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Behold him begging for employ,
Behold him disregarded;
Then view the anguish in his eye,
And say, are tars rewarded?
Then oh! protect, &c.
To them your dearest rights you owe;
In peace then would you starve them?
What fay ye, Britain's sons — Oh! no;
Protect them and preserve them:
Shield them from poverty and pain,
'Tis policy to do it;
Or when grim war shall come again,
Oh! Britons, you may rue it
Then oh! protect, &c.
THE HIGH-METTLED RACER.
SEE, the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun,
What conlufion! — but hear! — I'll bet you, — done, done;
A thousand strange rumours resound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockies, aflail the tir'd air;
While with neck like a rainbow erecting his crest,
Pamper'd, prancing, his head almost touching his breast;
Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate,
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.
Next reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush,
Men, horses and dogs, are hard at his brush;
O'er heath, hill, and moor, led by the fly prey,
By scent or by view, cheats a long tedious day;
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