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O pinchinge, werie, lothsome lyfe,
That travell still in far exsylle,
The dangers great on sease be ryfe,
Whose recompence doth yeld but toylle !
O Fortune, graunte me mie desire,-
A hapie end I doe require.

When freats and states have had their fill,
And gentill calm the cost will clere,
Then hautie hartes shall have their will,
That longe hast wept with morning cheere;
And leave the seaes with thair anoy,
At home at ease to live in joy.

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

The following, which appears, says Mr. Chappell, to have been written at the time of the threatened invasion of the Spanish Armada, is taken from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Pearsall, bearing the date of 1588. The music of the song is given by Mr. Chappell.

From mercilesse invaders,

From wicked men's device,
O God I arise and helpe us,

To quele owre enemies.

Sinke deepe their potent navies,

Their strength and corage breake,
O God! arise and arm us,

For Jesus Christ, his sake.

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Though cruel Spain and Parma

With heathene legions come,
O God! arise and arm us,

We'll dye for owre home!

We will not change owre Credo

For Pope, nor boke, nor bell;
And yf the Devil come himself,

We'll hounde him back to hell.

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE: OR, EIGHTY-EIGHT.

[From MS. Harl. 791, fol. 59.]

In eyghtye-eyght, ere I was borne,

As I can well remember,
In August was a fleete prepar’d,

The moneth before September.

Spayne, with Biscayne, Portugall,

Toledo and Granado;
All these did meete, and made a fleete,

And call'd it the Armado.

Where they had gott provision,

As mustard, pease, and bacon,
Some say two shipps were full of whipps,

But I thinke they were mistaken.

There was a litle man of Spaine,

That shott well in a gunn-a,
Don Pedro hight, as good a knight

As the Knight of the Sun-a.

King Phillip made him Admirall,

And charged him not to stay-a, But to destroy both man and boy,

And then to runn away-a.

The King of Spayne did freet amayne,

And to doe yet more harme-a, He sent along, to make hiin strong,

The famous prince of Parma.

When they had sayl'd along the seas,

And anchor'd uppon Dover,
Our Englishmen did bourd them then,

And cast the Spaniards over.

Our Queene was then att Tilbury,

What could you more desire-a ? For whose sweete sake, Sir Francis Drake

Did sett them all on fyre-a.

But let them looke about themselfes,

For if they come againe-a, They shall be serv'd with that same sauce,

As they weere, I know when-a.

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE: OR, EIGHTY-EIGHT.

The following is another version of the foregoing ballad, and is taken from “ Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy," vol. ii. p. 37. The tune is also given by D’Urfey. Another copy is given in the “Westminster Drollery,” 12mo. Lond. 1671.

To the tune of Eighty-eight.

SOME years of late, in Eighty eight,

As I do well remember-a,
It was, some say, on the ninth of May,

And some say in September-a.

The Spanish train launch'd forth a-main,

With many a fine bravado,
Whereas they thought, but it prov'd nought,

The Invincible Armado.

There was a little man that dwelt in Spain,

That shot well in a gun-a,
Don Pedro hight, as black a wight,

As the Knight of the Sun-a.

King Philip made him Admiral,

And bad him not to stay-a,
But to destroy both man and boy,

And so to come away-a.

The Queen was then at Tilbury,

What could we more desire-a ?
Sir Francis Drake, for her sweet sake,

Did set 'em all on fire-a.

Away they ran by sea and land,

So that one man slew three score-a,
And had not they all run away,

O my soul, we had killed more-a.

Then let them neither brag nor boast,

For if they come again-a,
Let them take heed they do not speed,

As they did they know when-a.

ODE.

SITTING AND DRINKING IN A CHAIR MADE OUT OF THE

RELIQUES OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP.

From a rare collection of “ Choyce Poems,” printed at London in the seventeenth century, a copy of which is preserved in the British Museum.

CHEAR up, my mates ! the wind doth fairly blow,

Clap on more sails, and never spare,

Farewel all land l for now we are
In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go.

Bless me! 'tis hot, another bowl of wine,

And we shall cut the burning line !
Hey, boys ! she sends it away, and by my head I know

We round the world are sailing now.
What dull men are those who tarry at home,
When abroad they might wantonly roam ?

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