Gazette Of The United States, & Philadelphia Daily Advertiser

That man whose pipes are attuned to "the concord of sweet sounds," and will not commit the subsequent Song to memory, ought to be pronounced as having no federalism in his soul; and as fit for solitude, misanthropy, and the unceasing company of frightful illusions.--Let no such man be respected.

[Bos. Cen.]

CONVIVIAL SONG.

Sung at Winpson (Ver.) on the evening of the FOURTH OF JULY.

Composed on the occasion--By R. TYLER.

TUNE--"Here's to our noble selves, Boys."

COME fill each brimming glass boys,
Red or white has equal joys.
Come fill each brimming glass, boys,
And toast your country's glory;
Does any here to fear incline,
And o'er Columbia's danger whine,
Why let him quaff this gen'rous wine,
He'll turn another tory.

II.

Here's WASHINGTON, the brave, boys,
Source of all Columbia's joys,
Here's WASHINGTON, the brave, boys,
Come raise and toast him standing;
For here's the hero firm and brave,
Who all our country's glory gave,
And once again he shall us save,
Our armies bold commanding.

III.

Here's to the gallant Tar, boys,
Whose cannon's roar our foe annoys,
Here's to the gallant Tar, boys,
His country's cause defending;
For warlike Truxtun's noble name,
Like Nelson's shall extend his fame,
And sound through all the earth proclaim,
His glory never ending.

IV.

Here's to our native land, boys,
Land of liberty and joys,
Here's to our native land, boys,
Your glasses raise for drinking;
And he that will not drink the toast,
May he in France of freedom boast,
There dangling on a lantern post,
Or in the Loire be sinking.

V.

Here's to our Vermont Fair, boys,
Pledges bright of fed'ral joys.
Here's to our Vermont Fair, boys,
Fill high to love and beauty;
For while we toast their glowing charms,
Their virtue ev'ry bosom warms,
We'll die to guard them safe from harms,
It is a fed'ral duty.

VI.

Here's to Vermont state, boys,
And all her manly rustic joys,
Here's to Vermont state, boys,
Columbia's brave defender:
For while our pines ascend on high,
And while our mountains mock the sky,
Our independence, liberty,
We never will surrender.

VII.

Here's to the sage of Quincy, boys,
Legal head of all our joys.
Here's to the sage of Quincy, boy,
Who guards us while we're drinking:
For while we quaff the boozy wine,
And ease and tipsy mirth combine--
With temp'rate head he sits sublime,
And for our good is thinking.

VIII.

Now come join hand in hand, boys,
Mystic type of fed'ral joys,
Now come join hand in hand boys,
Like brother, brother greeting;
For while our union we pursue,
'Tis I and he, and you and you,
Our pleasure all may yet renew,
At our next fed'ral meeting.