To _George_ our king the tidings came, At London where he lay; “What! cattle, cattle, sheep indeed!-- To Windsor haste away; “Lock up my pretty little sheep, My pigs and geese likewise; No bloody Frenchman shall destroy What I so dearly prize. “Then run tell _Billy Pitt_ to come, And bring his _brother_ here; But first call _Tom_ the butler up, To get me some small beer. “How happens _Chat--m_, that no ships You have sent to the North? Not one, I’m told, is to be seen From Thames unto the Forth.” “So please you,” bowing low, says _John_, “I would have sent a few, But that I thought you’d want them here Against the next REVIEW.” “That’s right, that’s right,” reply’d our king, “One ship I cannot spare: And if the _French_ do get their sheep, Why--_let them take more care_. “Example let them take by me, And they’ll receive no harm; Shut them all up as I have done, Upon my Windsor farm.” So spake our gracious lord, And so I end my song; May heaven from _rots_ preserve his sheep, And may his life be long! BLYTH CAMPS: _Or, the Girl I left behind Me._ In 1795, near Blyth there was an encampment, the troops of which, consisting of 13 regiments of horse and foot, were reviewed on the 28th of August, that year, by the Duke of York, in the presence of upwards of 60,000 spectators. I’m lonesome since I left BLYTH camps, And o’er the moor that’s sedgy; With heavy thoughts my mind is fill’d, Since I parted with my Betsy: Whene’er I turn to view the place, The tears fall down and blind me; When I think on the charming grace Of her I left behind me. The hours I remember well, When first from her they mov’d me; The burning flames my heart doth tell, Since first she own’d she lov’d me: In search of some one fair and gay, Several doth remind me; I know my darling loves me well, Tho’ I left her behind me. The bees shall cease to make a store, The dove become a ranger: The falling waters cease to roar, Before I’ll ever change her. Each mutual promise faithful made, By her whom tears remind me; I bless the hours I pass’d away With her I left behind me. My mind her image will retain, Whether asleep or waking; I hope to see my love again, For her my heart is breaking. If e’er I chance to go that way, And she has not resign’d me; I’ll reconcile my mind and stay With her I left behind me. BEAUMONT’s LIGHT HORSE. We march’d from the camps with our hearts full of woe, On board of the transports we forc’d were to go; No drums they did beat, nor no trumpets did sound, In silence and sadness we trudg’d o’er the ground. No more on our horses we’ll prance o’er the plain, For they drive us away like sheep to be slain; Our friends and acquaintance we leave on the shore, And we’ll never be seen in Old England more.