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A NEW SONG of OLD SAYINGS.
Bonaparte, the bully, reſolves to come over,
With flat bottom'd wherries from Calais to Dover,
No perils to him in the billows are found,
For if born to be hang'd he can never be drown'd.
From a Corſican dung-hill this fungus did ſpring,
He was ſoon made a Captain, and would be a king:
But the higher he riſes, the more he does evil———
For a Beggar on horſe-back will ride to the Devil.
To ſeize all that we have, and then clap us in jail,
To devour all cur victuals, and drink all our ale,
And to grind us to duſt, is this Corſican's will,———
For they fay all is griſt that comes to his mill.
To ſtay quiet as home the firſt Conful can't, bear,
Or mayhap he would have other fiſh to fry there:
So as fiſh of that fort does not ſuit his deſire,
He leaps out of the frying pan into the fire.
He builds barges & cock boats, & craft without end,
And numbers the hosts which to England he'll ſend;
But in ſpite of his craft, and in ſpite of his boaſts,
He ſtill reckons, I think, without one of his hoſts.
He rides upon France, and he tramples on Spain,
And holds Holland and Italy tight in a chain;
Theſe he hazards for more, tho I can't underſtand
That one bird in the buſh is with four in the hand.
He truſts that his luck will all danger expel,
But the pitcher is broke that goes oft to the well:
And when our brave ſoldiers this bully ſurround,
Tho' he's thought penny-wiſe, he'll look fooliſh in pound.
France can never forget that our fathers of yore,
We'd to pepper and baſte her by ſea and on ſhore,
And we'll ſpeedily prove to this Mock Alexander,
What was ſauce for the gooſe, will be ſauce for the gander
