Stand to it noble pikemen,

And look you round about;
And shoot you right you bow-men,
And we will keep them out:
You musquet and callìver men,
Do you prove true to me,
I'le be the formost man in fight,
Says brave lord Willoughbèy.

And then the bloody enemy
They fiercely did assail,

And fought it out most furiously,

Not doubting to prevail;

The wounded men on both sides fell Most pitious for to see,

Yet nothing could the courage quell

Of brave lord Willoughbèy.

For seven hours to all mens view

This fight endured sore, Until our men so feeble grew

That they could fight no more;

And then upon dead horses

Full savourly they eat,
And drank the puddle water,
They could no better get.

When they had fed so freely,

They kneeled on the ground,

And praised God devoutly

For the favour they had found;

And beating up their colours,
The fight they did renew,
And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
A thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
And bullets thick did fly;
Then did our valiant soldiers
Charge on most furiously;
Which made the Spaniards waver,
They thought it best to flee,
They fear'd the stout behaviour
Of brave lord Willoughbèy.

Then quoth the Spanish general,
Come let us march away,
I fear we shall be spoiled all
If here we longer stay;
For yonder comes lord Willoughbèy
With courage fierce and fell,

He will not give one inch of way
For all the devils in hell.

And then the fearful enemy
Was quickly put to flight,
Our men pursued couragiously,
And caught their forces quite :
But at last they gave a shout,
Which ecchoed through the sky,
God, and St. George for England!
The conquerers did cry.

This news was brought to England
With all the speed might be,
And soon our gracious queen was told
Of this same victory:

O this is brave lord Willoughbèy,

My love that ever won,

Of all the lords of honour

'Tis he great deeds hath done.

To th' souldiers that were maimed,
And wounded in the fray,
The queen allow'd a pension
Of fifteen pence a day ;
And from all costs and charges
She quit and set them free:
And this she did all for the sake
Of brave lord Willoughbèy.

Then courage, noble Englishmen,
And never be dismaid;
If that we have but one to ten,
We will not be afraid

To fight with foraign enemies,
And set our nation free:

And thus I end the bloody bout
Of brave lord Willoughbèy.

THE ORIGIN OF THE

MONDAY NIGHT'S CLUB, AT IPSWICH.

This Club was first established in the year 1725, and consisted of an unlimited number of members. They met alternately at each other's houses on every Monday evening; and although there were many wig members amongst them, yet, in politics, they were all most decided tories. The club ceased to exist in the year 1812.

The following Song, which was sung at their annual dinner, was written by the late Dr. Clubbe. He had practised for many years in Ipswich, both as a Surgeon, and as a Physician; and died at his house in Brook-street, after a long and painful illness, April 25th, 1811, in the 71st. year of his age. The Doctor

was the eldest son of the Rev. John Clubbe, rector of Whatfield, and vicar of Debenham, the author of an admirable piece of irony, levelled against modern antiquaries, "The History and Antiquities of Wheatfield." Of the Doctor, who was a man of considerable humour, and of a most chearful disposition, many pleasant anecdotes are still in the recollection of his friends. To a pun, or a facetious story he was no enemy. His medical acquirements had deservedly obtained for him the highest esteem of the public; while the suavity of his manners, and the sociability of his character, had justly endeared him to a large circle of acquaintance. He published "A Treatise on the Inflamation in the "breasts of lying-in Women, 1779," 8vo. and "On "the Venereal Poison, 1782," 8vo. He lies buried in the church-yard of St. Stephen, Ipswich, and in the church a neat mural monument has been erected to his memory, with the following inscription in Capitals:

TO THE MEMORY OF

JOHN CLUBBE,

LATE A VERY EMINENT
PHYSICIAN, IN THIS PLACE,
WHO DIED 25TH. APRIL 1811,
AGED 70 YEARS.
His well known probity,
Universal benevolence,

Friendly disposition, obliging temper
And engaging manners

During a long Residence in this Town,
Endeared him to all

Who sought either his acquaintance
As a friend

Or his assistance as a Physician
And his loss

Is as generally lamented.

In the year twenty-five, as by oral tradition,

A set of Choice Spirits, enliven'd by wine, Agreed 'mong themselves, in a special commission, To erect a new banquet at Bacchus's shrine.

N

All rosy, good humour'd, and full of invention,

By some proper name the new meeting to dub, They agreed one and all, not a voice in dissention, It's name shou'd be called, THE MONDAY NIGHT'S CLUB.

Prefix'd thus its name, time and place they selected When and where they shou'd hold their nocturnal

carouses;

And one night in each week they by vote then directed The Club should be held at each others own houses.

To secure its existence came next in discussion,
For clubs, if not foster'd, fall into decay;
They decreed all it's members, in future succession,
In Religion and Party shou'd think the same way.

In Party, the Tories shou'd first be admitted,

And of them only those who reside in the town ; In Religion, Church Priests shou'd alone be permitted, And both as the true and staunch friends of the Crown.

A wag then exclaim'd, my good friends, you're aware Mere Religion or Party can't keep it from sinking; We must make out a bill of some good wholesome fare,

For no club can exist without eating and drinking.

Let it's fare be quite simple, bread, butter, and cheese,

Hot suppers inflame and distemper the brain; Nice stomachs may then eat or not as they please, And sup and re-sup o'er again and again.