England.

See John the Soldier, Jack the Tar,

With sword and pistol arm’d for war,

    Should Mounseer dare come here;

The hungry slaves have smelt our food,

They long to taste our flesh and blood,

    Old England’s beef and beer.

Britons to arms! and let ’em come,

Be you but Britons still, strike home,

    And, lion-like, attack ’em,

No power can stand the deadly stroke

That’s given from hands and hearts of oak,

    With Liberty to back ’em.

From the unpropitious regions of France our scene changes to the fertile fields of England.

England! bound in with the triumphant sea,

Whose rocky shores beat back the envious siege

Of wat’ry Neptune.

Instead of the forlorn and famished party who were represented in the last plate, we here see a company of well-fed and high-spirited Britons, marked with all the hardihood of ancient times, and eager to defend their country.

In the first group a young peasant, who aspires to a niche in the temple of Fame, preferring the service of Mars to that of Ceres, and the dignified appellation of soldier to the plebeian name of farmer, offers to enlist. Standing with his back against the halberd to ascertain his height, and, finding he is rather under the mark, he endeavours to reach it by rising on tiptoe. This artifice, to which he is impelled by towering ambition, the serjeant seems disposed to connive at — and the serjeant is a hero, and a great man in his way; “your hero always must be tall, you know.”

To evince that the polite arts were then in a flourishing state, and cultivated by more than the immediate professors, a gentleman artist, who to common eyes must pass for a grenadier, is making a caricature of le grand monarque, with a label from his mouth worthy the speaker and worthy observation, “You take a my fine ships; you be de pirate; you be de teef: me send my grand armies, and hang you all.” The action is suited to the word, for with his left hand this most Christian potentate grasps his sword, and in his ............