I’ll say that I left you all singing his praise, And begging of Neptune more laurels to raise, That in England you hope he’ll soon wear the green bays, And be blest with his friends for past toils, And be blest with his friends for past toils. TRAFALGAR’S BATTLE. _By the same._ _Tune_--Chapter of Kings. In a battle, you know, we Britons are strong; A battle, my friends, is the theme of my song; Had it not been for this, and the sake of my king, No mortal, I am sure, had forc’d me to sing, And Nelson, that great man, Who bother’d the Frenchmen, At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. His mem’ry must be to each Englishman dear, For his heart in a battle had never met fear: Should those that are left e’er encounter another, We may hear something new from our Nelson’s brave Brother. Who fought with that _great man_, Who bother’d the Frenchmen, At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. ’Tis Collingwood he, our Townsman and friend, May heaven send Angels his life to attend, To guard him through dangers on Oceans great space, Returning in Peace may we all see his face. To bless him, caress him, In kind words address him, Ye Britons and _Sons_ of the _Tyne_. Though Nelson is dead, yet we ought not to mourn; The laurels that deck his magnificent Urn, Are sufficient for mortals that dwell here below; Let Heaven’s great King other laurels bestow On him we adore, Who fought off the shore, At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. Drink a toast, then, my friends, to his dear honour’d shade, Each widow, each wife, every matron, and maid, And though you lament for the loss of his blood, Drink a health to our own, our brave Collingwood, Who fought with that _great man_, That bother’d the Frenchmen, At Trafalgar’s great battle, and died. CHESTER WELL. _By George Pickering, late of Newcastle._ Turks, Infidels, Pagans, Jews, Christians, and Tartars, Kings, Princes, Queens, Nobles, and Bishops, I pray; Ye Hottentots too, who to neatness are martyrs, Attend for a while to my wonderful lay. At Chester, they tell, Is discover’d a well, Which eases in man as in beast ev’ry torture; Hyp, glanders, and evil, It sends to the devil, And silence has seal’d up the pestle and mortar. Oh Chester, Oh Chester! When maladies pester, Thy liquid Catholicon eases our pain! Mad Turks, Jews, Philistines, Mad Quakers and Christians, Are dipp’d into peace and good order again.