hn 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 right poises a gibbet. The figure and motto
united produce a roar of approbation from the soldier and sailor, who
are criticising the work. It is so natural that the Helen and Briseis of
the camp contemplate the performance with apparent delight, and, while
one of them with her apron measures the breadth of this herculean
painter's shoulders, the other, to show that the performance has some
point, places her forefinger against