene 5, Act 2.

"Here is seen the Ocean in prospect, and ships sailing "along. Two boats land their crews. One Sailor sings "the following ode; after which the rest join in a lively "Dance."

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main ;

This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain ;

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rules the waves !
Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,

Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia! &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that rends the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia ! &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame-
And work their woe, and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia ! &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign:
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And ev'ry shore it circles thine.
Rule Britannia! &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair,
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.

LATIN VERSION.

JUBENTE cum primum Deo Britannia
Pelagi cavis recessibus caput extulit,

Ei in manus hæc charta magna tradita est,
Cælestiumque omnis melos cæcinit chorus ;

Fluctus regas, domina regas Britannia;
Nunquam Britannus imperanti serviet.

Sua quamque gentium minus felicium
Manet vicissim sors, jugum hostile interim
Tu, Nostra, pulcra, tu vigebis libera,
Gens invidenda, gens timendaque omnibus.
Fluctus, &c.