The Columbian songster and Freemason's pocket companion. A collection of the newest and most celebrated sentimental, convivial, humourous, satirical, pastoral, hunting, sea and masonic songs, being the largest and best collection ever published in America. / Selected by S. Larkin.

THE COLUMBIAN SONGSTER, &c.

THE TRUE AMERICAN.

WHEN our enemies rise and defiance proclaim, Undaunted to battle we fly; Forget the soft ties that enervate the frame, And fight 'till we conquer or die: Our sweethearts we leave, nay our children and wives, And brave all the danger of wars, We fight that the rest may live peaceable lives, And stand 'till the last in their cause.

In the heat of the battle, when loud cannons roar, And the wounded our vengeance excite, We muster our men, more enrag'd than before, And with double the fury we fight, When th' tumult is o'er, and th' unfortunate slain, Are decently laid in the ground, To our friends and our homes we return once again, With honor and victory crown'd.

ERE AROUND THE HUGE OAK.

ERE around the huge oak that o'er shadows yon mill The fond ivy had dar'd to entwine, Ere the church was a ruin that nods on that hill, Or a rook built her nest in that pine;

Cou'd I trace back the time ••much earlier date, Since my fore-••ers toil'd in this field; And the farm I now hold on your honour's estate, Is the same that my grand-father till'd.

He dying bequeath'd to his son a good ••e, Which unfullied descended to me; For my child I've preserv'd it, unblemish'd with shame, And it still from a spot shall be free.

THE CIRCLE.

WE meet as a circle, our title's the same, May the circle of honor be ever our fame; May friendship and truth be the basis of all, And mirth and good humour be found in our hall; And Oh! may we ne'er from this maxim depart, The circle of honor engrav'd on the heart.

The sun is a circle of splendour most bright, The moon is a circle which governs the night; The stars they are circles—the world too, beside, Is a well-balanc'd circle on which we all ride: Then from this firm maxim let's ne••r depart, The circle of honor engrav'd on the heart.

If COLUMBIA must join in the loud din of war, Now heard in the nations both near and afar, May glory attend her from pole unto pole▪ Wherever winds blow, and wherever seas roll; And, Oh! may she ne'r from this maxim depart, The circle of ho•• 〈…〉〈…〉 on the heart.

May each to his frien•• be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 constant and 〈◊〉〈◊〉, And anger or malic•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 our view, May ev'ry good P•• 〈…〉〈…〉 long to reign, And give the old ••er 〈◊〉〈◊〉 again: And still may we ne'•• from 〈…〉〈…〉 dep••. The circle of honor engrav'd on 〈…〉〈…〉.

Tune.—Rule Britannia.

WHEN our great Sires this land explor'd, A shelter from tyrannie wrong! Led on by heav'ns Almighty Lord, They sung—and acted well the song, Rise united! dare be freed! Our sons shall vindicate the deed.

In vain the region they would gain, Was distant, dreary, undisclos'd, In vain th' Atlantic roar'd between, And hosts of savages oppos'd, They rush'd undaunted, heav'n decreed Their sons should vindicate the deed.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••edom led the vet'rans forth, And ••ly fortitude to bear, They to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ey vanquish'd! such high worth Is 〈…〉〈…〉 ••eculiar care, The•• 〈…〉〈…〉 still ••spires, Nor 〈…〉〈…〉 our sires.

'Tis ours undaunted to defend The dear-bought, ••ich Inheritance; And spite of each invading hand, We'll fight, bleed, die! in its defence, Pursue our father's path to same, And emulate their glorious flame.

As the proud oak inglorious stands, 'Till storms, and thunder root it fast, So stood our new, unpractic'd bands, 'Till Britain roar'd her stormy blast. Then he•• they vanquish'd, fierce led on By freedom, and great WASHINGTON.

Hail, godlike hero! born to save! Ne'er shall thy deathless laurels fade, But on that brow eternal wave, And consecrate blest Vernon's shade.

Thy spreading glories still encrease, 'Till earth, and time, and nature cease.

Oh! may that spirit ••n thee shed, Columbia's truest, noblest friend! On thy successor's honour'd head, In copious, double, show'rs descend! This charge to ADAMS be consign'd, Be thou the second of mankind.

So when Elijah, call'd to heav'n, Up in the flaming chariot rode, Elisha took the mantle giv'n, And rose a prophet—or a god! Then shout great ADAMS! Freedom's son! Immortal heir of WASHINGTON.

ODE TO COLUMBIA'S FAVOURITE SON.

GREAT WASHINGTON, the Hero's come, Each heart exulting hears the sound; See! thousands their deliv'rer throng, And shout him welcome all around.

CHORUS.

Now in full chorus burst the song, And shout the deeds of Washington!

There view Columbia's Favourite Son, Her Father, Saviour, Friend and Guide! There see th' Immortal WASHINGTON! His Country's Glory, Boast and Pride! Now in full chorus, &c.

When the impending storm of war, Thick clouds and darkness hid our way, Great WASHINGTON, our Polar Star, Arose, and all was light as day! Now in full chorus, &c.

His bleeding country rous'd his foul, Fair Freedom su'd the Warriour's breast,

And drew the glitt'ring faulchion bold, And round him clasp'd the martial vest. Now in full chorus, &c.

Then nobly spake th' intrepid chief, "Freedom or Death be now my fate! "This burnish'd blade no more I'll sheathe, "'Till Paria's made an Empire great!" Now in full chorus, &c.

This said, the Hero bent his way, Where thousands throng'd war's deathful coast; At his approach, Fear fled away, And dauntless brav'ry fir'd the host! Now in full chorus, &c.

'Twas on yon Plains his valour rose, And ran like fire from man to man; 'Twas here he humbled Parian's foes, And chac'd an army to the main! Now in full chorus, &c.

Thro' countless dangers, toils and cares. Our hero led us safely on; With matchless skill directs the wars, 'Till vict'ry cries—the day's his own! Now in full chorus, &c.

His country sav'd, the contest o'er, Sweet Peace restor'd, his toils to crown, The Warriour to his native shore Returns, and tills his fertile ground. Now in full chorus, &c.

But soon Columbia call'd him forth, Again to save her sinking same, To take the Helm, and by his worth To make her an immortal name! Now in full chorus, &c.

Nor yet alone thro' Paria's shores,

Has fame her mighty trumpet blown; E'en Europe, Africk, Asia, hears, And emulate the deeds he's done! Now in full chorus, &c.

Accept, great Chief, this tribute due, To deeds of virtue such as thine; Thy glorious footstep we'll pursue And in our hearts thy worth enshrine! Now in full chorus, &c.

IN PRAISE OF MUSIC.

SWEET Music's aid we haply share To charm the ills of wayward life, To smooth the ruffled brow of care, And cheer when all within is strife, Harmonia's sons your hearts and voices raise, And join ye pow'rs in music's praise.

The call melodious we obey, And fain would sing its pow'rs divine; Hark! 'tis Apollo joins the lay, Responsive shout the sacred Nine. Harmonia's Sons, &c.

'Tis thou canst madd'ning rage disarm, And free the mind from base alloys, And when distressing fears alarm, 'Wake in the soul celestial joys. Harmonia's sons, &c.

Orpheus fam'd as poets tell, (So wond'rous were the magic strains;) Whose pow'rs, transportive, fled thro' hell, And soth'd awhile its endless pains. Harmonia's sons, &c.

While earth and hell its charms admire, (All praise to music does belong,) Angels seraphic strike the lyre, And join th•• universal song. Harmonia's sons, &c.

May jarring discord ever cease, And all our lives harmonious prove, 'Till in the happier realms of peace, We "taste what Angels do above." Harmonia's sons, &c.

ONCE THE GODS OP THE GREEKS.

ONCE the Gods of the Greeks at ambrosial feast Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing, Merry Momus among them was set as a guest, Homer says the celestials lov'd laughing, On each in the s'ynod, the humorist droll'd, So none could his jokes disapprove; He sang reparteed, and some smart stories told, And at last thus began upon Jove.

"Sire Atlas who long has the universe bore, "Grows greviously tired of late; "He says that mankind are much worse than before, "So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove knowing the world on poor Atlas was hurl'd From his shoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter Attraction the charge of the world, And she hung it up high in his hall.

Miss pleas'd with the present review'd the globe round, To see what each climate was worth; Like a di'mond the whole with an atmosphere bound, And she variously planted the earth. With silver, gold, jewels, she India endow'd; France and Spain she taught Vineyards to rear, What suited each clime on each clime she bestow'd, And FREEDOM she found flourish here.

Four Cardinal virtues she left in this isle, As guardians to cherish the root, The blossoms of LIBERTY 'gan for to smile, And Americans fed on the fruit, Thus fed and thus bred from a bounty so rare,

O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n, We will while we've breath-nay we'll grasp it in death, Then return it untainted to Heav'n.

THE HOBBIES.

ATTENTION pray give while of hobbies I sing; For each has his hobby, from cobler to King: On some fav'rite hobby we all get astride, And when we're once mounted full gallop we ride. All on hobbies, All on hobbies, All on hobbies, Gee up, gee O.

Some hobbies are restive and hard for to govern, E'en just like our wives, they're so cursedly stubborn; The hobbies of Scolds are their husbands to teaze, And the hobbies of Lawyers are plenty of fees.

The Beaux, those sweet gentlemen's hobbies, good lack! Is to wear great large poultices ty'd round the neck; And think in the ton and the tippey they're drest, If they've breeches that reach from the ancle to chest.

The hobbies of Sailors, when safe moor'd in port, With their wives and their sweethearts to toy and to sport, When our navy's completed, their hobby shall be To shew the whole world that America's free.

The hobbies of Soldiers, in time of great wars, Are breaches and battles, with blood wounds and scars; But in peace you'll observe that quite different their trade is— The hobbies of Soldiers in peace, are the ladies.

The Ladies, sweet creatures, yes, they now and then Get astride of their hobbies, ay, just like the men; With smiles and with simpers beguile us with ease, And we gallop, trot, amble, e'en just as they please.

The Americans' hobby has long since been known; No tyrant or king shall from them have a throne; Their States are united, and let it be said Their hobby is WASHINGTON, Peace, and free Trade.

THE PROPHETS.

IN the first book of Job, which I now mean to quote, At the fifth and sixth verses you'll find it thus wrote: "So Moses invited some Prophets to dine, And drink a few bottles of gooseberry wine." Derry down.

Then Moses was plac'd in the chair in a trice, And Aaron his crony deputed his Vice; When the glass moving quick, and the wine being strong, Moses swore they shou'dn't stir till they'd each sung a song.

Some looked askew sir, at first Moses saw, But whate'er Moses said, why you know sir, was law; Nay he frankly declar'd, that should any decline, He would fine them a bumper of gooseberry wine.

Little David it seems sir, first was the choice, For they very well knew he'd an excellent voice; But he vow'd he cou'dn't sing, they swore 'twas a thumper. And poor little David was fin'd in a bumper.

Rear-Admiral Noah, whom much has been said of, And his jaunt on the water, which we've all read of; Not liking thin gooseberry, call'd for a dram, Hnd gave them the song which he sung to young Ham.

NOAH'S SONG.

Tune—"Heaving of the Lead."

AND bearing up to gain the port, Some well known object had in view; An Abbey tower, or harbour fort, Which e'er the flood old Noah knew, While oft the lead the seamen flang, And to the watchful pilot sung, By the mark seven.

Ezekiel rose next sir—a very great smoaker, But in lighting his pipe, burnt his nose with the poker, Being skilful in music, and proud of his voice, With exquisite fancy, this song was his choice.

EZEKIEL'S SONG.

Tune—"Knibb's ••nd."

WHY Moses, why Aaron, my 〈◊〉〈◊〉▪ I am glad I've met with you ••ere••▪ For Zeky, as all of you knows, Is fond of a drap of good beer— If you mean for to pass all the night, Why say such are your purpose and ends, And d—n me, we'll have a good bout, For I loves a full pot with my friends.

Then Solomon rose sir, all in his glory, And said he had much rather tell them a story; But the cry against that was a great deal too strong, For they would have nothing but "Solomon's song."

SOLOMON'S SONG.

I'VE kiss'd and I've prattled with fifty fair maids, And chang'd them as oft do ye see; But of all the fair damsels that dance on the green, Dear Sheba's the queen for me.

Next Habakuk rose, for they took 'em in course, But Habakuk's cold had made Habakuk hoarse; He declar'd he cou'dn't sing any more than the moon, But if Moses pleas'd he would whistle a tune— "LILLABULERO."

Jeremiah rose next sir, at Moses' desire, Whom wit, sir, nor wine sir cou'd ever inspire: And in strains which wou'd suit the commemoration, He sung them a verse of his own Lamentation.

JEREMIAH'S SONG.

Tune—"Queen Mary's Lamentation."

I SIGH and lament me in vain, These walls can but echo my moan;

Alas, it increases my pain, When I think of the days that are gone; Thro' the grate of my window I see, The boys as at marbles they play; I cry, and exclaim out—ah, me! I once could play better than they.

Then up rose little Jonah, who look'd like a jelly, For he was just come sir, from out the whale's belly; For three days and three nights, was he left to despair, But he'd sing to Moses what he suffer'd there.

JONAH'S SONG.

CEASE rude Boreas, blust'ring railer, List ye landsmen all to me; Messmates hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea. In the horrid belly pent, sir, Think on what I suffer'd there— Forc'd to keep a dismal Lent, sir, And to breath infectious air: Nought but fish to feed upon sir, And compell'd to eat it raw; All my hopes were almost gone, sir, E'er I left the monstrous jaw.

Then Sampson rose next, once in prowess so big, But at that time friend Sampson had just got his wig▪ He related the tale of his dire mishap, How his wife shav'd his head, as he slept in her lap.

SAMPSON'S SONG.

Oh dear, what can the matter be? Oh dear, what can the matter be? Sampson has lost all his hair! Oh that I e'er should have taken so sound a nap, Oh that I e'er should have taken it in her lap, Oh that I had but tied on my red night cap, Then Sampson had ne'er lost his hair. Oh dear, what can the matter be? Mercy on me what can the matter be, &c.

They next call'd on Job, as a song was his sort, But they begg'd as 'twas late, that his song might be short; So he sung Chevy Chace, to a dismal psalm tune, Which the Prophets all thought would have lasted till noon.

Now Moses, it seems, sir, who good hours kept, Whilst they sat a singing, why he sat and slept; But wak'd by the noise sir, of crying encore, He bid them get home, for they should drink no more.

Well-bred Aaron, it seems sir, at this took offence, And swore want of good manners, shew'd want of good sense; This caus'd a dispute, some reflections were cast, But for decency's sake, we'll not mention what past.

FAVORITE SONGS, in the Comic Opera of ABROAD AND AT HOME.

THE heart that has ne'er tasted sorrow, E'en happiness often will cloy; And we ever from misery borrow Our knowledge of exquisite joy.

To those who all anguish wou'd smother, The best use of life is unknown; To feel for the woes of another, Or value the bliss that's their own.

I NE'ER by a lass yet was scouted, I know the right method to get her, No cringing for me, I'll soon let her see That I'm bold—and she'll like me the better.

I'm a boy that's not easily flouted, If she give herself airs, why e'en let her. When to kiss her I try, "You're rude," Sir, she'll cry. Why I am—and you like me the better.

When she finds that I'm not to be routed, And at morn, noon, and night I beset her, She'll alter her tone, And readily own Tho' I'm rude, that she likes me the better.

WHEN to my pretty Poll I went, And I to travel sought her, "Ah, stay at home, dear Jack," says she, "I cannot cross the water." What could I do? Away I flew, A curricle I bought her; Six smoaking bays, all Hyde Park's gaze, From Tatterfalls I brought her. "Dear Jack," says she, "how kind you be! (She'd coax'd like Eve's own daughter,) "With you will I both live and die, "Do all but cross the water." Then, splashing, dashing through the town, She drove the stare of all, The echo of her rattling wheels, Was, "There goes pretty Poll!" "Oh, pretty, pretty Poll!" From every tongue the echo rung "See, there goes pretty Poll!"

What a lad then was I! All to dress at me try, And my praise to withhold none so currish. With a girl so divine, Such dinners! such wine! What a damn'd clever dog was Jack Flourish! But an end to my cash, My fame goes to smash, No friends my good qualities nourish; For they, once so kind, Now agree in one mind. What a damn'd stupid flat is Jack Flourish!

Thus, cut by my friends, by bailiffs seiz'd, And this vile limbo near, Yet with one hope I still was pleas'd, That Poll my cage would cheer, To Poll I told where I must go, And not to leave me sought her; She laughing, cried, "Dear Jack you know— "I cannot cross the water."

IN the smiles of the fair, Is the best cure for care, If ruffled our bosom, they charm it to ease; Or with eyes sweetly glancing, Our hearts they set dancing, They calm us and rouse us e'en just as they please.

The wise prop of a state, Or the warrior so great, Oft bows down to kiss Beauty's rod on his knees; 'Tis the province of Beauty, To teach men their duty, For women can do with us just what they please.

E'en the miser quits gold, Their bright charms to behold, And gives them his soul, for he yields them his keys; The dear rogues are so clever, Oh! bless 'em for ever, And may they rule over us just as they please.

WHAT a hard lot is ours now, indeed and indeed, 'Tis a terrible life we poor servants lead, Up early and late, To toil and to wait, To do as one's bid, Yet for ever be chid, Ill humours to bear, And yet not to dare,

Tho' with anger we burn, To be spiteful and cross in return.— What a hard l••'s ours then, indeed and indeed, 'Tis a terrible life that we poor servants lead.

To be sure, when one happens a service to get in,— Where, to aid Madam's frolics, her secrets we're let in, Why then, I must own, of our blabbing afraid, The maid is the mistress, the mistress the maid. They coax one so pretty, 'Tis "dear Miss Kitty! You're so kind and clever, I'll love you for ever." Our wages they double, Yet give us no trouble, And, while they're so civil, We're as saucy and pert as the devil.— What a hard lot is theirs then, indeed and indeed, 'Tis a terrible life our poor Mistresses lead!

But the times are so alter'd, these places are rare now, For who knows their intrigues there are few ladies care now, A faux pas to conceal they will use little labour, Whilst each lady's in countenance kept by her neighbour. Their spouses so kind too, Such soibles are blind to, Nay, some will assume our vocation; If a go-between's needed, We're pass'd by unheeded, The husband takes our occupation. What a strange lot is theirs then! indeed and indeed 'Tis a whimsical life that some husbands lead.

WOMAN now by grace and feature, Sighs and vows, will not be caught, If you have the pretty creature, The pretty creature must be bought. You may swear, You may tear,

You may cry, You may lie, You may kneel, You may feel All the pangs that from love's raging fervours arise, And proclaim her an angel dropt down from the skies. No pity she shews For your budget of woes; She scoffs at your tears, and derides all your pain, And e'en darling flatt'ry assails her in vain.— Who then finds the way His addresses do pay, In a style which this whimsical creature can fix— He who drives to her door In a chariot and four, Or old Nick himself in a fine coach and six.

O LET MY HARBOUR BE YOUR ARMS PRETTY POLLY.

FROM North to South, from East to West, I have plough'd the ocean wide, With fearful danger oft opprest, By warring winds and tide The billows roll'd, the ship was toss'd, My heart was sunk, my hopes were lost; But now return'd and free from harms, O let my harbour be your arms, My pretty, pretty Polly.

When whizzing balls around me flew, My heart would sink thro' fear, But rous'd by one blest thought of you, My life became more dear: Boldly I fought my country's foe, And laurels crown'd thy Harry's brow, I dar'd all dangers, scorn'd alarms, In hopes to harbour in your arms, My pretty, pretty Polly.

For you I toil'd, for you I fought, My thoughts were still on you, The life I sav'd the wealth I sought, Had still your bliss in view: With store of gold, to make you gay, I'm now safe moor'd in beauty's bay, Secure from storms and rude alarms, My harbour now shall be your arms, My pretty, pretty Polly.

LISTEN TO THE VOICE OF LOVE.

O LISTEN, listen to the voice of love, He calls my Daphne to the grove, The primrose sweet bedecks the field; The tuneful birds invite to rove, To softer joys let splendor yield, O listen, listen to the voice of love.

Where flow'rs their blooming scents exhale, My Daphne let us fondly stray, Where whisp'ring love breathes forth his tale, And shepherds sing their artless lay. O listen, listen to the voice of love, He calls my Daphne to the grove.

Come share with me the sweets of spring, And leave the town's tumultuous noise; The happy swains all cheerful sing. And echo still repeats their joys; Then listen, listen to the voice of love, He calls my Daphne to the grove.

NANCY.

Tune—Dibdin's Sailor's Journal.

ONE sweet May morn, in woody dale, From a fond parent first I parced, And kept along the winding vale, With broken steps and all down hearted—

In climbing slow the village hill, Full oft I turn'd, indulging fancy— When on its brow I ling'ring still, Look'd, sigh'd, and wept—Ah! happy Nancy!

The Chester coach, for London, now Took up its burden gay and cheary— But as it lengthen'd on my view, The busy road to me seem'd dreary: Silent, my flying couch I prest— Yet to amuse my troubled fancy, I sometimes caught the passing jest, I heard and smil'd—Ah, thoughtless Nancy!

And now arriv'd at that dear spot, The bound of many a village longing, Soon humbler views were all forgot, 'Midst high rais'd hopes, alternate thronging▪ With flatt'ry so it prov'd to be, The men caught every female fancy, And, when in turn it fix'd on me, I fond believ'd—Ah! simple Nancy!

Too soon the dreadful storm came on— Gay London—would I sought it never! Saw one more hapless ma••d undone, And wreck'd her fairest hopes for ever! The day was passed with silent woe, At night, it may be only fancy— A pitying angel whisper'd low, Fly hence! or thou art lost—poor Nancy!

At break of day, disguis'd, alone, I urg'd my flight, scarce knowing whither— And left, for e'er, the vicious town, And a gay villain's arms together: Thus quitting both, yet, woman still, A thousand fears rush on my fancy— Ah, may, at last, kind chance reveal Some friendly shade, to hide poor Nancy.

THE TINKER's SONG.

MY daddy was a tinker's son, And I'm his boy, 'tis ten to one Here's pots to mend! was still his cry, Here's pots to mend! aloud bawl I— Have ye any tin pots, kettles, or cans, Coppers to solder, or brass pans. Of wives my dad had near a score, And I have twice as many more— And what's as wonderful as true, My daddy was the lord (upon my soul he was) the lord knows who!

'Tis a hard matter for a child to know its own father— besides, my mother was a queen!—O! yes, she was Queen of the Gypsies, and perhaps I was born a Prince! tho' now, like other tinkers, I mend one hole and make two, with my

Ran, tan, tan, ran, tan, tan, For pots or can, oh I'm your man, With my ran tan, &c.

Once I in budget snug had got A barn-door capon, and what not— Here's pots to mend! I cried along, Here's pots to mend! was still my song. At village wake—oh, curse his throat! The cock crow'd out so loud a note, The folks in clusters flock'd around, They seiz'd my budget, in it found The cock, a gammon, pease and beans, Besides a jolly tinker (yes by the lord) a tinker's ways and means.

Oh! they took my all, left me nothing but my paternal estate, which consisted of my—

Ran tan, tan, &c.

Like dad, when I to quarters come, For want of cash the folks I hum—

Here's pots to mend! bring me some beer! The landlord cries 'you'll get none here, 'You tink'ring dog, your tricks I know, 'More beer indeed! pay what you owe!' In rage I squeeze him 'gainst the door, And with his back rub off my score: At his expence I drown all strife, For which I praise the landlord (could not do no less than praise) the landlord's wife.

Because she was pretty. What a lovely shape and beautiful eyes! Ma'am, (says I) one pot more, and score it up to the tinker—and if you should want any thing in my way, you may always command me, and my—

Ran, tan, tan, &c.

THE WAVES WERE HUSH'D.

THE waves were hush'd—the sky serene, When sailing on the main, Ben from the main-top view'd the scene, And sung in tender strain: Dear ••all, this picture round my neck, Which bears thy likeness true, Shall e'er my faithful bosom deck, Which throbs for only you.

Still was the night when last on shore, We took a parting kiss, And warm the vows each other swore, To meet again in bliss: A token then my Sally gave, 'Tis this which now I view— And in my heart shall ever live, Which throbs for only you.

Sweet ••all wherever you may rove, Ah kindly think on me, And this dear semblance of my love,

Shall prove I doat on thee: Wherever bound by night or day, Still as the needle true, My constant heart shall never stray, Which throbs for only you.

ALLOWANCE OF GROG.

WHEN on board the Hector I first went to sea, How the boatswain did grumble and flog, I swore then no longer a sailor I'd be, 'Till they serv'd my allowance of grog. It was then rough or fair, safe moor'd or at sea, Going large from the land or close under the lee, For to reef or to steer, or to wear, Up the hatchway I'd merrily jog, While to moisten my eye, Mister Purser, says I, Pray where's my allowance of grog?

Once sick of a fever, a whole week I lay, From my hammock I hardly could jog, Just like some old junk they had stow'd me away, And stop'd my allowance of grog; Keep her full says I boy, or you're taken a back, And the sharks will be making a meal of poor Jack, For the doctor's mate said he was sure I was dead, 'Till I called him an impudent dog! Hard a starboard, says I, you lubber, you lie, All I want is my quantum of grog.

METALLIC POINTS.

LET men elate, of Doctors prate, That know to spread the plaister; And make a rout to cure the gout, Or any sad disaster.

Not GALEN, or HIPOCRATES, Nor any learned sage, Sir; Could boast such worth, as has its birth, In this enlighten'd age, Sir.

For sting of bee, or bite of flee,

Or stiffness, cold, or wound, Sir, Metallic points will ease the joints, And leave you safe and sound, Sir.

Rheumatic pain, or bruise, or strain, Or pimple, wart, or freckle, But rub enough, they take it off, And never leave a speckle.

Then fear no more, or pain, or sore, Or shaking fits, or jerkings, For each disease, he'll cure with ease, Huzza for Doctor PERKINS.

MONSIEUR NONG TONG PAW.

JOHN BULL, for pastime took a prance, Some time a-go to peep at France, To talk of Sciences and Arts, And knowledge gain in foreign parts. Monsieur obsequious heard him speak. And answered John in hea-then Greek; To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas "Monsieur, je vous n'entend pas."

JOHN to the Palais-royal came, Its splendor almost struck him dumb; I say, whose house is that there here? "House! Je vous n'entend pas, Monsieur." What Nong tong paw again cries JOHN! This fellow is some mighty don! No doubt has plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nong tong paw.

JOHN saw Varseilles from Marli's height, And cried astonished at the sight, Whose fine estate is that there here? Stat! Je vous n'entend pas, Monsieur, His? what the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew; On every thing he lays his claw, I should like to dine with Nong tong paw.

Next tripping by a courtly fair, JOHN cried, enchanted with her air, What lovely wench is that there here? Ventch! Je vous n'entend pas, Monsieur. What, he again? upon my life; A palace, lands, and then a wife, Sir JOSHUA might delight to draw, I should like to sup with Nong tong paw.

But hold, whose fun'ral's that: cried John, "Je vous n'entend pas: What is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nong tong paw, then, from the grave. His race is run, his game is up, I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he's chosen to withdraw, Good night t'ye Monsieur Nong Tong Paw.

A RUSTIC's SONG.

SINCE plenty has crown'd All our labours, and sound Us, her horn full of October b••er; Then the ••ge ••ng and glass, To each 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••nd shall free pass, And we'll drink to her health most sincere, And we'll drink, &c. &c.

Then each lad and each lass, Fill ••he times as they pass, With the sweets of our rustical cheer; Then around the huge oak Well 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a good joke, And we'll ••aff our brown October beer, And we'll quaff, &c. &c.

Then ye Cits, who content, With the musty towns scent; Take a ••ss of our air that's so clear, Be refresh'd as you smell The perfumes of the gale,

And you'll drink of our best nut brown beer, And you'll drink, &c. &c.

Then we'll join round our oak, And we'll make the plain smoke, With those sports to us rustics so dear, Then each lass shall prolong Our best sports with a song, While we drink our brown October beer, While we drink, &c. &c.

THE PRESIDENT.

IN my club-room so great, When I'm seated in state, At the head of the table I shine; With hammer in hand, Zounds, how I command, As I push round the bumpers of wine: Then after we've toasted the health of the King, Mr. Brisket the butcher is call'd on to sing. "SIR I'LL DO MY BEST," Ma chere amie, &c.

Now I wink and I stare, At my next neighbour's chair, 'Tis with you sir, a lady to give, A dutchess at least, Must now grace our feast— Then the thanks of the room I receive— 'Till silence is called all the table along, And a bald-pated gentleman sings us a song, "I'LL TRY GENTLEMEN," With my pipe in one hand, &c.

Then we drink and push round the bowl, Till a medley at last sums up the whole; Whilst so pleas'd all the club-room declare, Bobby B•• is the man for the chair.

THE WOODMAN.

FAR remov'd from noise or smoke, Hark! I hear the woodman's stroke, Who dreams not as he fells the oak, The mischief dire he brews: How art may shape his falling trees, In aid of luxury and ease, He weighs not matters such as these, But sings and hacks and hews.

Perhaps now fell'd by this bold man, That tree shall form the spruce sedan, Or wheelbarrow, where oyster Nan So runs her vulgar rig: The stage where boxers croud in flocks, Or else a quack's, perhaps the stocks, Or posts for signs, or barber's blocks, Where smiles the parson's wig.

Thou mak'st, bold peasant, oh what grief, The gibbet on which hangs the thief, The seat where sits the grave Lord Chief, The throne, the cobler's stall— Thou pamperest life in every stage, Mak'st folly's whim, pride's equipage, For children toys—crutches for age, And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford, These chairs and this convival board, The bin that holds gay Bacchus' hoard, Confess the Woodman's stroke: He made the press that bled the vine, The butt that holds the generous wine— The hall itself, where tiplers join To crack the mirthful joke.

THE SHEPHERD BOY.

ONCE friends I had, but ah! too soon, Death rob'd me of my parents dear, Left me to mourn my wretched doom,

And wander friendless in despair; Forlorn o'er hills and dales I rov'd, Depriv'd of ev'ry earthly joy, At length a swain, by pity mov'd, Made me an humble Shepherd's Boy.

Soon as I view the dawn of day, To flow'ry plains my flocks I lead, And whilst for food my Lambkins stray, On some lone bank I tune my reed, Did those who bathe in seeming bliss, Once taste the sweets that I enjoy, They'd wish for humble happiness, And envy me the Shepherd Boy.

When down the Western Sky the Sun, Descends to gladden Eastern climes, 'Tis then my daily toil is done, And I to rest repair betimes; In rustic garb 'tis true I'm clad, Yet nothing does my peace annoy, And tho' my fortune is but sad, Still heaven may bless the Shepherd Boy.

THE GIRL OF MY HEART.

HOW sweet is the breeze at eve's modest hour, When it murmurs yon lime trees among; When the blackbird and thrush so enchantingly pour Their melodious sweetness of song; When slowly adown from the warm glowing west, The bright sun is seen to depart, When all passions but love are hush'd into rest, I fly to the girl of my heart.

My Anna is gentle, is lovely and kind, Her bosom true sympathy warms; Enchanting alike are her person and mind, Each possesses a portion of charms; For a maiden so lovely,—a charmer so bright, Who uses no coquetish art;

I resign all the trifles that others delight, And fly to the girl of my heart.

Her eyes that so languidly speak soft desire, Her cheeks that so rival the rose, In my bosom the softest emotions inspire, And charm my fond heart to repose; And when her sweet accents enraptur'd I hear, Thro' my soul they so thrillingly dart; Oh! What sounds of sweet melody strike my rapt ear, When I meet—the sweet girl of my heart.

THE INTRIGUING IRISHMAN.

THE first of my pranks was at little Ratshane, Where love, faith, like whisky, popt into my brain, For Ally Mc Gulloch, a sweet little soul, As tall and as strait as a shaver-man's pole;

Och, she was a sweet creature! with a bloom on her face like a Munster potatoe—I met her going to market one morn|ing with a basket under one of her arms.—Where do you come from my dear? says I. From Clanterduffy, Sir, says she— And what's your name, my dear? Ally M'Gulloch, Sir, says she—Och, what a soft beautiful name!

To be sure then I told her a piece of my mind, Till she left her old dad and the basket behind.

But soon I was dying for Molly Mc Gree, A sweet tender shoot just come up from Tralee; O sweet Molly, says I, do pray case my pain, By St. Patrick, says she, Sir, pray what do you mane?

Mane! says I,—Why to marry you to be sure, my dear.— But do you tho'? says she—To be sure I do,—What do you think of me? Oh, there's no resisting ye, says she.—So we were to be married next day—

But as the devil would have it a thick fog came on, When I looked for the church, oh I found it was gone▪

But morning and night she was always my plague,

Faith 'tis time then, says I, for to leave off intrigue; So from Cork I set sail, in a d—d open boat, With some cash in my pocket, two shirts, and a coat;

We sailed so plagued slow, that a big storm overtook us—To be sure I didn't swallow a little of the sea broth—but the worst of my misfortunes was, when I landed there was Molly McGree! and she put into my arms a grate ugly squalling brat, with a head as big as a bushel of potatoes—what's this? says I— 'Tis your own Teddy, says she, and as like ye as two peas.— Teddy be d—d, says I, toke it away, woman; I tell ye I don't know any thing at all of the matter.

Then to end my intriguing, I went off to sea, And bid a good morning to Molly Mc Gree.

THE BEGGAR.

A BEGGAR I am, and of low degree, For I come of a begging family, I'm lame, but when in a fighting bout, I whip off my leg and I fight it out; In running I leave the beadle behind, And a lass I can see, tho' alas I am blind, Thro' town and village I gaily jog, My music, the bell of my little dog. I'm cloath'd in rags, I'm hung with bags, That round me wags; I've a bag for my salt, A bag for my malt, A bag for the leg of a goose! For my oats a bag, For my groats a bag, And a bottle to hold my booze: It's now, heaven bless you for your charity, And then push the cann about, fol de rol de re.

Bless your noble honour, and your good lady, I hope you will ••r know the loss of a leg or an eye.

H••aven bless you for your charity, Then push about the cann, fol de rol. &c.

In begging a farthing, I'm poor and old, In spending, a noble, I'm stout and bold, When a brave full company I see, It's "My noble masters, your charity!" But when a traveller I meet alone, "Stand and deliver, or I'll knock you down," All day for a wandering mumper I pass, All night—O a barn and a buxom lass. I'm cloathed, &c.

O'WHACK!

O LOVE! what the duce do you want in my bosom, Get out of my sight and my heart let alone? For had I a score I should certainly loose 'em, As that I possess is no longer my own; What means all this thumping, this flutt'ring and beating, O good Master Cupid pray be easy now! I long every Morn for the next Village meeting, Tho' it adds to my pain but I cannot tell how.

Sing lara la, lara, la, lara, Lara la, lara la, lara;

I can't for the life of me make out the reason, Why Love is the only thing ne'er out of season.

Och when on the green we were all of us dancing, 'Twas there I first felt the effect of her eyes, Each moment she'd seize to be privately glancing Fond looks at a heart she had caught by surprize; She shot thro' and thro' like a loud clap of thunder, My heart a large hole in my bosom did burn, And fled to her arms, then pray where is the wonder, That her own the dear crater should send in return?

O Cupid! you're surely of Irish extraction, O help your poor countryman now at a pinch, If you'll stand my friend in the heat of the action, May I ne'er see Kilkenny again, if I flinc••▪

I'm not one of those who are given to lying, I promise no more than I'm able to give, I hate all your nonsense your kneeling and dying, But I'll love her as long as she chuses to live.

THE BOTTLE.

WHILE nostrums are held out to cure each disease, And to parry with pain, or with death as we please, The protractor of life, and preserver of ease, I have ever yet found in a bottle!

For when care like a clog, hangs about my poor heart, And health from the burden seems bent to depart, I the mill-stone shake off, and Death draws back his dart, When he sees that my Doctor's a bottle.

And should love, whose dominion is ever divine, Drench my doating fond eyes in a deluge of brine, Ev'ry tear that I dropt at bright Venus's shrine, Let me drown in the tears of the bottle!

And as pride may prevail, where it ne'er should take place, E're its impulse my portion of prudence disgrace, Let me nobly renounce all the stiff-necked race, To bend down the stiff-neck of a bottle!

Or should av'rice, the first of all vices I'd shun, Shrink the cords of my heart, I'll bet millions to one, That they soon should expand, like the rays of the sun, And benevolence spring from a bottle.

And when time with his scythe, and his silver toupee, Wou'd my Spirits expel from the mansions of glee, They triumphant shall float in a glorious Red Sea! Which eternally flows from the bottle!

A SEA SONG.

Tune—Dibdin's Chelsea Pensioner.

ON board the good ship Molly I sail'd from Portsmouth sound,

And left behind my Polly To trace the world around. To fear I am no stranger, But jovial, bold and free; And for to brave all danger Resolv'd to go to sea.

And now on board so cheerly I drink my flip and grog; My messmates love me dearly, And call me jolly dog. To reef, or luff, or mount the shrouds So merrily am I, Or on the main-top face the clouds, Drunk, sober, wet or dry.

To America then, with pleasure, I bid a long farewel, In hopes to gain some treasure, And poverty repel. But if on board the Molly A fatal cannon ball Should rob me of my Polly, Why then adieu to all.

A SEA SONG.

Tune—Life's like a Sea.

LET the toast be Love and Beauty, While we quaff the gen'rous wine; Bacchus calls us to our duty, Where's the wretch that dare repine? Life we know's a scene of trouble, Jolly messmates ne'er despair; We can prove the world a bubble, Sailing on the seas of care.

While to windward we are plying, Strictly here "Life's compass view; And the shiv'ring topsails flying, Bid yon craggy shore adieu."

Pleasing gales around us veering, While on board the "Good Intent; Like true seamen, wisely steering, To the "Harbour of content."

Gaily sailing on the ocean, Fill brave boys the flowing cann; Trim the sails, observe their motion, Fame and honor lead the van. Let your pilot be discretion, While the raging billows roar; Providence by intercession, Lands us safely on the shore.

HYMEN's EVENING POST.

GREAT news! great news! great news! great news! Great news! great news! I'm hither sent 'Mong mortals to declare, What pass'd in Hymen's parliament, Where Cupid took the chair; They made the wisest, best decree You've known in all your lives; Old Maids shall blest with husbands be, And Bachelors with wives! To Bachelors, what rare good news, And all your Tabby host, Who may the tidings glad peruse In Hymen's Evening Post. Great news! great news! &c.

By every Bachelor for life, A duty must be paid, Refusing now to take for wise An antiquated maid; Poor soul! how great must be her joy, Who such a lot escapes! No more with Pug and Puss to toy, And freed from leading Apes. What wonderful surprising news For all your Tabby host!

Who may the tidings glad peruse, In Hymen's Evening Post. Great news! great news! &c.

A Bachelor moreover is A poor unhappy elf, Who void of all domestic bliss, Lies snoring by himself: He need not now, to cheer his mind, In search of gossop roam, For sure as fate he'll always find Enough of that at home; For Bachelors what pleasing news, And all your Tabby host! Who may the tidings glad peruse, In Hymen's Evening Post. Great news! great news! &c.

SWEET SUGAR CANDY.

DEAR Judy my granny, was fond of the sweets, And she knew all the virtues of sugar so well; That for puddings or pies, sour trout, or sweet-meats, Aye, and choice apple-dumplings she bore off the bell: And then for preserving she'd got such a name, And at tossing a pancake was always so handy, That my grand-daddy took her to better his fame, And she us'd to call him her sweet sugar candy.

And faith sure enough she had need to be sweet upon him, for his breath smelt as agreeable as the slench of a gin barrel —with his

Whack fal lal lal, de ral la ral lal, lal de ral.

For granny ne'er thought grand-daddy was wrong, So she call'd him her sugar-plumb sweet, and what not; Then she patted his cheek and sung him a song, And bade him not make quite so free with the pot. But grand-daddy some how forgot what she said, And in lifting the pot to his mouth was so handy,

That by some means or other he drank himself dead, And so there was an end of her sweet sugar candy.

Och, Murphy, says she, and are you dead now?—What a pity it was that you made so free with the pot, when we were living together so comfortably—

With our whack fal lal lal, &c.

Poor Judy my granny, was now left alone, And the boys in Kilkenny all pitied her case; 'Till she cast a sheep's-eye on one Paddy Machone, So he led her to church, and the parson said grace: And Judy and Paddy so well now agree; For granny's a housewife so loving and handy, That he swears, och, she's all barley sugar to me, And she christen'd him, och, her dear sweet sugar candy. With a whack fal lal, &c.

THE BOTTLE COMES ROUND SO FAST.

YOU may talk about drinking of claret and whisky, A jolly companion may term a mere toper! Since a sup of the creature first render'd one frisky, Bad luck to my glass! but I ne'er could keep sober.

Let it be what it might, By sun-shine or moon-light, So cleverly pleasant the toping time past; That to rise up from table, I never was able, 'Till tipsy—the bottle came round so fast.

When I pleasantly breath'd in the land of potatoes, Quite jolly, one day, I detarmin'd so neatly, To keep myself sober among the sweet creatures, So rose, just before I was knock'd up compleatly.

But on bidding good bye, Just to whet t'other eye, Dough-a-duros, a drink at the door I must taste, As there was no denying,

They found me complying And tipsy—the bottle came round so fast.

At a snug monthly club, where we always meet weekly, They've white-wash'd the wall all red over with brushes; Because it was obsarved by myself most obliquely, Our features look'st fairest when covered with blushes.

Here we talk and we drink, And leave others to think; Oh! the brave jolly moments I with them have past! And tho' quite a full table, To rise I'm unable, 'Till tipsey;—the bottle came round so fast.

One day in my cups, I was merrily roving, A friend took my part, says he, Pat why your'e tipsey! Arrah! where have you been now, and where are you going? You've dined out—drank hard, & are quite non se ipse?

Says I prating elf— No I dined by myself, The way to keep sober I planned out at last; But to rise up from table, 'Till drunk I wan't able, Because that—the bottle came round so fast.

WE ALL LOVE A SUP IN OUR TURN

Tune—Chapter of Kings.

A SUP of good whisky will make you glad, Too much of the creature will make you mad; If you take it in reason 'twill make you wise; If you drink to excess 'twill close up your eyes: Yet father, and mother, And sister, and brother, Will all take a sup in their turn.

Some preachers will tell you to drink is bad, I think so too—if there's none to be had;

The Swadler will tell you to drink none at all, But while I can get it a fig for 'em all. Both layman and brother, In spite of this pother, Will all, &c.

Some doctors will tell you 'twill hurt your health, And justice will say 'twill reduce your wealth; Physicians and lawyers will all agree, When your money's all gone they can get no fee. Yet surgeon and doctor, And lawyer, and proctor, Will all, &c.

If a soldier is drunk on his duty found, He soon to the three legg'd horse is bound; In the face of his regiment oblig'd to strip,— A noggin will soften the drummer's whip, For serjeant and drummer, And likewise his honor, With all, &c.

The Turks who arrived from the Port sublime, They told us that drinking was held a great crime; Yet after dinner, away they slunk, And tippled their wine, till they got quite drunk. The Sultan and Crommet, And even Mahomet, They all, &c.

STREW THE RUDE CROSSES OF LIFE O'ER WITH FLOWERS.

THRO' life's rugged voyage, each mortal must sail, Oft tossed by the billows of fortune about; This hour a calm, and the next one a gale, Makes all of the harbour of happiness doubt.

Yet amidst the hard troubles that mankind must bear, The gods have sent pleasures to sweeten our sours;

For friendship and love may defy ev'ry care, And strew the rude crosses of life o'er with flowers.

Each man in his way must encounter rough seas, And buffet with perils and tempests of pain; And should fortune smile, so uncertain's the breeze, That man must still doubt if its meant to remain. Yet amidst the hard, &c.

The phantom ambition, oft leads us astray, Then leaves us bewilder'd quite lost in the dark; And often to folly, would leave us a prey, Did not reason throw in a luminous spark, Yet amidst the hard, &c.

FATHER, MOTHER, and JOE.

Tune—Dibdin's life of Poor Jack.

SAYS our Nancy, says she—one day to I— As you know good example I'm fond on, Suppose, like some others, my fortune I try, And get me a Sarvice in London? I'm courted by Joseph, the curate's own son, That took so much pains with my learning,— As its a fortune I want, I can there get me one, And it won't be the worser for earning;— Well, says I to our Nan—an thou toil in that track— To London determin'd to go, Take care of thy honor—or never come back, To father, and mother, and Joe.

As her trunk she were packing, Nan whimpering said, She hop'd to do well with a blessing,— And the tricks of the town running still in my head, I bestow'd on her 'tother good lesson: For a housekeeper's place she was shaping her views, With some ancient old Duke—when I ask'd her— Why, dom it! says I—mind your P's, and your Q's— Would you find out so wicked a master? Such a presence as thine, 'twould be ruin good lack! To those mumping old monkies to shew;—

They'd make free with thy honour! & then send thee back, To father, and mother, and Joe.

Then says Nan—trusting other fine tales she had heard, And scheming things stranger, and stranger, With a lady of fashion, if not with a lord, Sure! sure! I should be out of danger; There, such a fine bustle, by night and by day! And then—what a chance!—Heaven bless us! If at fair-o, and hazard, they do us folks say, I might soon be as rich as a Croesus! What? says I then—with gamblers and cheats would you snack? High life wunna do for us—No! Never act with dishonour!—or never come back To father, and mother, and Joe.

With no limb of the law says I, ne'er go to place, For lawyers young maids are so fond on, At the very first sight, he would plead on the case, As sure as the devil's in London; Then to tuck up a sober old bachelor's bed, Wou'd set busy clappers a clinking, And your pious old maids wou'd soon turn thy poor head, With religion, God bless 'em! or drinking; Of the best place in town, there's no great deal to crack, And if fortunne should smile on thee—so,— Heav'n watch o'er thy honour, and send thee safe back, To father, and mother, and Joe.

Away then to London, whisk'd Nan by the stage, That will-o-whisp fortune pursuing, With as pure and as honest a heart I'll engage, As e'er was devoted to ruin; 'Tis a sad wicked town, and yet some people there, May let honour and honesty bind 'em, But so strangely made up, and such deep ones they are, That a simple young maid could not find 'em; Nay our parson's proud son too, has gotten the knack, Keen j•• mi••fortune ••o throw, So 'tis father and mother, poor Nan, call thee back, Not father, and mother and Joe.

ELLEN's FATE DESERVES A TEAR.

IN life's morn a maiden gay, Meek Ellen wander'd light and free: Where pleasure wing'd the shining day, Among the flowery wilds of Dee: In beauty like the vernal scene, Like balmy gales her mind serene: 'Till luckless love her heart oppress'd, And banish'd from her bosom rest. Now she warbles soft and slow, Madrigals of plaintive woe, Hear the tale, in pity hear, Ellen's fate deserves a tear.

A pensive Pilgrim doom'd to stray, Her strains a settl'd grief impart, But still the love-lamenting lay Is soothing to the Mourner's heart; Her songs no more from frenzy flow, Her wildness now is chang'd to woe, Which still delight in tuneful lays, To sing of love and happier days. Now she warbles soft and slow, Madrigals of plaintive woe; Hear the tale, in pity hear, Ellen's fate deserves a tear.

TOM TRIGGER's ADIEU.

HARK, hark, the loud drums call the soldiers away, Adieu my dear charmer for time's on the wing, 'Tis glory invites, and I proudly obey, To fight in defence of my country and king. But faithful and true, to their cause while I prove. Amidst the dread-battle, I'll think of my Nan, For he who deserts from the standard of love, Proves plainly his life's a mere flash in the pan.

In Britain's blest isle, so renown'd for its fair, The same of a soldier is thus understood,

That while he can conquer, he's eager to spare, And stop the ••fusion of innocent blood; Tho' fearless and bold in the field he can prove, Humanity forms the grand base of his plan, But he who deserts from the standard of love, Proves plainly his life's a mere flash in the pan.

In defence of Old England I'll glory to fall, If orders for that shall be sent from above; But fortune, who frequently smiles on us all. May kindly restore honest Tom to his love; I'll then to the standard of Hymen repair; And under his banners enlist with my Nan, For he who deserts from the cause of the fair, Proves plainly his life's a mere flash in the pan.

CHARMING MOLLY.

Tune—Di••din's Sailor's Journal.

ON board, the grog went cheerly round, Each honest tar, oh how delighted, From Madagascar homeward bound, The pleasing thoughts their toils requited. The cann was fill'd, 'twas fill'd again, Resolv'd to drown dull melancholy, Nor did each sea-lad pledge in vain, "Success attend the Charming Molly."

Blue light'ning flash'd, and thunder roll'd, The raging tempests fiercely howling, When hardy tars so brave and bold, Can fearless reach the main-top bowling, And when the Boatswain pipes aloud, D—n those I say, that won't be jolly, And ••imbly mount the mi••n s••roud, When e'er on board the Charming Molly.

Once more hand round the b••o••ng cann, Sweethearts and wives we'll drink with pleasure, So here's long life to saucy Nan, B•• or on shore my only treasure;

Next then my lads let's drink the King, And tho' the winds seem e'er so squally, Brave loyal tars can jovial sing, Safe moorings to the Charming Molly.

But now behold the shiv'ring sails, Messmates while we're to windward plying, By fav'ring light propitious gales, Yon craggy shore with glee descrying; Land lubbers now in groups pursue, Your dissipation, pride, and folly, Three cheers, my lads, the harbour view, Yo, yea, on board the Charming Molly.

NOTHING BUT A PLACE.

I FELL out with my Feyther 'bout something or other, He gave me a douse call'd me quarrelsome Elf! So I bade 'un good bye, and without any pother Com'd plump up to London to better myself; For tho' pipe and tabor, Oft cheer'd after labor, When riggs we were running Dad run such a race! So to make matters easy, Why thinks I, an't please ve, I wants but just nothing, that's only a place.

So I met with a friend when I reach'd London city And a••'t him his sarvice most kindly to grant; Cod, he told me my journey was nought but a pity, In town scarce a body but had the same want. Physicians, says he, Sir, Want patience and fees, Sir; The patient wants health, limb, and plumb ruddy face; Your great folks, I've read it, Wants honor, and credit; And patriots, something next door to a place!

Look at 'vertisements filling the front of the papers, Plague take 'em! such wants as are scare to be borne!

Young heirs at the death of their dads, to cut capers; The wife to wear weeds, and the hushand to mourn. Old ladies, young fellows, And reason, the jealous; Tho' truly their dames are oft wanting of grace: The courtier, plain-dealing; The church-warden, feeling; And open-mouth'd senators bawl for a place.

Cod! it seem'd all so queer I wur all in a flurry, Their wonderful wants quite me comical struck; For, adds he, undertakers want bodies to bury, Rogues pockets to pick; gamblers, pigeons to pluck. So I tipp'd off my noggin, Then homeward came joggin; For certain I there should have got in disgrace: For I found out, odd rot it, Those who hadn't got it; Would go to the devil to get 'em a place.

THE WELCH QUACK.

I'M nick-nam'd Quack by every prig, Where sense or nonsense borders; Without diploma, care, or wig, I cures the worst disorders; The gout, secatica, the stone, Your fevers, ague, phthysic; The gout, consumption, every one Yields to all-healing physic, On restoratives I'm quite intent; Each patient's ills discover, Lord! if folks die 'tis accident, 'Tis chance if they recover.

A great chance indeed, I keep so continually plying them—

With cupping, drenching, couching, clyster, Emeti•• ••ding, sweating, blister, Diet, b•• o•• pill— Ye pot••tion makers!

Like you I'm oft, with all my skill, A friend to undertakers.

I patient visiting essay'd, One who in dangerous way was, When last I call'd (oh death to trade!) My dying man at play was! "My prescription's done't" says I, "now speak, "You follow'd it—I knew it." "No! if I had, I'd broke my neck, "I out of window threw it." "Avaunt, throw physic to the dogs, ("Fine food for grim death's laughter,) "Your recipe you first of rogues, "You soon shall bundle after!

Don't come here to sell your poisons at so much an ounce Mr. Gallipot, for if you do, you shall swallow them yourself and puzzle all Warwick Lane to tell what disorder you died of.

"With you cupping, &c.

He prov'd himself, tho' lacking skill, No friend to undertakers!

To Guttle's next I sped in haste, Whose girl a stingy saint is! He choak'd was at a city feast, And died brimful of dainties: My bill I shew'd ma'am in a crack, Says she it will not do, sir, Lord if you had your bottles back, ••m sure you'd be n•• loser! She vow'd I'd kill'd him, shou'd repent. To poison such a lover! Lord, if folks die 'tis accident, 'Tis chance if they recover!

If I had my bottles back! what an unconscionable woman▪ she 〈◊〉〈◊〉 nothing of my great expence, for corks, and pack thread and paper, beside all—

My ••pping, &c.

CAPERING ASHORE.

POLL dang it how d'ye do, Nan won't ye gi's a buss. Why what's to do wi' you, why here's a pretty fuss, Say shall we kiss and toy, I goes to sea no more, O 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the sailor boy for capering ashore.

Father he apprentic'd me to a coasting ship, I being resolv'd dy'e see to give 'em all the slip; I got to Yarmouth fair, where I had been before, So father found me there a capering ashore.

Next out to India I went a Guinea-pig, We got to Table-bay, but mind a pretty rig, The ship drove out to sea, left me and many more Amongst the Hottentots, capering ashore.

I love a bit of hop life's ne'er the worse for't, If in my wake shou'd drop a fiddle that's your sort, Thrice tumble up a hoy, once get the labour o'er, Then see the sailor boy a capering ashore.

FAIR ROSALE.

ON that lone bank where Lubin died, Fair Rosale, a wretched maid, S•• weeping o'er the cruel tide, Faithful to her ••bin's shade; Oh may some kind, some gentle wave, Waft him to this mournful shore, These tender hands should make his grave, And deck his corps with flowers o'er.

I'll ever watch his mould'ring clay, And pray for his eternal rest, When time his form had worn away; His dust I'd place within my breast, While thus she mourn'd her Lubin lost, And echo to her grief reply'd; Lo, at her feet, his corps was tost, She shrick'd, she clasp'd him, ••igh'd, and died.

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.

I'M lonesome since I cross'd the hills, And o'er the moors that's sedgy, Such heavy thoughts my mind doth fill, Since parting from my Sally. In search for one that's fine and gay, And several doth remind me, Blest be the hour I past away, With the girl I left behind me.

The hours I remember well, When constancy reminds me, A pain within my breast I felt, When first she own'd she lov'd me; But now I'm bound to Brighton Camp, Kind heaven then pray guide me, And send me back safe home again, To the girl I left behind me.

I'd tune my lays to sing her praise, Had I the tongue of Homer, With compliments most elegant, I'd recompence my lover. So let the night be e'er so dark, Or e're so wet or windy, I will return safe back again, To the girl I left behind me,

Her golden hair in ringlets were, Her eyes like diamonds shining, Her slender waste, her carriage chaste, She left the swain repining; Ye gods above pray hear my prayer, The beauteous fair who binds me, And send me safe back home again, To the girl I left behind me.

The bee shall lavish, make no store, The dove become a ranger, The falling waters cease to roar, Whene'er I mean to change her: If ever I return that way,

And she has not dec•• me, I'll reconcile myself and stay, With the girl I left behind me.

THE SAILOR's JOURNAL.

'TWAS post meridian, half past four, By signal I from Nancy parted, At six she linger'd on the shore, With uplift hands and broken hearted; At seven while taught'ning the fore stay, I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy; At eight we all got under way, And bid a long adieu to Nancy.

Night came, and now eight bells had rung, While careless sailors ever chearly, On the mid watch so jovial sung, With tempers, labour, cannot weary; I little to their mirth inclin'd, While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy, And my warm sighs increas'd the wind, Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy.

And now arriv'd that jovial night, When every true bred tar carouses, When o'er the grog all hands delight, To toast their sweethearts and their spouses; Round went the cann, the jest, the glee, While tender wishes fill'd each fancy, And when in turn it came to me, I heav'd a sigh and toasted Nancy.

Next morn a storm came on at four, At six the elements in motion; Plung'd me and three poor sailors more, Headlong within the foaming ocean: Poor wretches they soon found their graves, For me it may be only fancy, But love seem'd to forbid the waves, To snatch me from the arms of Nancy.

Scarce the foul hurricane was clear'd, And winds and waves had ceas'd to rattle, When a bold enemy appear'd, And, dauntless, we prepar'd for battle; And now, while some lov'd friend or wife, Like lightning rush'd on ev'ry fancy, To Providence I trusted life, Put up a prayer, and thought of Nancy.

At last, 'twas in the month of May, The crew, it being lovely weather, At three A. M. discover'd day, And England's chalky cliffs together; At seven, up Channel, how we bore, While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy; At twelve I gaily jumpt on shore, And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy.

HOW D'YE DO?

'TWAS in the green meadows so gay, Where lovers their passions repeat, Young William did tenderly say, "How d'ye do," as we happen'd to meet; "How d'ye do, Sir," again answer'd I, Not thinking of harm it is true, When Echo (or else may I die) Reply'd in return, "How d'ye do!" Echo.—"How d'ye do!"

Reply'd in return, "How d'ye do?" In vain we explor'd all around, No creature whatever was near, Alas! what a wonderful sound, "How d'ye do?" we cou'd both of us hear. Sure Cupid lay hidden hard by, And gave gentle Echo the cue. For still it continued to cry, I vow and protest—"How d'ye do?" Echo—"How d'ye do:"

Says William, "dear girl never mind, "Since Echo can do us no harm,"

Then kiss'd ••e both tender and kind, And circled my waist with his arm; Let Hymen, he cried, make us one, I agreed the advice to pursue! Now Echo, says I, babble on, Which it did sure enough—"How d'ye do?" Echo—"How d'ye do?" Which it did sure enough—"How d'ye do?"

PHELIM's COURTSHIP.

Tune—Banks of the Dee.

ONE moon-shiny night, about two in the morning, I wander'd myself all alone in the dark; Not a creature was with me but Chlora, whose scorning On my poor little heart made a visible mark: Then list to my ditty, So dismal and pretty; O thunder! if ever a fiction was true, You'll be after declaring My case is past bearing, So grating to me—tho' diverting to you.

My name, I must tell you, is Phelim O'Blarney, Just come all the way from the town of Tralee; My father was born by the Lake of Killarney, And faith you must know he was older than me▪ Nor need you to wonder, 'Tis not the first blunder That nature has made in a comical whim; For sense might have told her, Dad ne'er had been older, If Phelim his son had been born before him.

I've got a fine house on the banks of the Liffey, That only wants building to make it complete; So faith we'll set off for the same in a jiffey, And build a rare house for our ancestors' seat: Then come, my dear jewel, No longer be cruel,

But let's scamper off without making a din; Like gem's in a casket, We'll ride in a basket, If the coach be set off ere we get to the inn.

By Jasus; you'll ne'er find me fibbing and swelling, No, bother my shoul! but I hate such a plan; Let upstarts and vapouring puppies be telling How long their mean race before Adam's began— Before the creation, My famed generation, Without e'er a soul by themselves all alone, Invented potatoes, Who's worth now so great is, We Irishmen call 'em roast beef without bone.

Then let us be jogging along to our mansion, You shall walk by my side, while I follow before; My heart's so contracted by Cupid's expansion▪ Tho' I've said all I can, yet I'll tell thee 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••e. As a hot burning cinder Turns cloth into tinder, The flame of your conduct so frigidly glows. That it has, pretty creature, From Phelim's good nature, Extracted a secret that every one knows.

Arrab faith, and the force of my passion so great is, No mother's son dares to tell Phelim he lies, When he solemnly swears to Shebeen and potatoes, He prefers a good seat on his Chlora's bright eyes. Both sleeping and waking, Still trembling and quaking, Nor noon, night or morning, from dreaming can keep. By my shoul and 'tis vexing, And cursed perplexing, So oft to be wak'd ere a body's asleep!

Then come, my sweet angel, be after complying, By St. Patrick I swear on the word of a man, I'll try to adore thee until that I'm dying,

Aye faith, and much longer than that if I can. So sweet little devil, No more be uncivil. Oc•• prithee, my jewel, with Phelim agree; But if after this tender, You do not surrender, Then, bother my nob! if I ever have thee.

FAVORITE SONGS IN THE CHARITY BOY.

MY dad was asleep in his old elbow chair, And my mam at a neighbour's hard by, When my tasty straw bonnet I put on with care, And to meet my dear Willy did hie; We'd appointed the spot, he'd been waiting an hour, Pit-a-pat, went my fond silly heart! When he flew to embrace me, I trembled all o'er, Yet I never once thought we must part!

The birds warbled sweet, music ran in each rill, The meads were bedeck'd with wild flowers, When true lovers meet, cruel time should stand still, But too rapid, alas! wing'd the hours! The fond look he gave me, I ne'er shall forget, When adieu chill'd with sorrow my heart, With his sweet balmy kiss, are my lips perfum'd yet, Ah me! why should lovers e'er part.

IN early youth to fear a stranger, Contemning indolence and ease, In Paria's cause I courted danger, And vent'rous plough'd the stormy seas. I dreaded not the cannon's thunder, Let bullets rage their wonted scope, Or tempest split our bark asunder, The tar's sheet-anchor still was hope.

In hammock lull'd to sleep or waking, The mid-watch come, or slung the bowl,

Or signal guns, distress bespeaking, Implore for aid, while tempest howl, Or when the battle's heat is raging, With force superior oft we cope, The mind to placid ease assuaging, The tar's sheet-anchor still is hope.

WOUNDED FRIENDSHIP.

I OF feeling won't boast—I've no more than my share, Yet humanity bleeds when a friend is distress'd, Who in sorrow's sad moment made friendship his care, And bade the bright sunshine of hope cheer my breast; When law's iron hand on by cruelty led, In a darksome abode me disgracefully penn'd, A school-mate, whom pity inspir'd, thither stray'd, Gave me freedom, & prov'd himself more than a friend.

Recollection reveal'd, that in youth's early hour My Saviour he'd been; when with billows at strife I was whirl'd down the eddy, and aid did implore, He plung'd in, and risquing his own, sav'd my life. Again, when a ruffian, who conscience had brav'd, And dar'd 'gainst the fiat of justice offend, His weapon to murder had rais'd—me he sav'd; And gratitude warm'd my full hear•• to my friend.

But, Pelican like, the fair, generous mind Feeds the suppliant brood with its own vital stream; My friend to the wretched had oft prov'd so kind, Liberality made all his wealth but a dream: Haggard ruin approach'd, with its heart-rending pains, O'er the straw I had quitted his form did extend; I flew to console him, but lacking the means, Did but gaze, and alas! could not speak to my friend.

I read all the workings of passion and grief, The just indignation that flash'd from his eye, His bosom was bursting—a tear gave relief— And the stab of ingratitude forc'd a deep sigh:

That misfortune such worth should so ••ly as••— But who 'gainst the will of ••ern fate dare contend? He droop'd—but I'll over his ••oon draw a veil, For my heart sure will break when I think on my friend.

PADDY O'BRIAN.

Tune—Corporal C••sey.

WHEN first I was kitten'd, it was in Kilkenny, Such a brat sure as me, oh! there never was any; Nay, the truth is, my father suspected my mother, For the devil a-bit I was like one or t'other. Sing rub-a-dub, row de-dow, Paddy O Br•• Sing rub-a-dub, &c. To be sure I'm by nature as tame as a lion; Och! the world never saw such a Paddy O'Brian.

That my father was kind and my mother was ten•• By my sho••l I've more reasons than one to remem•• For to sharpen my stomach, and brighten my wit Sir, Sure they left me to live upon what I could get, Sir, Och! I rub-a-dub, &c. Och! my daddy's a god and my mammy's a lion; Ay, and I am the devil, old Paddy O'Brian.

That my parent•• were given to living genteely, By by shoul is no lie, so I tell you it freely, That if one daddy dies I have st•• got another, And so I'm the Paddy of one or the t'other. Och! rub-a-dub, ••c. To be sure and my mother was rather a sly one, Wha•• she got such a chicken as Paddy O'Brian.

Tune—For 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I'm your Priest.

YOU 〈…〉〈…〉 of your m••ens, fair widows, & wives. And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 things they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in the course of their lives Your maids, wives and widows, 'tis very well known, Have all got a way and a will of their own. Sing balan•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 &c. The swate little c••a••s for me.

To be sure now and then pretty widows will mourn, And sigh for the loss of their lad which is gone; But as sighing's all nonsense and grieving's a sin, They dry up their tears and get married again. And sing balanamona ora, &c. Och! the dear little craters for me.

Then tho', Sirs, our widow is not quite a chicken, By my shoul she's as gamesome as any young kitten; B•• my master's come home, so my dear you will see A widow and no widow you quickly will be, Sing balanamona ora, &c. O••h! the dear little craters for me.

LITTLE DANDY.

O WHEN I was a boy, and a pretty little boy, With my little curly head of hair so sandy O, All the damsels used to cry, What a funny rogue was I, And they christen'd me the pretty little candy O.

But when I olde•• grew, and something better knew, Than sucking lollipops and sugar-candy O, Lord! I pleased them night and day, And the damsels used to say— Oh! the pretty little fellow is the dandy O.

O then to end the strife, Lord! I got a little wife, With a pretty little waist so handy O, Ay, and then I got a lad, Just the picture of his dad, And they christen'd him the pretty little dandy O.

Now spousy day and night, oh! she calls me her delight, Her sugar sweet, and pretty Tristram Shandy O. And then so sweet am I When I go to lullaby, That she swears I am the pretty little dandy O.

THE FRIGHTED CLOWN.

OH Lord! what a terrible fright I am in, Oh Lord! what a terrible fright I am in, When I never, I'm sure now commited a sin, When I never, I'm sure now commited a sin. Then, dang it, it wanted to take me away, Then, dang it, it wanted to take me away; But, says I, master ghost, I'd much rather stay, If it's all one to you I'd much rather stay. I'd much rather stay.

Two eyes big as saucers it certainly had, Two eyes, &c. Which blazed just as thof' for the world it was mad. Which blazed, &c. It look'd as it wished to take me away, It looked, &c. But, says I, master ghost, I'd much rather stay.

I never have done any harm in my life, I never have done, &c. Except when old Bridget I took for my wife, Except when, &c. And she has been dead for this many a day; And she has, &c. But mayhap it is her wants to have I away, If it's all one to she, why I'd much rather stay.

MARY's TRUE.

YE ling'ring winds that feebly blow, Why thus impede my way? Why moves the lazy ship so slow, When Mary mourns my stay? For when she bade me last adieu, She dropt a tear, and cried—be true.

When, as the midnight watch I keep, I view the sparkling sea; While round my shipmates careless sleep,

I fondly think on thee; Remembrance paints the last adieu, When Mary wept, and cried—be true.

Tho' I be distant as the pole, Tho' furious tempests foam, Tho' billows mount, tho' thunders roll, No distance, time, or storm, The scene can banish from my view, When Mary wept, and cried—be true.

Oft up the shrouds my steps are borne, I take my airy stand; And oft my longing eyes I turn, And look in vain for land: Dejected I rejoin the crew, Yet fondly hope my Mary's true.

Come then, ye briskly pleasing gales, For once auspicious prove; Come swell the bosom of my sails, And waft me to my love: Moor'd in her arms to toils adieu, If still I find my Mary's true.

I NEVER WILL MARRY.

AS gay as a lark, and as blythe as a bee, Handsome, generous, sprightly, and young; Cheeks glowing with pleasure, eyes sparkling with glee, And a voice like the nightingale's song. As fond as a sparrow, as true as a dove, Must be the sweet swain whose vows I'll ne'er parry; Convinc'd of his constancy, give love for love, But, indeed, till I am—why I never will marry.

He ne'er with neglect his fond lass should upbraid, If by chance for a time we should part; Tho' distant, his features would run in my head, And his form ever reign is my heart:

Kind fancy in dreams should his absence supply; And, believe me, I mean not much longer to tarry, For joking apart, I've a lad in my eye, Aye, indeed if I han't—why I never will marry.

O'er the lawn, t'other day, as I joyously sped Young Jemmy trip'd out not amiss, (As light as a fawn to o'ertake me his tread) Seiz'd my hand and entreated a kiss; I frown'd, he persisted, and breath'd love so sweet, That somehow I promis'd a little unwary, To church both would trip it the next time we meet: Aye, indeed if we don't—why, I never will marry.

THE JEW.

Tune—"In the dead of the night."

'TWASH the top of the morning so pleasant and clear, I was crying old clothes ven my love did appear; Her sweet taway beauties vash tempting to view, Says I, pretty Mistress Solomons how vas you do?

I vas cheaply then purchase a smile from my dear, And was whisper my wishes quite loud to her ear; Says I, pretty Mistress Solomons we both are undone If old Rabbi Abrahams don't make us one,

The bargain vash struck then without no delay, And pretty Mistress Solomons vash made Mordecai; All Jew's Place resounded with laughter and glee, And pretty little smouches soon danc'd on our knee.

CARPET WEAVER.

DON'T you remember a poor carpet weaver, Whose daughter lov'd a youth so true; He promis'd one day he never would leave her, Ah! down in the vale where violets grew. He flatter'd and vow'd while she sat beside him,

Soft tales telling of love long ago; But can you tell if she her love deni'd him, Down in the vale where violets grew.

Never he told her he would be a rover, She fondly thought he told her true: But how shall the maid his truth discover, Ah! will he plight his vows anew. If, never, never, her voice deceiv'd him, Now while telling of love long ago; Can he forget the girl who believ'd him, Down in the vale where violets grew.

SONGS, in Quack! Quack! Quack!

BY nature soft as kneaded dough, My heart ne'er chill'd by cold deceit, When injury proclaims a foe, Will glow with a warm'd oven's heat. Ne'er crusty I, tho' fortune blind To those around its comforts spare, Give crumb•• of bliss to all mankind▪ Yet seem to stint me of my share: Still happy I, while pleas'd attend, My children, freedom, and my friend.

My sacks are few and small my grain, Dame fortune ne'er enlarg'd my store, The rich oft treat me with disdain. And grandeur flouts because I'm poor; But then my cherubs sweetly smile. Tho' robb'd of a fond mother's care, Their infant pra••e can grief beguile, And fond endearments lull despair: So bles•• am I, &c.

SNIP once employ'd a lawyer spruce, Old Nick will sure requite him, For tho' he chanc'd his suit to lose,

String'd item follow'd item▪ Dear, such a bill! I'll tell you what, He trembles still at the thought! I'll try to con it over:— For calling to consult him, and drinking up his wine, Why—six and eight-pence—twice as much, for calling once to dine! Thirteen and fourpence travelling fees, to view the taylor's dome, And one pound six and eight-pence, for—not finding him at home. Besides, likewise, moreover, The costs he could recover. Get into debt and you're nipp'd as close as in a lobster's claw. La! no one in his senses, sure, will ever go to law!

The cost of suit Snip could not pay, His purse was so disorder'd, But Lawyer Brief, quite in his way, A suit of sables order'd. Then for Snip's bill, I'll tell you what, Brief trembles still at the bare thought, I'll try and con it over:— For shewing him the pattern book, and taking a hob-nob. Why, six and eight-pence—twice as much, for a mere measuring job; Thirteen and four-pence, every time he near Brief's house did roam, And one pound six and eight-pence for—not finding him at home. Besides, &c.

Tune—Dibdin's Sailor's Journal.

WHEN morn's approach had banish'd night, And lovely May the world was cheering, My infant boy beheld the light, To greet a mother's fond endearing. His beauties charm'd the village round,

So like his dad were all expressing, In June the christening bowl went round, And sweetly smil'd a parent's blessing.

'Twas August—scarce three years were o'er— And sweetly he began to prattle, When an old shipmate reach'd the shore, To tell his dad had fell in battle. I wept—reflection dried my tears; My boy requir'd each fond caressing; And with maternal hopes and fears I watch'd a widow'd parent's blessing.

When bleak November's winds did blow, To sea his daring spirit ventur'd, To part, my breast was frought with foe, For ev'ry hope in him was center'd. Five times December's moon had past, Deform'd by storms full oft distressing, When o'er the beach tript home in haste, To glad my heart, a parent's blessing.

WOMAN.

A WOMAN is to—but stay— What a woman is like, who can say? There's no living with or without one— Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buz, buz, always buzzing about one, When she's tender and kind, She is like, to my mind, (And Fanny was so I remember) She is like to—Oh dear! She's as good very near As a ripe melting peach in September. If she laugh and she chat, Play, joke and all that, And with smiles and good humour she meet me, She is like a rich dish

Of ven'son or fish, That cries from the table come eat me!

But she'll plauge you, and vex you, Distract and perplex you, False hearted, and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like? Like a sand? like a rock? Like a wheel? like a clock? Aye, a clock that is always at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Her head's like the island folks 〈◊〉〈◊〉 on, Which nothing but monkies can 〈◊〉〈◊〉 on; Her heart's like a lemon—so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth, she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, Like a pill, Like a flail, Like a whale, Like an ass, Like a glass, Whose image is constant to no man; Like a flow'r, Like a show'r, Like a fly, Like a pie, Like a pea, Like a flea, Like a thief, Like—in brief, She's like nothing on earth—but a woman!

E'ER since I found true love beginning, And thought his hand was wo•• the winning, I call'd each little artful aid in, To spare the question from a maiden: To wake or show

When ask'd to go, I still deny'd All lads beside, And pray'd of Ralph to carry me; It seem'd so pat, in tender chat, To whisper, Fanny, will you marry me?

In evening fine, and summer weather, When e'er the fields we walk'd together, Tho' I can trip it like a fairy, I've oft pretended to be weary: Then leaning on his arm awhile, I slily ask him, with a smile, I'm tired, pray will you carry me? But on the way, he ne'er would stay To whisper, Fanny will you marry me?

SONGS, in the Mountaineers.

WHEN the hollow drum has beat to bed; When the little fifer hangs his head; Still and mute, The Moorish flute, And nodding guards watch wearily; Then will we, From prison free, March out by moonlight cheerily.

When the Moorish cymbals clash by day, When the brazen trumpets shrilly bray, The slave in vain, Must then complain Of tyranny and knavery: Would he know, His time to go, And slily slip from slavery:

'Tis when the ha•• drum has beat to bed; When the little fifer hangs his head; Still and mute, The Moorish flute,

And nodding guards watch wearily; Oh then must he, From prison free, March out by moonlight cheerily.

OH! happy tawny Moor, when you love, Climb the mountains with your true love, Will you by the way, The music play? Your sweet guitar, a tinkling, Sadi Listens to his Spanish Lady! Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang, Tanki, tanki, tay.

Oh! bonny tawney Moor! together, As we brave the wind and weather, Won't you by the way, From Agnes stray? While their guitars are tinkling, Sadi, Love no other Spanish Lady; Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang, Tanki, tanki, tay.

Cease, pretty Agnes, cease;—no beauty E'er could keep me from my duty; Let them all the day, Their music play.

Then my guitar a tinkling, Sadi, Follow now your Spanish lady; Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang, Tanki, tanki, tay.

Then my guitar, &c. Her sweet guitar a tinkling, Sadi Follows now his Spanish lady; Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang, Tanki, tanki, ••ay,

AT sixteen years old, you could get little good of me; Then I saw Norah—who soon understood of me; I was in love—but myself for the blood of me, Could not tell what I did ail. 'Twas dear, dear! what can the matter be? Och, blood and ouns! what can the matter be? Och, gramachree! what can the matter be? Bother'd from head to the tail.

I went to confess me to father O'Flanagan; Told him my case—made an end—then began again; Father, says I, make me my own man again, If you find o•• what I ail, Dear, dear! says he, what can the matter be? Och, blood and ••uns! can you tell what the matter be? Both cry'd out, what can the matter be? Bother'd from head to the tail.

Soon I fell sick—I did bellow and curse again; Norah took pity to see me at nurse again; Gave me a kiss—och sounds, that threw me worse again; Well she knew what I did ail. But dear, dear! says she, what can the matter be? Och, blood and ouns! my lass, what can the matter be? Both cry'd out, what can the matter be? Bother'd from head to the tail.

'Tis long ago now, since I left Tipperary— How strange, growing older, our nature should vary; All symptoms are gone of my ancient quandary, I cannot tell now what I ail. Dear, dear! &c.

FAINT and wearily, the way-worn traveller Plods, uncheerily, afraid to stop! Wandring, drearily, a sad unraveller Of the mazes tow'rd the mountain's top! Doubting, fearing, While his course he's steering, Cottages appearing, When he's nigh to drop;

O! how briskly, then, the way worn traveller Treads the mazes tow'rd the mountain's top!

Though so melancholy day has pass'd by, 'Twould be folly, now to think on't more: Blythe and jolly, he the keg holds fast by, As he's sitting at the Goatherd's door, Eating, quaffing, At past labour laughing! Better far by half, in Spirits than before. O! how merry then, the rested traveller Seems, while sitting at the Groatherd's door!

SONGS, in the Agreeable Surprise.

SUCH beauties in view I Can never praise too high, Not Pallas's blue eye Is brighter than thine. Not fount of Susanna, Nor gold of fair Danoe, Nor moon of Diana, So brightly can shine. Not beard of Silenus, Nor tresses of Venus, I swear by quoe genus, With yours can compare, No•• Hermes Caduces, Nor flower de luces, Nor all the nine muses, To me is so fair. Oh! Moses. oh! Moses, What pos••es, and roses to noses discloses, Your breath all so sweet, To the tip of your lip, as they trip the bees dip, Honey sip like choice flip, and their Hibl•• forge•• When girls like you pass us, I saddle Pegassus, And ride up Pernassus, To Helicon's stream.

Even that is a puddle, Where others may muddle; My nose let me fuddle In bowls of your cream. Old Jove, the great Hector, Of gods the director, May tipple his nectar, And thunder above: I'd quaff off a full can, As Bacchus or Vulcan, Or Jove the old bull can, To her that I love. Chorus, Oh! Moses, &c.

IN the choice of a husband we widows are nice, I'd not have a man who'd grow old in a trice, Not a bear or a monkey, a clown or a fop, But one that could bustle and stir in my shop.

A log I'll avoid, when I'm choosing my lad. And a stork that might gabble up all that I had, Such suitors I've had, Sir, but off they might hop, I want one that can bustle and stir in my shop.

The lad in my eye is the man to my mind, So handsome, so young, so polite, and so kind, With such a good soul to the altar I'd pop, He's the man that can bustle and stir in my shop.

SONG, in no Song no Supper.

A SAILOR's life's a life of woe, He works now late, now early, Now up and down, now to and fro, What then? he takes it cheerly. Bless'd with a smiling can of grog, If duty call, Stand, rise or fall, To fate's last verge he'll jog;

The cadge to weigh, The sheets belay, He does it with a wish; To heave the lead, Or to cat-head The pon'drous anchor fish. For while the grog goes round, All sense of danger's drown'd, We despise it to a man: We sing a little, and laugh a little, And work a little, and swear a little, And fiddle a little, and foot it a little, And swig the flowing can.

If howling winds and roaring seas, Give proof of coming danger, We view the storm our hearts at ease, For Jack's to fear a stranger. Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly Where now below We headlong go, Now rise on mountains high; Spite of the gale, We hand the sail, Or take the needful reef; Or man the deck, To clear some wreck, To give the ship relief: Though perils threat around, All sense of danger drown'd We despise it to a man: We sing a little, &c.

But yet think not our case is hard, Though storms at sea thus treat us; For coming home, (a sweet reward!) With smiles our sweethearts greet us. Now too the friendly grog we quaff, Our am'rous toast, Her we love most, And gaily sing and laugh;

The sails we furl, Then for each girl, The petticoat display; The deck we clear, Then three times cheer, As we their charms survey: And then the grog goes round, All sense of danger drown'd. We despise it to a man. We sing a little, &c.

SONG, in the Children in the Wood.

THERE was Dorothy Dump, would mutter & mump, And cry'd, "my dear Walter—heigho!" But no step she could take, could my constancy shake, For she had a timber-toe.

There was Deborah Rose, with her aquiline nose, Who cry'd, "for you, Walter, I die!" But I laugh'd at each glance, she threw me askance, For she had a gimblet eye!

There was Tabitha Twist, had a mind to be kis'd! And made on my heart an attack; But her love I derided, for she was lop-sided; And cursedly warp'd in the back!

There was Barbara Brian, was always a crying, "Dear youth, put an end to my woes!" But to save in her head all the tears that she shed, Nature gave her a bottled nose!

Josephine came at last, to nail my heart fast— Firm as the oak will I prove to my dear; And when parson Tether, has ••ack'd us together, Some chips of the—block may appear!!

SONGS, In th spoil'd child.

I AM a brisk and sprightly lad, But just come home from sea, Sir,

Of all the lives I ever led, A sailor's life for me. Sir, Yeo, yeo, yeo! yeo, yeo, yeo! Whilst the boatswain pipes all hands, With a yeo, yeo, yeo, Sir.

What girl but loves the merry tar, We o'er the ocean roam, Sir, In every clime we find a port, In every port a home, Sir. Yeo, yeo, yeo, &c.

But when our country's foes are nigh Each hastens to his gun, Sir, We make the boasting Spaniard fly, And bang the haughty Don, Sir. Yeo, yeo, yeo, &c.

Our foes subdu'd, once more on shore, We spend our cash with glee, Sir, And when all's gone, we drown our care, And out again to sea, Sir. Yeo, yeo, yeo! yeo, yeo, yeo! And when all's gone, again to sea, With a yeo, yeo, yeo, Sir.

THE ROSARY.

THO' oft we meet severe distress, In vent'ring out to sea: The perils of the main seem less, As we to heav'n our vows address, And sing the cheering Rosary.

Our kids that rove the mountains wide, And bound in harmless glee, I seek each day an even-tide; And while their course I homeward guide, I sing the cheering Rosary.

And in the deeper shades of night, While thro' the woods I flee,

Where gloom and silence yield affright, To make my beating heart sit light, I sing the cheering Rosary.

SONGS, in Rosina.

WHEN William at eve meets me down at the stile, How sweet is the nightingale's song! Of the day I forget all the labour and toil, Whilst the moon plays yon branches among.

By her beams without blushing, I hear him complain, And believe every word of his song: You know not how sweet 'tis to love the dear swain, Whilst the moon plays yon branches among.

HER mouth with a smile, Devoid of all guile, Half opens to view, Is the bud of the rose, In the morning that blows, Impearl'd with the dew.

More fragrant her breath Than the flower-scented heath At the dawning of day; The hawthorn in bloom, The lily's perfume, Or the blossoms of May.

BY this fountain's flow'ry side, Dress'd in nature's blooming pride, Where the poplar trembles high, And the bees in clusters fly; Whilst the herdsman on the hill Listens to the falling rill. Pride and cruel scorn away, Let of share the festive day.

Taste our pleasures ye who may, This is nature's holiday. Simple nature ye who prize, Life's fantastic forms despise.

CHORUS.

Taste our pleasure's ye who may, This is nature's holiday.

Blushing Bell, with downcast eyes, Sighs, and knows not why she sighs; Tom is by her—we shall know— How he eyes her!—Is't not so?

CHORUS.

Taste our pleasure's ye who may, This is nature's holiday.

He is fond and she is shy: He would kiss her!—fie! Oh, fie! Mind thy fickle, let her be; By and by she'll follow thee.

CHORUS.

Busy censors, hence, away! This is nature's holiday.

Now we'll quaff the nut-brown ale, Then we'll tell the sportive tale; All is jest, and all is glee, All is youthful jollity.

CHORUS.

Taste our pleasures ye who may, This is nature's holiday.

Lads and lasses, all advance, Carol blithe, and form the dance; Trip it lightly while you may, This is nature's holiday.

CHORUS.

Trip it lightly while you may, This is nature's holiday.

WHEN bidden to the wake or fair, The joy of each free hearted swain,

'Till Phoebe promis'd to be there, I loiter'd, last of all the train.

If chance some fairing caught her eye, The ribbon gay or silken glove, With eager haste I ran to buy; For what is gold compar'd to love?

My posy on her bosom plac'd, Could Harry's sweeter scent exhale! Her auburn locks my ribbon grac'd, And flutter'd in the wanton gale.

With scorn she hears me now complain, Nor can my rustic presents move: Her heart prefers a richer swain, And gold, alas! has banish'd love.

SONGS, in the Highland Reel.

WHEN I've money I am merry, When I've none I'm very sad; When I'm sober I am civil, When I'm drunk I'm roaring mad. With my titol teedle tum, Likewise fol lol feedle fum, Not forgetting diderum hi, And also teedle, tweedle dum.

When disputing with a puppy I convince him with a rap; When I'm romping with a girl, By accident I tear her cap. Gadzooks, I'll never marry, I'm a lad that's bold and free; Yet I love a pretty girl, A pretty girl is fond of me. With my, &c.

There's a maiden in a corner, Round and sound, and plump and fat;

She and I drank tea together, But no matter, Sir, for that. If this maiden be wi' bairn, As I do suppose she'll be; Like good pappy I must learn To dandle Jacky on my knee. With my titol teedle dum, &c.

AT dawn I rose with jocund glee, Far joyful was the day That cou'd this blessing give to me; Now joy is fled away, Jenny. No flocks, nor herds, nor store of gold, Nor house, nor home have I; If beauty must be bought or sold, Alas! I cannot buy, Jenny.

Yet I am rich if thou art kind, So priz'd a smile from thee; True love alone our hearts shall bind, Thou'rt all the world to me, Jenny. Sweet gentle maid, though patient meek, My lily drops a tear, Ah! raise thy drooping head, and seek Soft peace and comfort here, Jenny.

THO' I am now a very little lad, If fighting men cannot be had, For want of a better I may do, To follow the boy with a rat tat too; I may seem tender, yet I'm tough, And tho' not much o'me, right good stuff, Of this I'll boast, say more who can, I never was afraid to meet my man. I'm a chickabiddy, see take me now now now, I'm a little merry he, for your row dow dow, Brown Bess I'll knock about, O, there's my joy, At my back a knapsack like a roving boy.

In my tartan plaid a young soldier view, My phillibeg and dirk, and my bonnet blue, Give the word, and I'll march where you command, Noble Serjeant, with a shilling strike my hand. My Captain, as he takes his glass, May wish to toy with a pretty lass, For such a one I have a roguish eye, He'll never want a girl when I am by. I'm a chickabiddy! &c.

Tho' a barber never yet has mow'd my chin, With my great broad sword I long to begin, Cut, flash, ram damn—O glorious fun, For a gun, pip, pop, charge my little pop-gun. My foes shall fly like geese in flocks, E'en Turks I'll drive like turkey-cocks, And where ever quartered I shall be, O, zounds! how I'll kiss my landlady. I'm a chickabiddy, &c.

A SOLDIER is the noblest name, Enroll'd upon the lists of fame, His country's pride and boast; Honour the glorious bright reward, For which the hero draws his sword, Should ne'er be stain'd or lost. To guard her rights and liberties, His duty and his care; The brave and worthy to respect, And to the verge of life protect The innocent and fair. When Glory sent her legions forth, Her influence spread from south to north, There freedom soon appear'd. 'Twas there she found her fav'rite Son, Through all the world his name is known, Through all the world rever'd; When ••ng, ••s the Gooddess spoke, "C•• ••ons draw near; "A soldier's ••y ne'er forget,

"Behold the great example set, "The school of honour here."

SONGS in Incle and Yarico.

A VOYAGE over seas had not enter'd my head, Had I known but on which side to butter my bread. Heigho? sure I for hunger must die? I've sail'd like a booby; come here in a squall, Where, alas! there's no bread to be butter'd at all, Oho? I'm a terrible booby? Oh, what a sad booby am I?

In London, what gay chop-house sings in the street. But the only sing here is of nothing to eat. Heigho! that I, for hunger shou'd die? My mutton's all lost, I'm a poor starving elf, And for all the world like a lost mutton myself: Oho? I shall die a lost mutton! Oh, what a lost mutton am I?

For a neat slice of beef, I cou'd roar like a bull; And my stomach's so empty, my heart is quite full. Heigho? that I for hunger should die? But grave without meat, I must here meet my grave, For my bacon, I fancy, I never shall save; Oho? I shall ne'er save my bacon! I can't save my bacon not I?

THIS maxim let ev'ry one hear, Proclaim'd from the north to the south, Whatever comes in at your ear, Should never run out at your mouth. We servants, like servants of state, Should listen to all and be dumb; Let others harrangue and debate, We look wise, shake our heads, and are mum.

The Judge in dull dignity drest, In silence hears barristers preach,

And then, to prove silence is best, He'll get up, and give 'em a speech, By saying but little, the maid, Will keep her swain under her thumb; And the lover that's true to his trade, Is certain to kiss, and cry mum.

O GIVE me your plain dealing fellows, Who never from honesty shrink; Not thinking on all they should tell us, But telling us all that they think.

Truth from man flows like wine from a bottle, His free spoken heart's a full cup; But when truth sticks half way in the throttle, Man's worse than a bottle cork'd up.

Compliance is a Gingerbread creature, Us'd for shew, like a watch by each spark; But truth is a golden repeater, That sets a man right in the dark.

A CLERK I was in London gay, Jemmy linkum feedle, And went in boots to see the play, Merry fiddlem tweedle, I march'd the lobby, twirl'd my stick, Diddle, daddle, deedle; The girls all cry'd, "He's quite the kick," Oh Jemmy linkum feedle.

Hey, for America I sail, Yankee doodle deedle; The sailor boys cry'd, "smoak his tail!" Jemmy linkum feedle. On English belles I turn'd my back, Diddle, daddle, deedle, And got a foreign fair, quite black, Oh twaddle, twaddle tweedle!

Your London girls, with roguish trip, Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle, Boast their pouting under lip, Fiddle, faddle, feedle, My Wows wou'd beat a hundred such, Diddle, daddle, deedle, Whose upper lip pouts twice as much, O pretty double wheedle!

Rings I'll buy to deck her toes, Jemmy linkum feedle; A feather fine shall grace her nose, Waving fiddle feedle. With jealousy I ne'r shall burst, Who'd steal my bone of bone-a? A white Othello, I can trust A dingy Desdemona.

SONGS, in the Deserter.

I CAN'T for my life guess the cause of this fuss, Why there's pipers & fiddlers; while Robin & Harry And Clodpole and Roger, and ten more of us, Have pull'd as much fruit as we're able to carry.

Why, numskull, that's nothing; her ladyship's wine, All over the village, runs just like a fountain; A•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 heard the folks say, every dish, when they dine, Will be swimming in claret, madeira, and mountain.

Then for poultry, and such like—good Lord, what a store! I saw Goodman Gander six baskets full cramming; Then such comfits and jelli••s! why one such feast more, Would certainly breed in the village a famine,

CHORUS.

What the meaning can be We shall presently see, For yonder's old Russet, who certainly knows; Be what it will, Our wish shall be still, Joy and health to the Dutchess wherever she goes!

WHY must I appear so deceitful? I cannot dear father comply: Ah! could I think him so ungrateful, With anguish I surely should die, What so tender at parting, he told me, Which such joy to my bosom convey'd: When next he was doom'd to behold me, Could I think would be this way repaid?

THOUGH prudence may press me, And duty distress me, Against inclination, O what can I do! No longer a rover, His follies are over; My heart, my fond heart, says my Henry is true. The bee, thus, as changing, From sweet to sweet ranging, A rose should he light on, ne'er wishes to stray; With raptures possessing In one every blessing, 'Till torn from her bosom, he flies far away.

THE LEARNED PIG.

YOU all must have heard of the learned pig, A little one in size, but in science very big; But what will you say to a pig of my own, To which that pig was no more than a drone; For as Cocklane ghost, on wainscot or post, With a knock or a scratch, to answer was wont, sir, So my pig too, will answer as true— Saying no, with a snort, and yes, with a grunt, sir. Fol lol, de rol.

The parson of the parish, a pious man, Says, pray Mr. Pig, now resolve me, if you can, As I christen, and I bury, and I preach, and I pray, And I constantly keep every festival day: Then say, shall not I be a bishop bye and bye,

And from diocese to diocese to Canterbury pass, sir? No! says the Pig.—Says the parson, looking big, You are an imposter, and your pig is but an ass sir, Fol lol, de rol.

Then old lady wish for't, a widow I wot, Who the joys of wedlock never had forgot, With a thumping colt's-tooth fast in her head, And thinking of the life she had formerly led; Says pray Mr. Swine, will a husband soon be mine, And I no longer a widow be forlon, sir? Yes, says the Pig, which set her all a-gig,— For she vow'd that such a pretty little pig was never born, sir. Fol lol, de rol.

Then a French refugee, who was jealous of his rib; And knowing that my Pig at an answer was glib, Says Monsieur, Repondez, moi san fason, Am I von cuckold sir, oui or non? Yes was the reply, begar says he, you lie, My vife to be sure she no care for me von fig, sir, But if I vear de horn, no Frenchman ever born, Vill suffer to be call'd von cuckold by a pig, sir. Fol lol, de rol.

Then Sir Guttlebelly Gobbledown, who never baulk's his glass, Says, dam'me, an't it hard for a sot that I shou'd pass. But though I'm thus abus'd Mr. Pig, by my wife, Did you ever see a soberer man in your life? Pig grunted so loud, that the rest of the crowd, All gaped and stared like stuck pigs I vow, sir, When old Boozy in a pout, turns round hiccoughing out— Why dam'me, but your pig is as drunk as Davy's sow, sir. Fol lol, de rol.

A punning philosopher was standing by, Who Phythagoras' doctrine held, by the bye, Very gravely exclaim'd, I can easily trace A metemsychosis in that Pig's face; Pig is but a name, and man is but the same,

And in transmigration, if I am not mistaken, That learned Pig must be by consanguinity, A lineal descendant of the great Lord Bacon. Fol lol, de rol.

The Pig at a joke so humourous and blunt, Cry'd, whee! whee! whee! as loud as he could grunt Which shew'd that he knew, tho' a four-footed elf, His pedigree as well as Cadwallader himself; And my life will I pawn that when collard into brawn, He that eats but his fill, tho' at college never bred, sir, Like an egg full of meat, will with learning be replete, He'll have it in his belly, if not in his head, sir. Fol lol, de rol.

KNOWING JOE.

I WAS call'd knowing Joe by the boys of our town, Old dad taught me wisely to know folk; Cod! I was so sharp, when they laughing came down I ax't "how do'st do?" to the shew folk: I could chaunt a good staye that I know'd very well, No boy of my age could talk louder! Crack a joke, tip the wink, or a droll story tell; Of my cleverness, too, none were prouder: So, thinks I, it's better not following the plough, To try with these youths, to queer low folk; Their master I meet, so I made my best bow,

How do ye do, Sir? says I—I'ze a mighty notion of turning a••an—I be main lissome—boxes and wrest••s vary pret|ty—sin••es a good jig—and can play—the very devil!

A••d a place, and so join'd with the shew-folk.

The place that I'd got, I detarmin'd to keep, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ookers! they were all so drollish! K••s ob••ers, and taylors! a prince or a sweep! And j••aw'd so at I, I look'd foolish! Th••r ••rs and sw••rds, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 they handled so cute, And their ladies were all so bewitching!

When I thought to be droll, I was always struck mute, As the bacon rack hangs in our kitchen: They ax'd me to say, how, "the coach was at the door," When were seated above and below folk! Feggs! I was so shamefac'd, I flopp'd on the floor!

A kind of a sort of giddiness seiz'd me all over! the candles danc'd the hays!—'twere as dimish as a Scotch mist! I dropt down dead as a shot!

And swounded away 'mong the Shew-folk.

They laugh'd so, and jeer'd me, as never wur seen? All manner of fancies were playing; One night I was sent for to wait on a queen,

I believe it were Queen Hamlet of Dunkirk!

(Not thinking the plan they were laying! My leady she died on a chair next her spouse, While with pins me behind they were pricking! All at once I scream'd out! lent her grace such a douse! That alive she was soon—aye, and—kicking! The people all laugh'd at, and hooted poor I! And the comical dogs did me so joke! That I made but one step, without bidding good bye.

From their stage; cod! I never so much as once looked behind me!—tumbled over a barrel of thunder—knock'd down a hail-storm—roll'd over the sea—darted like lightning through the infernal regions.

And, so, took my leave of the Shew-folk.

THE MULBERRY TREE.

THE sweet briar grows in the merry green wood, Where the musk rose diffuses its perfume so free; But the blight often seizes both blossom and bud, While the mildew flies over the mulberry-tree.

In the nursery rear'd like the young tender vine,

Mankind of all orders, and ev'ry degree, First crawl on the ground, then spring up like the pine, And some branch and bear fruit, like the mulberry-tree.

To the fair tree of knowledge some twine like a twig, While some sappy sprouts with their fruits disagree; For which we from birch now and then pluck a twig, Which is not quite so sweet as the mulberry-tree.

The vast tree of life we all eagerly climb, And impatiently pant at its high top to be, Tho' nine out of ten are lopp'd off in their prime, And they drop like dead leaves from the mulberry-tree.

Some live by the leaf, and some live by the bow, As the song or the dance, their vocation may be, And some live and thrive, tho' we know no more how, Than the dew that flies over the mulberry-tree.

But like weeping willows we hang down the head When poor wither'd elders we're destin'd to be, And we're minded no more than mere logs when we're dead, Or the dew that flies over the mulberry-tree.

Yet like lignum-vita we hearts of oak wear, Or the cedar that keeps from the canker-worm free, While the vinejuice we drain to dissolve ev'ry care, Like the dew that flies over the mulberry-tree.

SONGS, in the slaves of Algiers, or a struggle for freedom.

THE rose just bursting into bloom, Admir'd where'er 'tis seen; Diffuses round a rich perfume, The garden's pride and queen. When gather'd from its native bed, No longer charms the eye; Its vivid tints are quickly fled, 'Twill wither, droop, and die.

So woman when by nature drest, In charms devoid of art;

Can warm the stoic's icy breast, Can triumph o'er each heart. Can bid the soul to virtue rise, To glory prompt the brave, But sinks oppress'd, and drooping dies, When once she's made a slave.

WRAP'T in the evening's soft and pensive shade, When passing zephyrs scarce the herbage moves; Here waits a trembling, fond, and anxious maid, Expecting to behold the youth she loves. Tho' Philomela on a neighbouring tree, Melodious warbles forth her nightly strain; Thy accents would be sweeter far to me, Would from my bosom banish doubt and pain.

Then come dear youth, come haste away, Haste to this silent grove, The signal's given, you must obey, 'Tis liberty and love.

AURORA, lovely blooming fair, Unbarr'd the eastern skies; While many a soft pellucid tear, Ran trickling from her eyes. Onward she came with heart felt glee, Leading the dancing hours; For tho' she wept, she smil'd to see, Her tears refresh the flowers. Phoebus, who long, her charms admir'd, With bright refulgent ray; Came forth, and as the maid retir'd, He kiss'd her tears away.

WHEN I was a poor, little innocent boy, About sixteen or eighteen years old;

At Susan and Marian I cast a sheep's eye, But Susan was saucy and Marian was shy; So I flirted with Flora, with Cecily and Di, But they too, were frumpish and cold. Says Diego, one day, what ails you I pray? I fetch'd a deep sigh—Diego, says I, Women hate me.—Oh! how I adore 'em. Pho; nonsense, said he, never mind it my lad, Hate you, then hate them boy, come never be sad, Here, take a good sup of the jorum.

If they're foolish and mulish, refuse you, abuse you, No longer pursue, They'll soon buckle too When they find they're neglected, Old maids unprotected, Ah! then 'tis their turn to woo; But bid them defiance, and form an alliance, With the mirth-giving, care-killing jorum.

I took his advice, but was sent to the war, And soon I was call'd out to battle; I heard the drums beat, Oh! how great was my fear, I wish'd myself sticking, aye, up to each ear In a horse-pond—and skulk'd away into the rear, When the cannon and bombs 'gan to rattle, Said I to myself, you're a damn'd foolish elf, Sebastian keep up, then I took a good sup. Turkish villains, shall we fly before 'em; What, give it up tamely and yield ourselves slaves, To a pack of rabscallions, vile infidel knaves, Then I kiss'd the sweet lips of my jorum.

No, hang 'em, we'll bang 'em, and rout 'em, and scout 'em, If we but pursue, They must buckle too: Ah! then without wonder, I heard the loud thunder, Of cannon and musquetry too, But bid them defiance, being firm in alliance, With the courage-inspiring jorum.

GENTLE MARY OF THE TWEED.

THE gentle maid of whom I sing, Once liv'd where Tweed's blue waters wave, But now the modest flower of spring Hangs weeping o'er her dewy grave. Fond nymphs! of Mary's fate beware, Of perjur'd William's vows take heed. Lest you should love, and then despair, Like gentle Mary of the Tweed.

Tho' long he woo'd the lovely maid, And she was faithful in return, To ev'ry sense of honour dead, He fled, and left the fair to mourn! Alarm'd at her false lover's flight, Her fair companions sought the mead, To sink the hopes, in endless night, For gentle Mary of the Tweed.

She heard— but scorning to upbraid, She b••ea••d alone the secret sigh, For graceful pride induc'd the maid To hide her wrongs from ev'ry eye. Here, in these shades, a prey to grief, She tun'd to plaintive strains the reed, 'Till death, from woe a blest relief, Smote gentle Mary of the Tweed.

Now, in her turf-bound grave, at rest, Where yonder willow droops its head, With hopeless care no more oppress'd. She sleeps beneath the waving shade. The cruel wrongs are all forgot Which forc'd her virgin heart to bleed: Fond nymphs! be your's a milder lot Than gentle Mary's of the Tweed.

THE AFRICAN.

WIDE over the tremulous sea The moon spread her mantle of light,

And the gale gently dying away, Breath'd soft on the bosom of night: On the forecastle Maraton stood, And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale; His tears fell unseen in the flood, His sighs pass's unheard in the gale.

Ah, wretch! in his anguish, he cry'd, From country and liberty torn; Ah! Maraton, would thou hadst died, Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne. Flow ye tears, down my cheek ever flow, Soft sleep from mine eye-lids depart, And still let the arrow of woe Drink deep of the stream of my heart.

But hark!—on the silence of night, My Adela's accents I hear! And mournful, beneath the wan light, I see her lov'd image appear; Oh Maraton!—haste thee, she cries, Where the reign of oppression is o'er; The tyrant is robb'd of his prize, And Adela sorrows no more.

THE POOR FLOWER GIRL.

THE violet and primrose to pluck as they grew, Down hedge rows Iv'e rov'd among meadows so green, Now torn with the bramble, now dripping with dew, For I'm poor and forlorn, and I'm not yet fifteen.

For daisies and cowslips I seek with a sigh; Their cups all of gold, and their borders of green? I seek them, in hopes some good Christian will buy; For I'm poor and forlorn, and I'm not yet fifteen.

My nosegays not sold, and no friend by my side, At midnight if houseless and hungry I'm seen,

Ah! gentles, be you my protectors and guide; For I'm poor and forlorn, and I'm not yet fifteen.

THE SAILOR.

IF round the world poor sailors roam, And bravely do their duty, When danger's past they find a home, With each his favourite beauty.

For Nan, and Sue, and Moll, and Bess, And fifty more delight them, And when their honied lips they press, Who says it don't requite them.

If rich he comes, what pleasure then, If Nancy does not share it, If poor, he scorns then to complain, For Nancy too will bear it.

What lubber then like him so gay, His grog drowns all his sorrow, For, dam'me, if it's foul to-day, 'Tis sure to right to-morrow.

He springs on shore, assured to meet The partner lov'd most dearly, In merry dance, with nimble feet, To pipe and tabor chearly.

PRIM ROSE.

IN tatter'd weed, from town to town, Is hapless Primrose doom'd to stray; Compell'd a wretch, a wanderer known, To seek a home from day to day. Barefoot as she strolls forlorn, O'er the flint or pointed thorn, Silent must her sorrows be, Her madrigal—Sweet Charity.

At evening will the village kind, In raptures listen to her song; And buy her joy, in hopes to find, What future joys to him belong. Barefoot as she strolls, &c.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

OF all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, She lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart; She lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long, To such as please to buy 'em: But sure such folks could ne'er ••get So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, She lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; ••y master comes like any Turk, And bangs ••e most severely: ••ut let him ba••g his belly full, ••'ll bear it all for Sally: ••s the darling of my heart, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in ••he week, I dearly love but on•• ••y; And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday: For then I'm drest in all my best,

To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, She lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, She lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box and all, I'll give it to my honey: I wou'd it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, She lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbours all, Make game of me and Sally; And, but for her, I'd better be A slave, and row a galley; But when my sev'n long years are out, Oh then I'll marry Sally; Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley.

THE SENTIMENTAL SALLY. In 〈…〉〈…〉 "Sally in our Alley.

THE 〈…〉〈…〉 with Grubstreet fire, In 〈…〉〈…〉 ••suse is; But know, the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I admire, 'Ti•• 〈…〉〈…〉 ••uces; Swe•• ••tl•• S••, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 thee ••ean, T•• 〈…〉〈…〉 ••a••ly;

But as thou art my fancy's queen, Ne'er let me want a Sally!

'Tis true we're told in prose and rhyme, "A wit is but a feather;" But let me lightly mount sublime, While grovelings hug their tether, Then like the lark, I'll soar and sing, While from the sordid valley, The clod-sprung earth worm ne'er takes wing, Nor e'er enjoys a Sally.

Sallies of wit, where wisdom rules, Are gladsome, gamesome, gay things; But those who sport with pointed tools, Shou'd handle well their play-things; Then haply, when the stroke offends, No longer prone to rally; I'll silence keep, to keep my friends, And check the sportive Sally.

And as old Time speeds on a pace, His sport and prey to make us, With hasty strides, and hot-foot chace, Determin'd to o'ertake us; When from the sally-port of life, We rush to close life's tally; Releas'd from cank'ring care and strife, Triumphant be our Sally!

STELLA.

HAST thou forgot the oak that throws Its reverend arms across the ••ide; Which o'er the root in silence flows, From noon's broad beams its course to hide. My Stella there was us'd to stray, When no obstrusive foot was nigh; At peep of dawn or setting day, To share the oft-repealed sigh.

There first I mark'd the damask rose, Suffusing deep her glowing cheek; There would the Heavenly eye disclose, More than the fault'ring tongue could speak; 'Till love had taught her timid heart, No m•• its feelings to deny: Then tear from tear would duly start, And sighs re-echo back to sigh.

THE OLD MAN.

I'M old enough to be married I wis, Full ninety summers have made me ripe; For seventy years I could damsels kiss, Of me is the tough grand oak the type, I up my brimmers full as an egg! I can strut about with my elbows square, My hat I can take off under my leg, Right nimbly I can dance—look there

Dances.

This globe is mine, and I'll kick it about, And I will marry a buxom maid. To please my sweet woman I han't a doubt, When in my bridal gear array'd. My night cap's made of the finest lace, Our wedding bed's of the softest down, To me she'll turn her charming face, And neighbours laugh when the stocking's thrown.

FATHER MOONEY.

FAITH, you must know I once was born, It was near the rock of Cashel O; My father's cow she wore a horn, And so did Tony Swatchell O! Says father Mooney, 'tis a shame That you will still keep doing this; You must do penance for the same, And I will tell you what it is.

Says he, Oh! be an honest man, And have the grace your debts to pay; Yes, Sir, says I, and off I ran, To have with Jane a bit of play, Ill luck the priest upon us sent, And up a whilliloo he set; Says I—a kiss to me she lent, And I was paying off the debt.

As on your sin the saints all peept, One year O, wine you must not sup; So in a quart a loaf I steept, I did not drink—I eat it up! Says he, "Child, walk upon your knees 'Till from your soul your sin is fled," Yes Sir, says I, but, if you please, It shall be in a strawberry bed.

He found me out, and swore in rage, Child, "go to hell," for that's your doom, Except you trudge on pilgrimage, To holy Thomas Becket's tomb. Last Lent came cockles mighty pat, And bread and butter was a treat, The cockle shells stuck on my hat, But first the cockles I did eat.

PINK OF FASHION.

MY lord—you're a horrid creature—an't that true my lady? Why will your ludship be so curst a flat? I'm the neatest thing in nature—what say you my lady? Natty, witty, pretty—he! he!—saucy that! Look'ce—cut my coat in two, Burnt the skirts—as good as new; If it an't the stylish go, then am I a Jew! We shall be the pink of fashion—what think you my lady? Natty kiddies for the ladies—how d'ye do?

Men of taste improve their phizzes—an't that true my lady? Pray make his ludship understand what's what: I hate your stupid quizzes—what say you my lady? Sheepish, mopish, dumpish—he! he!—too bad that? Look'ee—here's the saucy grace, Whiskers, neckloth, squinting glass, If it an't a knowing face, then am I a Jew! We shall be the pink of fashion—what think you my lady? Knowing kiddies for the ladies?—how d'ye do?

All the deep ones trim their nappers, an't that true my lady? Twig his lordship—what a tail our cat has got? He shall rank among the croppers—what say you my lady? Snip it, clip it, dash it—he! he! he!—why not? Look at me—the true tip top; Quite the thing—a frizzled mop. If it an't the noble crop, then am I a Jew! We shall be the pink of fashion—what think you my lady? Rolling kiddies for the ladies!—how d'ye do?

PICTURE SHOP.

WHAT argufies your logic, your sense and all that there, To prove the world a windmill, a stage play or a fair; This life I can't help thinking, in spite of any quiz, Must be va••ly like a picter-shop, now don't you think it is. With my row dow dow, &c.

And first of all, your great men that cuts a mighty swell, To be sure in all their finery they lock monstratious well, Your patriots & your placemen with awe at first may strike. But like picters turn 'em round—they're all paper skulls alike.

Your doctors and attorneys are honest men enough, And always do their best to be touching of the stuff; Yet they're like pi•• ••oo, for while the world is in a bustle, While patients 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ts fail, they never move a muscle.

Y••ur beaux & fl••y ••owing lads that go so sprucely dres••,

Are nothing else than pictures no more than all the rest; They're very well to look at, but then for all their pride, There's our Nan will take her oath they're fit for nothing else beside.

Your orators in Congress, you scarce can believe the tale, Like portraits in a print shop are oft put up to sale; My masters it wou'd make no odds—I'm sure you think the same, If all such pretty picters were hung up in a frame.

But now a truce with politics, 'tis time to end my song, May Adams gain the people's love and live to keep it long; May the true sons of Columbia be neither bought nor sold, And may hearty fellows never want his picter set in gold.

THE ROBBER.

WHEN the robber his victim has noted, When the free-booter darts on his prey Let humanity spare the devoted; Let mercy forbid him to slay.

Since my hope is by penury blighted, My sword must the traveller daunt; I will snatch from the rich man, benighted, The gold he denies to my want.

But the victim, when once I have noted, At my foot, when I ••k on my prey, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 humanity spare the devoted; Let mercy forbid me to slay.

THE TRAVELLER.

A TRAVELLER stopt at a widow's gate; She kept an inn, and he wanted to bait, But th•• landlady slighted her guest: For when nature was seaking an ugly race,

She certainly moulded this ••ller's face As a sample for all the rest.

The chamber-maid's sides they were ready to crack, When she saw his queer nose, and the hump at his back; A hu•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 handsome, no doubt. And though 'tis confess'd, that the prejudice goes Very strongly in favour of wearing a nose, Yet a nose should'nt look like a snout.

A bag full of go•• on the table he laid— Had a wond'rous effect on the widow and maid! And they quickly grew marvellous civil. The money immediately alter'd the case; They were charm'd with his hump, & his snout, & his face, Tho' he still might have frighted the devil.

He paid like a prince—gave the widow a smack— Then flop'd on his hor••, at the door, like a sack; While the landlady, touching the chink, Cried—Sir, should you travel this country again, I heartily hope that the sweetest of men Will stop at the widow's to drink.

THE SEAMAN.

THE man whose life is on the seas, No hoping cares molest, His hopes still freshen with the breeze, His thoughts in Nancy blest The hardest fortune he can bear, Since love his labour charms, 'Tis Nancy's image foothes his care, Tho' absent from her arms.

His happy bosom knows no ill, He sings his chearful song, While, round, the slip his messmates fill, Nor think the mid watch long. The helm's••n now ••e ready stands,

With love's sweet hope imprest; The wheel still govern'd••y his hands, The compass in his breast.

SLY GIRDER.

AT Symond's-Inn I sip my tea, Then file a judgment of a plea; Enrol a deed in special tail, Tax the costs, or put in bail.

O, its a clear case, Sir! the defendant's a married woman, pleads her coverture; you'd better not go on; your client will have all the costs to p••y. Will he? well, dem'me, if mine don't, your's shall! that's all.

Sings

With sham plea and misnomer; Nil debet, nulla bona; Declaration, Replication; Fieri facias, Special capias; Affidavit Devastavit; Clausum fregit, Non elegit; Non est factum, Nudum pactum; Demoratur, Allocatur; Ad satisfaciendum, Et respondendum.

Should a client ask advice, There's six and eightpence in a trice; O treat me to a dinner. I make him pay For all I say, So I'm sure to be the winner.

Sir, you've certainly merits; I'll speak to Mr. Shark, the plaintiff's attorney; pray, Sir, did you knock my client's eye

out? No, Sir; we plead a justification to the assault; then, Sir, we must go to trial.

Sings

With sham plea, &c.

For plaintiff or defendant, If but the fees we snack, We never make an end on't, Till the coat is on his back.

Lord, Sir, only a few extra costs, such as the master won't allow; poor devils of clients pay the piper. Rattling down in post-chaises to the assizes; hackney-coaches to Westminster-hall: my gigg on a Sunday; counsel's fees, tavern-bills, and travelling expences.

Sings

With sham plea, &c.

AVAST! AVAST!

THOUGH the lawyer comes to woo, Vainly he attempts to sue, Or with his soft nonsense teaze; In the searnan's sort of phrase, Thus I answer all he says, Avast, avast, Sir, if you please: For better I like to be aboard a good ship, When the sa••ls are all loos'd, and the anchor' a-trip; To hear the tight boatswain pipe, hoist and belay, While the merry, merry sailors all foot it away.

But should he yet the cause pursue, Still his brief will never do; For when all his pleading's done, In the seaman's sort of phrase, Thus I ••swer all he says, Avast, avast, Sir, if you please. For ••tter I like, &c.

O LISTEN THEN.

O LISTEN then, and silent feel A wretched stranger's hapless lot,

Let pity on thy bosom steal, And selfish motive be forgot; Then act a father's tender part, And raise a wretched drooping heart.

O kindly then thy aid extend, Avert the near impending blow, Or soon, alas! my sorrows end, Soon the tear shall cease to flow Then act a father's tender part, And raise a wretched drooping heart.

MAY I NEVER BE MARRIED.

THE kiss that he gave when he left me behind, Seal'd the promise of Patrick's love, And when to my sailor I'm false or unkind, Such falsehood expect from the dove. For the promise of lovers should ne'er be forgot, And I promis'd the lad, when behind him I tarried, That I ne'er would forsake him though humble his lot, Oh! honey, if I do may I never get married.

Now the winds and the waves bear him over the sea, The young squire would give me fine things, But what are his riches or grandeur to me, His baubles, his ribbons and rings. For the promise, &c.

His cabbin is low, content dwells within, And snug is the thatch o'er the door, For riches without him I care not a pin, For my sailor's the lad I adore. For the promise, &c.

The promise of lovers should ne'er be forgot, Yet sometimes, we all know, such hopes have miscarried; I trust he'll prove true, but I'll fit him if not, Oh! honey, if I don't may I never be married. For the promise, &c.

HONEST NED.

NED oft had braved the field of battle, Had oft endur'd the keenest woe, Had been where deep-mouth'd cannons rattle, And oft been wounded by the foe; His heart was kind—to fear a stranger, The name of s••lier was his pride; He nobly scorn'd to shrink from danger, And on the bed of honour dy'd. For said Ned whate'er befalls, A soldier scorns to flinch or whine, He'll cheerfully go where duty calls, And brave all ills, but ne'er repine.

Ned lov'd sincere the charming Kitty, She saw with tears her soldier go, And pray'd kind Heav'n to grant her pity, And shield her Edward from the foe; My love, he cried, thy grief give over, Those tears disgrace a soldier's bride, But hapless Kitty lost her lover, Who on the bed of honour died. For said Ned, &c.

Tho' war's dread trumpet flew around him, Tho' dismal groans assail'd his ear, Firm in her interest honour found him, Unus'd to shame, untaught by fear: Such was his valour, such his merit, His country's welfare was his pride, He, pierc'd by wounds, maintained his spirit, And on the bed of honour died. For said Ned, &c.

WHERE's THE HARM OF THAT.

'TWAS in the grove the other morn, Beneath a hawthorn tree, I sat and grieving sung forlorn, Ah! who's so sad as me:

Was it my fate to be a bride, Two lovers then might chat, Indeed it's truth, a voice reply'd, And where's the ••rm of that.

Abash'd, not knowing what to do, I blushing gaz'd around; But when the cause appear'd in view, How did my heart rebound! 'Twas Henry who had lov'd me long, The youth pull'd off his hat; He kiss'd, he press'd, then tun'd his song, And where's the harm of that.

Says he, sweet girl, 'tis now a year, Since we agreed to wed, Come let us then to church my dear, And be my bride, he said: Indeed he look'd and spoke so kind, And church was by so pat, That faith he took me in the mind, And where's the harm of that.

COT PLESS HUR••

ERE I had well grown to an age, Allowed young maids to marry, Three youths would fain my hand engage, And tried their suits to carry: Young Paddy first put in his claim, Then Sandy told soft tales, And Taffy, look you, sung his flame, And he came up from Wales, Cot pless hur, And he came up from Wales.

Och! I'm the crater, Paddy sung, Take me, I tell you honey, Hoot, hoot, cried Sandy, hold your tongue, I've, lassie, got the money;

Well, I says, Taffy's cot no pelf, But hur will give, look you, Hur heart and soul besides herself, And hur will love most true, Cot pless her, And hur will love most true.

Now when I'd well their merits scann'd, To stop their further teazing, I e'en to Taffy gave my hand, The lad to me most pleasing; And now he's got me for a wife, So well we both agree, That few live half so sweet a life, As my dear Taff and me, Cot pless hur, As my dear Taff and me.

THE ARAB.

WHEN sleep has clos'd the trav'ler's eyes, By long fatigues oppress'd, While slumb'ring soft serene he lies, And sinks in downy rest. By the glimpses of the moon Springs the Arab on his prey, Or, beneath the scor••ng noon, Bears the loaded wealth away.

But tho' in hours of sweet repose His spoil the rovers seek, Yet oft concern for human woes Impea••ls his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wing check. When the captive fair one pleads, Beauty born to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••r'd, While ••nce ••d him bl••d, Beauty triumphs o'er his sword.

THE WAY TO GET MARRIED.

COME ••er y•• 〈…〉〈…〉, and likewise ye bea••, Come ••ther, and ••d what I have to express▪

'Tis the way to get married I mean to disclose, A way of some moment you all must confess. Physicians it's known for advice claim a see, But I, oh! I'm not by self-interest carried; And so you are welcome to my recipe, Which is, if you like it, the Way to get Married.

Now lovers attend, and I hope there's some here, Don't trifle too long about this thing or that; But when you are bent on an object so dear, Let prudence direct you, and mind what you're at: To love, and be lov'd, is the highest of joy, Then be not, I beg, by indifference carried, Let honour and truth all your actions employ, Which is, if you like it, the Way to get Married.

Tho' money may sometimes be deem'd very well, Yet riches can never true pleasures impart; 'Tis love, and love only, each care can repel; 'Tis love, and love only, that conquers the heart! Then make it your study to follow my plan, All you who live single, and too long have tarried, Court with zeal, like true lovers, as soon as you can, Which is, if you like it, the Way to get Married.

BETSY BOBBIN.

IN love be I fifth button high, On velvet runs my courting, Sh••, buchr••m, twist, best broad-cloth list, I leave for other sporting. From needle, thread, my fancy's fled, My heart is set a throbbing, And no one by, I cross-legg'd sigh, For charming Betsy Bobbin.

Her lips so sweet, are velveret, Her eyes do well their duty, Her skin to me is dimity, The pattern she's of beauty.

Her hand squeez'd oft, is sattin soft, And sets my heart a throbbing, Her cheeks, O dear! red kerseyme••e, Laud! what a Betsy Bobbin.

Her roguish smile can well beguile, Her every look bewitches, Yet never stir, when tack'd to her, But Tim will wear the breeches. I've face and mein, am sharp and keen, And tho' my heart keeps throbbing, There's not (in fine) one man in nine, So fit for Betsy Bobbin.

THE MERRY BELLS.

WHEN I was a younker, says feyther to I, What trade, little Ralph, wouldst thou take 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I answer'd i'feggs! like a poor harmless boy, Your's, sure, for I ne'er can forsake you. You jollily works and you merrily sing, Then the branch from the tree don't be lopping; Late or early, in summer, in winter, or spring, With you I'll 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cleaving and chopping: For labour and health will be friends thro' the day, And the merry, merry, merry bells join our roundelay.

My school fellow, Jack, why turn'd lawyer besure, Old Nick shew'd the road to pre••ment, S•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by the ears, and he plunder'd the poor, O•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉! I hate such black va••nt! A 〈…〉〈…〉 D••, 〈…〉〈…〉 drugg'd folks to death, Of 〈…〉〈…〉 the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cr••d shame on't! 〈…〉〈…〉 W••ll, I shall ••e while I've breath, 〈…〉〈…〉 had the name on't: 〈…〉〈…〉 ••il thro' the day, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the merry, merry, merry bells join our roundelay.

B•• 〈…〉〈…〉 the lawyer one day 〈…〉〈…〉 ••ng bit of paper; So ••od! to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 big-wig they took'd him away,

And on nothing he cut his last caper. Dick the doctor, was poison'd by drugs of his own; The corn-factor paid dear for his carving, Plenty fill'd ev'ry market, the prices went down, So a bankrupt is Wull now, and starving: While labour and health stand my friends thro' the day, And the merry, merry, merry bells join our roundelay.

THE PLOUGH-BOY's LAST STAKE.

Tune—A flaxen-headed Cow-boy.

A Plough-boy neighbours knew me, as jocund as could be, Who blithesome late and early oft whistled o'er the lea; A saucy footman's place I got, and thought I'd soon grow rich, But, dang it, Fortune's such a jade, she flung me in the ditch▪ So now, d'ye s••e, to th' races I'm com'd to pick up pelf, And, dang it, but I'll lose my all, before I lose myself; And if I make my comrades smile, so great a men I'll be, You'll forget the little plough-boy that whistled o'er the lea.

When spring adorns the meadows, all nature revels gay, And when the sun shines cheerily the time is to make hay: S•• dang it, lass, let's start us fair, no pouting or a frown, Endeavour yet may heap the cart afore the sun goes down; I'll hedge my stake so warily, and make my bets so sure, That if ill-luck should call again he'll not find out the door: And if I make auld comrades smile, so great a mon I'll be, You'll forget the little plough-boy that whistled o'er the lea.

THE MUFFIN MAN.

WHILE your opera squallers fine verses are s••ng, Of heroes and p••ets, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 such like 〈…〉〈…〉; While the w••r••'s running round like a 〈…〉〈…〉,

I ne'er bother my head with what other folks ai••; But careless and frisky my bell I keep ringing, And walk about merrily crying my muffins.

Chorus.

—Lilly-white muffins, O rare cramp••, s••king by Yorkshire cakes, hot loaves and charming cakes, ••n•• a p••nny, two a p••nny, Yorkshire cakes.

What matters to me, if great folks run a gadding, For politics, fashion, or such botheration, L••t them drink as they brew, while I merrily bake; For though I sell muffins, I'm not such a cake To let other fools fancies e'er set me a madding, Or burthen my thoughts with the cares of the nation.

Speaks.

—What have I to do with politicians? and as for your parliament cakes—every body knows they are bought and s•• all over the nation—no, no, it's enough for me to cry— Lilly-white, &c.

Let sailors and soldiers, contending for glory, Delight in the rattle of drums, and of trumpets, Undertakers get living by other folks dying, W•• actors make money by laughing or crying: Let lawyers with quizzes and quiddities bore ye, It's nothing to me while I'm crying my crumpets.

Speaks.

—What do I care for lawyers? a'nt I a baker, and Master of the Rolls myself:—a roll enough, too, for a Master of the Rolls to be crying—Lilly-white, &c.

MY BONNY LOWLAND LADDIE.

OF all the swains both far and near, I love but one, believe me, And he loves me sincerely dear, And never will deceive me: Tho' muckle gold he canna boast, I'll tell my mam and daddy, Of all the swains I love him most, My bonny Lowland Laddie, My 〈…〉〈…〉 young ••lor lad, My bo••ny Lowland Laddie.

Whene'er the war is at an end, O we are to be marry'd, And Cupid will our cause befriend, For sure we long have tarry'd; But O the time is coming round, When deck'd in silken plaidy, In Hymen's chains we shall be bound, My bonny Lowland Laddie, My handsome braw young sailor lad, My bonny Lowland Laddie.

O blessings on the happy day, When we shall dwell together; Our lives will sweetly pass away, In every kind of weather, And should the fates ordain it so, We may be Mam and Daddy; O then what raptures we shall know, My bonny Lowland Laddie, My handsome braw young sailor lad, My bonny Lowland Laddie.

RIPE CHERRIES.

COME buy my ripe cherries, fair maidens come buy, I sell them so cheap sure you cannot deny; Not for ••ilver or gold with a cherry I'll part, To the smile of good humour I yield up my heart. The true bleeding heart, Come buy my ripe cherries, The true bleeding heart.

Not beauty alone I think worthy my prize, Nor the pout of the lips, or the glance of the eyes; To the froward tho' fair, not with one will I part, To the smile of good humour I yield up my heart. The true bleeding heart, &c.

My cherries I sell for the smiles of the fair, Give a poor little boy, O give him a share:

For your kindness, dear ladies, a truth I'll impart, 'Tis the smiles of good humour that wins ev'ry heart. The true bleeding heart, &c.

THE CROPS.

YE nymphs and swains, Attend my strains, Good humour prompts the lay, A lively song, And cheerful throng, Will chace dull care away; The times have been hard I allow; But fate smiles proportionate now, And fashion itself denotes plenty. See all around, What crops abound. For one of last year we have twenty Fine crops, Rich tops, Huzza, huzza, &c. What need we fear, This is the harvest of leap-year, &c.

The ladies too, As patriots true, Flock round the green cloth board, And sitting late, To help the state, Deal out their spousy's hoard, With arms and with elbows all bare, No pains nor expence do they spare, Content to be chain'd round the middle, With gilded head, Like gingerbread, All follow the card and the fiddle, Great haste, No waist, Huzza, &c.

If aid like this, Tho' Ma'ma and Miss From recreation springs, If bucks and fops, Produce such crops, We never can want good things; But should glit'ring belles shine in vain, And cruel informers complain, To stop the fair bank circulation, Our dogs will help, Tax every whelp, And puppies may prop the nation, Bow wow, That's how, Huzza, huzza, &c.

IT WOULD BE A PITY.

T'OTHER day as I walk'd in the Mall, Just by way, Ma', of taking the air; Believe me the truth I now tell, I attracted each eye that was there. I was dress'd in my small coat so neat, And my green Brunswick slippers so pretty; I had lovers by scores at my feet, To slight them I'm sure 'twas a pity.

But Tender's the man to my mind, So charming, so tasty his air; My papa must, I'm sure now, be blind, Such a cake as Jack Chip to prefer, In the dance, ••a•• to see Tender glide, His steps and his action's so pretty; If he says Nance will you be my bride! Was I to say No, sure it wou'd be a pity.

DASH-ALONG.

Tune—Collin's Co••ch-••ox.

'TWAS about ten o'clock when we first set out, An I thro' London and St. George's Fields made a r••ut;

There was no need to bawl out—Greenwich, a-hoy! For inside and out was well crammed, my boy.

Ay, ay, we had them of all sorts and sizes, millin•• and mantua-makers, shopmen and 'prentices; ay, and two or three taylors, with their customers clothes on, all cramm'd in my

Whip away, dash-along, heigh gee ho••c.

My silk handkerchief gives all the girls delight, Which is ty'd in a bow round my squeezer so tight; And then at these times I sports every thing new; From the hat on my head, damme, down to my shoe.

And then I'm the clev'rest whip going; 'twas but t'other day, turning sharp round the corner, I upset an old woman and her apple-stall; I loves fun, and blow me tight into a gin-shop if I wa'nt off before the old woman cou'd say—Hollo! stop that fellow there, with his

Whip away, &c.

Now I've got to my journey's end ••ound as a roach, I'll just run you o'er the contents of my coach: The first was a prude, with a visage quite tart, With her back to the horses, like a thief in a cart.

And it was—Lord! only look at that impudent creature, I dare be bound she a'nt seventeen, and yet she is ogling and leering at ev'ry fellow she meets; oh! fye, for shame; fye, for shame: what will this world cometh. Come, come, Dina, says her brother, you forget when I found you behind the par|lour door with the Captain—'Pshaw! brother, accidents will happen sometimes, with my

Whip away, &c.

A sailor, good natur'd and brisk as a bee, Making pleasant remarks on each object he see; A W••man a ••ot, and a vast number more, And a Paddy from Cork, with his back 'gainst the door.

O••! blood and c••ns, says he, low cool it is now; I've pulled up t••e windows to keep out the heat. Arra••! sait, honey, and then we're surrounded o' three sides with a cloud of d••st, j••st ••e a party of s••t soldiers on h••rseback; och! to be sure and it is very pretty fetching a walk in these

Whip away, &c.

But just as we got within sight of the town, As the devil wou'd have it, the coach it broke down; At this sad mishap all my guests look'd queen, But none more than Tender, a pretty little dear.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 ye, ye soundrel, says he, why didn't you look to your co•• before you came out? So I did, says I, you little pin|sticking son of a —! You lie, damme, says he. Don't give me the lie, says I, or I shall be apt to give you a taste of my

Whip away, &c.

MERRY AND WISE.

TO be merry, and wise, is a maxim of old, But a maxim so good can't too often be told, Then attend to my song, nor my counsel despise, For I mean to be merry—but merry and wise.

Ye Bucks, who when toping, such rapture express, Yet give the next day dismal proofs of excess, Avoid all extremes, and mark what I advise, 'Tis to drink, and be merry—but merry and wise.

In women, all lovely, is centr'd each Bliss, But let Prudence direct you, 'twill sweeten each kiss; Let not beauty, or folly, your senses disguise, You may kiss and be merry—but merry and wise.

Then ye topers, and rakes, who would lead honest lives, Avoid all excesses, and choose modest wives, While Prudence presides, it is thus I advise Love, drink, and be merry—but merry and wise.

MARY's DREAM.

THE moon had climb'd the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the Eastern summit shed Her silver light on tow'r and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,

Then soft and low a voice was heard ••ay—Mary weep no more for me.

She from her pillow gently rais'd Her head to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, With pallid cheek and hollow eye; "O Mary dear, cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea, Far, far from thee I sleep in death, So Mary weep no more for me."

"Three stormy nights and stormy days We tost upon the raging main, And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain:" E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, My heart was fill'd with love for thee; The storm is past, and I'm at rest, So Mary weep no more for me.

"O maiden dear, thyself prepare, We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt or care, And thou and I shall part no more;" Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see, But soft the passing spirit said— Sweet Mary weep no more for me.

THE FARTHING RUSH-LIGHT.

SIR Solomon Simons when he did wed, Blush'd black as a crow, his fair lady blush'd white, The clock struck twelve, they were both tuck'd in bed, In the chimney a rush-light, A little farthing rush-light, Fal lal lal lal la, A little farthing rush-light.

Sir Solomon gave his lady a nudge, Cries he, Lady Simons, there's vastly too much light, Then Sir Solomon, says she, to get up you can't grudge, And blow out the rush-light, The little farthing rush-light, The little farthing rush-light.

Sir Solomon then out of bed pops his toes, And vastly he swore, and very much did curse light, And then to the chimney Sir Solomon he goes, And he puff'd at the rush-light, The little farthing rush-light, The little farthing rush-light.

Lady Simons got out in her night-cap so neat, And over the carpet my Lady did brush light, And there Sir Solomon found in a heat, Puffing at the rush-light: Then she puff'd at the rush-light; But neither of them both Could blow out the rush-light.

Sir Solomon and Lady, their breath quite gone, Rang the bell in a rage, determin'd to crush light, Half asleep, in his shirt, then up came John, And he puff'd at the rush-light, This little farthing rush-light; But neither of the three Cou'd blow out the rush-light.

Cook, coachman and maids, very near all in buff, Came, and swore in their lives they never met with such light, And each of the family by turns had a puff At the little farthing rush-light, The curst farthing rush-light, But none of the family Cou'd blow out the rush-light.

The watchman at last went by, crying one. Here ••atchman's, come up, than you we might on worse light,

Then up came ••e watchman, the business was done, For he ••rn'd down the rush-light, The little farthing rush-light— Past one o'clock! So he put out the rush-light.

BETSY BLOSSOM.

NO more I'll court the town-bred fair, Who shines in artificial beauty; Her native charms without compare, Claim all my love, respect and duty. Oh! my bonny, bonny Bet, sweet Blossom, Was I a king so proud to wear thee, From off the verdant couch I'd bear thee, To grace thy faithful lover's bosom.

Yet 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me where those beauties lie, I cannot say in smile or dimple; In blooming check or radiant eye, 'Tis happy nature wild and simple. Oh! my bonny Bet, &c.

Let dainty beaux for ladies pine, And sigh in numbers trite and common; Ye gods! one darling wish be mine, And all I ask is lovely woman. Oh! my bonny Bet, &c.

Come, dearest girl, the rosy bowl, Like thy bright eye, with pleasure dancing; My heaven art ther••, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 take my ••l, With ••ure ev'ry ••se en••ncing. Oh! my bonny Be••, &c.

LULLABY.

PEACEFUL slumbering on the ocean, Sermon ••ear no danger nigh,

The winds and waves in gentle motion, Sooth them with their lullaby. Lullaby, lullaby.

Is the wind tempestuous blowing? Still no danger they des••ry, The guileless heart its been bestowing, Sooths them with its lullaby. Lullaby, lullaby.

THE SLEEPING MARINERS. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tune of Lullaby.

PEACEFUL snoozing on the ocean, Seamen fear no dangers nigh, Though the world is in commotion, We are rock'd to Lullaby! Lullaby! Lullaby! &c.

In Torbay secure at anchor, Top-masts struck, and calm the sky; Safe from storm, or gallic rancour, We enjoy our Lullaby! Lullaby! Lullaby! &c.

Give Monsieurs who are so curious, Double watches—wet or dry: But give us, who are not furious, Double spells of Lullaby! Lullaby! Lullaby! &c.

Let right come with billows roaring, 'Tw•• two Hamm•• sung we ••e; Full allowance take of snoting, To the tune of Lullaby! Lullaby! Lullaby! &c.

HEAVING OF THE LEAD.

FOR England, when with fav'ring gale, Our gallant ship up channel steer'd,

And scudding under easy sail, The high blue western land appear'd; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, By the deep nine!

And bearing up to gain the port; Some well-known object kept in view; An abbey-tow'r, an harbour-fort, Or beacon, to the vessel true. While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, By the mark seven!

And, as the much lov'd shore we're near— With transport we behold the roof, Where dwelt a friend, or partner dear, Of faith and love a matchless proof! The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung, Quarter-less five!

Now, to her birth the ship draws nigh: We take in sail, she feels the tide: Stand clear the cable!—is the cry: The anchor's gone—we safely ride. The watch is set, and thro' the night We hear the seaman with delight. Proclaim all's well!

GAD-A-MERCY! DEVIL'S IN ME.

GAD-a-mercy! devil's in me, All the damsels wish to win me; Like a may-pole round me cluster, Hanging garlands—suss and fluster! Lilting, cap'ring, grinning, smirking, Pouting, bobbing, winking, jerking, Kates and Betties, Polls and Letties, All were doating gentle creatures,

On these features— To their apr•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Gad-a-mercy! devil's m•• All the damsels wish to win me, Pretty damsels, ugly damsels; Black-hair'd damsels, plump'd fac'd damsels; Six feet damsels, three feet damsels; Pale fac'd damsels, red fac'd damsels; Small leg'd damsels, thick leg'd damsels: Pretty, ugly, black-hair'd, red-hair'd, six feet, three feet, Pale fac'd, plump fac'd, small leg'd, thick leg'd, dainty, dowdy. All run after me, Sir, me; For when pretty fellows we, Pretty maids are frank and free, For their stays taking measure Of the ladies, oh! the pleasure! Oh! such tempting looks they gi' me! Wishing of my heart to win me; Pat and cry, you devil Jemmy? Pretty ladies, ugly ladies, &c.

BETTY BLACKBERRY.

TO hear a sweet goldfinch's sonnet, This morning I put on my bonnet, But scarce in the meadow, pies on it! When the captain appears in my view; I felt an odd sort of sensation, My heart beat in strong palpitation, I blush'd like a pink or carnation, When says he, my dear, How d'ye do?

The dickins, says I, here has pop'd him, I thought to slip by, but I stop'd him, So my very best curtsey I dropt him; With an air then he took off his hat; He seem'd with my person enchanted, He squeez'd my hand, how my heart panted! He ask'd for a kiss, and I granted, And, pray now, what harm was in that?

Says I, Sir, for what do you take me? He swore a fine lady he'd make me, No, dem' him! he'd never forsake me, And then on his knee stooped down; His handkerchief, la! smelt so sweetly, His white teeth he shew'd so compleatly, He manag'd the matter so neatly, I ne'er will be kiss'd by a clown.

THE MIDNIGHT HARK-AWAY.

THE card invites, in crouds we fly To join the jovial rout, full cry; What joy from cares and plagues all day, To hie to the Midnight Hark-away!

Nor want, nor pain, nor grief, nor care, Nor dronish husbands enter there; The brisk, the bold, the young, the gay, All hie to the Midnight Hark-away.

Uncounted strikes the morning clock, And drowsy watchmen idly knock; 'Till day-light peeps, we sport and play, And roar to the Jolly Hark-away.

When tir'd with sport to bed we creep, And kill the tedious day with sleep; To-morrow's welcome call obey, And again to the Midnight Hark-away.

HE STOLE MY HEART AWAY.

WHEN rural lads and lasses gay, Proclaim'd the birth of rosy May, When round the may pole on the green, The rustic dancers all are seen; 'Twas there young Jockey met my view, His like before I never knew, He pip'd so sweet, and danc'd so gay, Alas! he danc'd my heart away.

At eve, when cakes and ale went round, He plac'd him next me on the ground; With harmless mirth and pleasing jest, He shone more bright than all the rest: He talk'd of love, and press'd my hand, Ah! who could such a youth withstand? Well pleas'd I heard what he could say, His charms have stole my heart away.

He often heav'd a tender sigh, While rapture sparkled in his eye; So winning was his grace and air, He might the coldest heart ensnare; But when he ask'd me for his bride, I promis'd soon, and soon comply'd. What nymph on earth could say him nay? Alas! he stole my heart away.

THE SUMMUM BONUM.

GIVE me wine, rosy wine, that foe to despair, Whose magical power can banish all care, Of friendship the parent, composer of strife, The soother of sorrow, and blessing of life: The schools about happiness warmly dispute, And weary the sense in the phantom pursuit, In spite of their maxims, I dare to define The grand Summum Bonum's a bumper of wine.

To the coward a warmth it ne'er fails to impart, And opens the lock of the miserly heart. While thus we carouse it, the wheels of the soul, O'er life's rugged highway agreeably roll, Each thinks of his charmer, who never can cloy, And fancy rides post to the regions of joy. In spite of dull maxims, I dare to define The grand Summum Bonum's a bumper of wine.

'Tis the balsa•• specific that heals every sore, The oftener we taste it we love it the more; Then he who true happiness seeks to attain

With spirit, the full-flowing bumper must drain; And he who the court of fair Venus wou'd know, Undaunted, thro' Bacchus's vineyard must go, In spite of dull maxims, I dare to define The grand Summum Bonum's a bumper of wine.

MIND HUSSEY WHAT YOU DO.

WHEN I was of a tender age And in my youthful prime, My mother of•• wou'd in a rage, Cry, girl take care in time; For you are now so forward grown, The men will you pursue, And all the day this was her tone, Mind, Hussey, what you do!

Regardless of her fond advice, I hasten'd o'er the plain, Where I was courted in a trice By each young sylvan swain; Yet by the bye, I must declare, I virtue had in view, Altho' my mother cry'd beware, Mind, Hussey, what you do!

To Damon, gayest of the green, I gave my youthful hand, His blooming face, and comely mein, I could not well withstand; But strait to church we tript away, With hearts both firm and true, Ah! then my mother ceas'd to say— Mind, Hussey, what you do!

Ye lasses all attend to me, And hence this lesson learn, When to your mind a man you see, Ne'er look morose or stern; But take him with a free good will,

Should he have love for you; Altho' your mother's crying still, Mind Hussey, what you do!

I'D THINK ON THEE MY LOVE.

IN storms, when clouds obscure the sky, And thunders roll, and light'nings fly— In midst of all these dire alarms, I think, my Sally, on thy charms. The troubled main, The wind and rain, My ardent passion prove; Lash'd to the helm, Shou'd seas o'erwhelm, I'd think on thee my love.

When rocks appear on ev'ry side, And art is vain the ship to guide: In varied shapes, when death appears, The thought of thee my bosom chears. The troubled main, &c.

But shou'd the gracious powers be kind— Dispel the gloom, and still the wind, And waft me to thy arms once more, Safe to my long-lost native shore. No more the main, I'd tempt again, But tender joys improve; I then with thee Shou'd happy be, And think on nought but love.

CONTENTED I AM.

CONTENTED I am, and contented I'll be, For what can this world more afford, Than a girl that will sociably sit on my knee, And a cellar with liquor well stor'd, My brave boys.

My vault-door is open, descend ev'ry guest, Broach that cask, aye, that wine we will try, 'Tis as sweet as the lips of your love to the taste, And as bright as her cheek to the eye.

In a piece of slit hoop I my candle have stuck, 'Twill light us each bottle to hand; And the foot of my glass for the purpose I've broke, For I hate that a bumper should stand.

We are dry where we sit, tho' the oozy drops seem The moist walls with wet pearls to emboss, From the arch, mouldy cobwebs in Gothic taste stream, Like stucco-work cut out of moss.

Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, I sit my companions among, Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's god, And a sentiment give or a song.

I charge spoil in hand, and my empire maintain, No ancient more patriot-like bled; Each drop in defence of delight I will drain, And myself for my bucks I'll drink dead.

Sound that pipe, 'tis in tune, and those bins are well fill'd, View that heap of Old Hock in the rear; Yon bottles of Burgundy, see how they're pil'd. Like artillery, tier over tier.

My cellar's my camp, and my soldiers my stasks, All gloriously rang'd in review, When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks, As kingdom's I've yet to subdue.

Like Macedon's madman, my drink I'll enjoy, In defiance of grav•• and go••t; Who cry'd when he had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••re worlds to subdue— I'll weep when my liquor is out.

When the lamp is brimful, see the flame brightly shines,

But when wanting moisture, decays; Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines, Or else there's an end of my blaze.

'Tis my will when I die, not a tear should be shed, No hic jacet be cut on my stone, But pour on my coffin a bottle of red, And say a choice fellow is gone. My brave boys.

LET's BE JOVIAL.

LET's be jovial, fill our glasses, Madness 'tis for us to think How the world is rul'd by asses, And the wise are sway'd by chink.

Then never let vain care oppress us, Riches are to them a snare; We're every one as rich as Croesus, While our bottle drowns our care.

Wine will make us red as roses, And our sorrows quite forget; Come let's suddle all our noses, Drink ourselves quite out of debt.

When grim death comes looking for us, We are toping off our bowls, Bacchus, joining in the chorus, Death, begone, here's none but souls.

God-like Bacchus thus commanding, Trembling death away shall fly, Ever after understanding, Drinking souls can never die.

GOOD QUEEN BESS.

TO my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery, If we jumble together, music, poetry, and history,

The times to display in the days of good Queen Bess, Sir, Whose name and whose memory posterity may bless, Sir, Oh the golden days of good Queen Bess! Merry be the memory of good Queen Bess.

Then we laugh'd at the bugbears of Dons and Armadas, With their gun powder puffs and their blustering bravadoes, For how we knew to manage both the musket and the bow, Sir, And could bring down a Spaniard just as easy as a crow, Sir, O the golden days, &c.

Then our streets were unpav'd, and our houses were thatch'd, Sir, Our windows were latticed, our doors only latch'd Sir, Yet so few were the folks that would plunder or rob, Sir, That the hangman was starving for want of a job, Sir, O the golden days, &c.

Then our ladies, with large ruffs tied round about their necks fast, Would gobble up a pound of beef-steaks for their breakfast, While a close quill'd-up cap their noddles just did fit, Sir, And they truss'd up as tight as a rabbit for the spit, Sir, O the golden days, &c.

Then jerkins and doublets, and yellow worsted hose, Sir, With a huge pair of whiskers was the dress of our beaux, Sir; Strong beer they prefer'd too to claret or to hock, Sir, And no poultry they priz'd like the wing of an ox, Sir, O the golden days, &c.

Good neighbourhood then was as plenty too as beef, Sir, And the poor from the rich never wanted relief, Sir; While merry went the mill-clack, the shuttle and the plough, Sir, And honest men could live by the sweat of their brow, Sir, O the golden days, &c.

Then the folks ev'ry Sunday went twice at least to church, Sir, And they never left the parson or the sermon in the lurch, Sir, For they judg'd that the Sabbath was for people to be good in, And they thought it Sabbath-breaking if they din'd without a pudding, O the golden days, &c.

Then our great men were good, and our good men were great, Sir, And the props of the nation were the pillars of the state, Sir; For the sov'reign, and the subject one interest supported, And our powerful alliance by all powers then was courted. O the golden days, &c.

Thus renowned they liv'd all the days of their lives Sir, Bright examples of glory to us that survive Sir, May we their descendants, pursue the same ways Sir, That our PRESIDENT like Bess, may have his golden days Sir; And may a longer reign of glory and success Make his name eclipse the same of old Queen Bess.

THE ALL OF LIFE IS LOVE.

WHEN first this humble roof I knew, With various cares I strove; My grain was scarce, my sheep were few, My 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of life was love.

B•• 〈…〉〈…〉 our board was dress'd, T•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••r drink ••st••w'd: But, w•• 〈…〉〈…〉 the brim had prest, The c••p 〈…〉〈…〉 ••r flow'd.

C••tent ••nd 〈…〉〈…〉 ••'d, No 〈…〉〈…〉 ••gh: In 〈…〉〈…〉 ••'d) W•• 〈…〉〈…〉 ••y.

No value has a splendid lot, But as the means to prove: That from the castle to the cot, The all of life is love.

WHEN MY MONEY WAS GONE.

WHEN my money was gone that I gain'd in the wars, And the world it did frown at my fate, What matter'd my zeal, or my honoured scars, When indifference stood at each gate.

The face that would smile when my purse was well lin'd, Shew'd a different aspect to me, And when I cou'd nought but ingratitude find, I hied me again to the sea.

I thought 'twas unjust to repine at my lot, Or bear with cold looks on the shore, So I pack'd up the trifling remnants I'd got, And a trifle, alas! was my store.

A handkerchief held all the treasure I had, Which over my shoulder I threw, Away then I trudg'd with a heart rather sad, To join with some jolly ship's crew.

The sea was less troubl'd by far than my mind, And when the wide main I survey'd, I could not help thinking the world was unkind. And fortune a slippery jade.

I swear if once more I can take her in tow, I'll let the angrateful ones see, That the turbulent winds and the billows cou'd s••w, More kindness than they did to me▪

THE MARKET LASS.

THO' my did I must own i•• but 〈◊〉〈◊〉, His co•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 co•• ••pply,

The vine tendril euils round his door, And streamlets meandering nigh; Health reigns and rewards daily toil, I rise at the lark's early song, And meeting my swain at the stile, To market we trip it along.

Sweet scented as blossoms in May, Butter-prints my neat basket o'erspread, Milk-white chickens, cream-cheese, I display, And I'll vouch ev'ry egg is new-laid: To partake in my health-earning toil, My swain holds it ne'er can be wrong, Bears the weight of my load with a smile, As to market we trip it along.

Arriv'd, soon I purchasers view, Sell my stock very oft in a trice, Reap the produce to industry due, But ne'er charge above market-price. Returning, the way we beguile With a tale, or a joke, or a song, Snatch a warm parting kiss at the stile, To our cot then I trip it along.

DICKEY GOSSIP.

WHEN I was a younker, I first was apprentic'd Unto a gay barber, so dapper and airy; I next was a carpenter, then turn'd a dentist, Then taylor, good Lord! then an apothecary; But for this trade or that, They all come as pat As they can; For shaving and tooth-drawing, Bleeding, cabbaging, and sawing, Dickey Gossip is the man.

Tho' taylor and dentist but aukwardly tether, In both the vocations I still have my savings;

And two of my trades couple rarely together, For barber and carpenter both deal in shavings. So for this trade or that, They all come as pat, &c.

But blunders will happen in callings so various, I fancy they happen to some who are prouder: I once gave a patient whose health was precarious, A terrible dose of my best shaving powder. But no matter for that, My trades come as pat, &c.

SINCE, THEN I'M DOOM'D.

SINCE, then I'm doom'd this sad reverse to prove, To quit each object of my infant care; Torn from an honour'd parent's tender I••ve, And driven the keenest, keenest storms of fate to bear: Ah! but forgive me, pitied let me part, Your frowns too sure, would break my sinking heart.

Where'er I go, whate'er my lowly state, Yet grateful mem'ry still shall linger here! And when, perhaps, you're musing o'er my fate, You still may greet me with a tender 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Ah! then forgive me, pitied let me part, Your frowns too sure, wou'd break my sinking heart.

I NEVER WILL BE MARRIED.

WHEN I had scar••ly told sixteen, My flatt'ring t•• ••ale g••ss, Told me the•• ••n could be seen A blith••r•• ••er lass: ••ll twenty lovers round me bow'd, But high my head I carried, And with a scornful air I vow'd I never would be married.

Young Harry warmly urg'd his suit, And talk'd of wealth in store;

While Jemmy thought to strike me mute, And told his conquests o'er: Each youth a diff'rent art essay'd, And still their arts I parried; Believe me, Sirs, I laughing said, I never will be married.

Then five revolving summers past, While I the tyrant play'd; Ah! then I fear'd 'twould be, at last, My fate to die a maid: Of all the lovers in my train, There was but one that tarried, I thought 'twas time to change my strain, And we this morn were married.

SWEET LILIES OF THE VALLEY.

OE'R barren hills and flow'ry dales, O'er seas and distant shores, With merry song and jocund tales, I've pass'd some pleasing hours: Tho' wand'ring thus I ne'er could find A girl like blithsome Sally; Who picks, and cu••s, and cries aloud, Sweet Lilies of the Valley.

From whistling o'er the harrow'd turs, From nesting of each tree, I chose a soldier's life to lead, So social, gay, and free: Yet, tho' the lasses love as well, And often try to rally, None pleases me like her, who cries, Sweet Lilies of the Valley.

I'm now return'd, of late discharg'd, To use my native toil; From fighting in my country's cause, To plough my country's soil:

I care not which, with either pleas'd, So I possess my Sally, That little merry nymph, who cries, Sweet Lilies of the Valley.

SWEET NAN OF HAMPTON GREEN.

WITH care I've search'd the village round, And many a hamlet tried: At last a fair I haply found, Devoid of art and pride. In neat built cot, It is her lot A rustic life to lead, With tender care, Her lambkins rear, And watch her ewes at feed. Where Thames in silver current flows, To beautify the scene; There blooms this fair, a blushing rose. Sweet Nan of Hampton-Green.

Her eyes bespeak a soul for love, Her manner form'd to please, In mildness equal to the dove, With innocence and ease. To paint her face, Her form and grace, All words are weak and vain; Enough to tell, She does excell The daughter of the main. Where Thames, &c.

When first this charmer I survey'd, With doubt my heart was fraught, Fancy, the beauteous maid pourtray'd, A goddess to my thought: In amor••us bliss I stole a kiss, Which banish'd all alarms:

Then joyful found my wishes crown'd, A mortal in my arms. Where Thames, &c.

HOW HAPPILY MY LIFE I LED.

HOW happily my life I led, Without a day of sorrow! To plough and sow— To reap and mow— No care beyond the morrow. In heat or cold, in wet or dry, I never grumbl'd, no, not I: My wife, 'tis true, Loves words a few, What then?—I let her prate; For sometimes smooth and sometimes rough, I found myself still rich enough In the joys of an humble state.

But when with law I craz'd my head, I lost both peace and pleasure; Long says to hear— To search—and swear— And plague beyond all measure. One grievance brought another on, My debts increase, my stock is gone: My wife she says, Our means 'twill raise; What then?—'tis idle prate; For sometimes smooth and sometimes rough, I found myself still rich enough In the joys of an humble state.

THE MAID OF THE MILL.

WILLIAM.

I'VE kiss'd and I've prattled with fifty fair maids, And chang'd 'em as oft d'ye see; But of all the fair maidens that dance on the green, The maid of the mill for me.

PHOEBE.

There's fifty young men have told me fine tales, And call'd me the fairest she; But of all the gay wrestlers that sport on the green, Young Harry's the lad for me.

WILLIAM.

Her eyes are as black as the sloe in the hedge, Her face like the blossoms in May; Her teeth are as white as the new-shorn flock, Her breath like the new-made hay.

PHOEBE.

He's tall, and he's strait as the poplar tree, His cheeks are as fresh as the rose; He looks like a 'squire of high degree When drest in his Sunday cloaths.

FROM NIGHT TILL MORN.

FROM night till morn I take my glass, In hopes to forget my Chloe, But tho' I take the pleasing draught, She's ne'er the less before me. Ah! no, no, no, wine cannot cure, The pain I endure for my Chloe.

To wine I flew to ease the pain, Her beauteous charms created; But wine more firmly bound the chain, And love would not be cheated; Ah! no, no, no, wine cannot cure The pain I endure for my Chloe.

WE CONQUER, DEAR GIRLS.

COME, sailors, be filling the can, The wind is beginning to blow: We've time to drink round to a man, And then to weigh anchor must go. Wh••t thousands repair to the strand, To give us a cheering adieu:

'Tis plain they believe on the land, We conquer, dear girls, but for you.

When on the main-top-sail yard The sailor is swung to and fro, Let the tempest blow ever so hard, He whistles defiance to woe. The gale can but last for a while, Is always the boast of the crew; And then they reflect with a smile, We conquer, dear girls, but for you.

Tho' battle tremendous appears, When blood stains the face of the main; Tho' thunder resounds in his ears, The sailor's a stranger to pain; The thought with what rapture and pride Each girl will her hero review, 'Tis this makes him danger deride, We conquer, dear girls, but for you.

A PRETTY GEM'MAN ONCE I SAW.

A PRETTY gem'man once I saw, The neighbours said he studied law. When full of grief, In's h••d a brief, A poor man came, Good sir, he cried, Plead on my side, The lawyer careless answer'd—No!

A rich gown'd p••son would you ask To d••a charita•• ••sk For Tom and ••ue, A co••e true, ••ho'd fain be tied, 〈…〉〈…〉 ••iate, And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of state, The parson surly answers—No!

Shou•• ••ing, honest, low-fed Dick, In spite of ••ing, very sick To doctor send, By some kind friend, To beg advice; He strait will see No hope of fee, And ten to one he answers—No!

A senator you ask'd to vote, The dear red-book he knows by rote, His country's good He understood You had in view, But shou'd he find No place design'd, His bow polite you know, means—No!

To a young beauty wou'd you kneel, And talk of all the pangs you feel? With eyes askance She'll steal a glance, And blushing sigh, But shou'd you press Her power to bless, She'll whisper forth a trembling—No!

THE PEDLAR.

I AM a jolly gay pedlar, Come here to sell my ware; Yet tho' in all things I'm a meddler, I meddle most with the fair. When I shew my ribbons to Misses, Tho' copper and silver I gain; Yet better I'm pleas'd with the blisses, That I cannot now explain. I am a jolly gay pedlar, &c.

Fools say that this life is but sorrow,

And seem disinclin'd to be gay; But why should we think of to-morrow, When we may be happy to-day. I rove round the world for my pleasure, Resolv'd to take nothing amiss; And think my existence a treasure, When blest with the cup and the kiss.

They surely are thick-headed asses, Who know that youth's gone in a crack, Yet will not enjoy, as it passes, The season that never comes back. Let time jog on slower, or quicker, Or whether we're silly, or wise; We shall not be the worse for good liquor, Or the smiles of a girl with black eyes.

THE PLAGUE OF ONE'S LIFE.

Tune—Who has the best Wise, &c.

THE plague of one's life Is surely a wise; Who still is fomenting of evil; From morning to night, All is wrong, nothing right: A scold is sure worse than the devil.

When I first gave a kiss, I thought that each bliss Was centr'd in sweet pretty Mary; But now I am wed, O! I wish I was dead, Her temper I find so contrary.

Let me say what I will, Her tongue won't lie still, Like the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, of a mill it is going; If I stop up my ears; In a rage she appears,

And more hot then her passion is glowing.

If I go or I stay, At home or away, Each serves her alike for a riot; Tho' a foe to all strife Such a devil's my wife, She never will let me be quiet.

THE LITTLE COWSLIP GIRL.

BORN under a cloud of misfortunes and sorrow, The child of distress from the hour of my birth No blessing to comfort the thoughts of to-morrow, A prospect so dreary, no joy upon earth. Then what care I? this world's a bubble, Full of nought but care and trouble: I check the tear, suppress the sigh, And cheerful oft am heard to cry, Come buy my sweet cowslips, who'll buy my sweet cow|slips? Who'll buy of the poor little cowslip girl?

Th' embrace of a parent ne'er known to this breast, Was supplied by a hand who charity curst, Who'd have robb'd me of honour, of peace, and of rest, To crush to the earth what he rais'd from the dust. Yet what care I? a few tears flow: I bless the hand that sav'd the blew; Then check the tear, suppress the sigh, And cheerful oft am heard to cry, Come buy my sweet cowslips, come buy my sweet cow|slip, Come buy of the poor little cowslip girl.

This life is a path I have travell'd with fame: 〈…〉〈…〉 world, yet I laugh at its ••pi••e. Th••h ••ess and poor, I've preserv'd a good name, And look for reward in the regions of light. So what 〈…〉〈…〉 'tis 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ve, And ••nd••g 〈…〉〈…〉 g••:

The tear then gone, no more I sigh, Nor e'er again you'll hear me cry, Come buy my sweet cowslips, come buy my sweet cowslips, Come buy of the poor little cowslip girl.

SONG, In Inkle and Yarico.

INKLE.

O SAY, simple maid, have you form'd any notion, Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean? When winds whistle shrilly, ah won't they remind you, To sigh with regret for the grot left behind you?

YARICO.

Ah! no, I cou'd follow and sail the world over, Nor think of my grot when I look at my lover! The winds which blow round us your arms for my pillow, Will lull us to sleep whilst we're rock'd by each billow.

INKLE.

Then say lovely lass what if happily espying, A rich gallant vessel with gay colours flying?

YARICO.

I'll journey with thee, love, to where the land narrows, And fling all my cares at my back with my arrows.

BOTH.

O say then my true love we never will sunder, Nor shrink from the tempest nor dread the big thunder, Whilst constant, we'll laugh at all changes of weather, And journey all over the world both together.

THE HEARTY FELLOW.

COME, let us be jovial and hearty, As hearty as hearty can be, No trouble or care shall perplex us; From sorrow we always are free. Give me the gay fellow in life, Who never of dull thoughts had one;

Who'd rather kiss any man's wife, By one half than he'd kiss his own.

Then come my brave boys fill your glasses, And merrily pass away time; For believe me there's nothing surpasses The joys of women and wine.

Since life is at best but a span, 'Tis as well to be merry as not, We'll happily live while we can, For sorrow brings nothing but thought; We'll rattle away with the lasses, And crack a gay flask with our friends; So thus our time merrily passes, In taking the world, as God sends.

Then come my brave boys, &c.

Damn money 'tis nothing but trash, I'll be happy though never so poor; When I have it I'll cut a great dash; When it's gone I'll ne'er think of it more; Then let me be wealthy or not, My spirits are always the same: Quite free of ev'ry dull thought; And hearty DICK DAWSON's my name.

Then come my brave boys, &c.

THE TRUE SON OF NEPTUNE.

THE true son of Neptune's a friend to the bowl, And exults in the heart chearing portion: Averse to a calm, 'tis the joy of his soul, To keep all its billows in motion. Th••' you reel to and fro, Y••'re safe we all know, If a plenty of sea room you're toss'd in: So charge to the brim, That your spirits may swim, 〈…〉〈…〉 that's shallow you're lost in.

THE FOX.

THE fox is unkennel'd—the hounds are in cry, And dash through the commons below; The hunters all eager, sly reynard must d•• A double, in Pitt, Tally-ho!

Again, with fresh vigour, he leads them the chace, To baffle he cunningly tries, But ah! how he faulters, he limps in his pace; Redoubles, enfeebled, he dies.

DUET—LA GLOIRE AND MADELON.

MADELON.

COU'D you to battle march away, And leave me here complaining? I'm sure 'twould break my heart to stay, When you were gone campaigning: Ah! non, non, non, Pauvre Madelon Could never quit her rover! Ah! non, non, non, Pauvre Madelon Would go with you all the world over!

LA GLOIRE.

And can you to battle go, To woman's fear a stranger?

MADELON.

No fear my breast will ever know, But when my love's in danger. Ah! non, non, non, Pauvre Madelon Fears only for her rover! Ah! non, non, non, Pauvre Madelon Will go with you all the world over!

BOTH.

Then let the world jog as it will, Let hollow friends forsake us;

We both shall be as happy still, As war and love can make us. Ah! non, non, non, Pauvre Madelon, Shall never quit her rover! Ah! non, non, non, Pauvre Madelon Shall go with you-[me] all the world over!

MADELON.

I TREMBLE to think that my soldier's so bold, To see with what danger he gets all his gold; But danger all over, 'twill keep out the cold, And we shall be warm when we're marry'd.

For riches, 'tis true that I covet them not, Unless 'tis to better my dear soldier's lot; And he shall be master of all I have got, The very first moment we're marry'd.

My heart, how it beats! but to look to the day, In church, when my father shall give me away; But that I shall laugh at, I've heard many say, A day or two after we're marry'd!

PETER PANICK.

WHEN one's drunk, not a girl but looks pretty, The country's as gay as the city, And all that one says is so witty, A blessing on brandy and beer! Bring the cup, Fill it up, Take a sup, And let not a slincher come near.

O give me but plenty of liquor, I'd laugh at the Squire or Vicar, And if I'd a wife, why I'd kick her, If e'er she pretended to sneer. Bring the cup, &c.

Tho' I know its a heavy disaster, Yet I mind not the rage of my master, He bullies, and I drink the faster. A blessing on brandy and beer! Bring the cup, &c.

When a cherry-cheek'd maid I've my eye on, I do many thing she cries fie on; Ecod, I'm as bold as a lion. A blessing on brandy and beer! Bring the cup, &c.

THE MERRY MAN.

THE merry man, Who loves his can, Laughs and jokes, Chats and smoaks, Nor dreams of noise and state, Enjoys the hour, That's in his pow'r, Tells a tale, Quaffs his ale, Nor fears the frowns of fate.

CHORUS.

Here with liberty blest, brightest gem of our isle, United with plenty and health: At the restless ambition of grandeur we smile, Content without title or wealth. When the dawn first appears and the Lark tunes her lay, We rise to sweet scenes of delight; Mirth pleasantly softens the toils of the day, And with pastime we welcome the night.

MY TEMPLES WITH CLUSTERS.

MY temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine, And barter all joys for a goblet of wine,

In search of a Venus no longer I'll run, But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why thus resolve to relinquish the fair? 'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair; For what mighty charms can be found in a glass, If not fill'd to the health of some favourite lass?

'Tis woman whose charms every rapture impart, And lends a new spring to the pulse of the heart; The miser himself, so supreme is her sway, Grows a convert to love, and resigns her the key.

At the sound of her voice sorrow lifts up her head, And poverty listens, well pleas'd, from her shed; While age, in an ecstacy, hob'ling along Beats time, with his crutch, to the t•• of her song.

Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard, The largest and deepest that stands on his board; I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair; 'Tis the thirst of a lover—and pledge me who dare.

HAD NEPTUNE.

HAD Neptune, when first he took charge of the sea, Been as wise, or at least been as merry as we, He'd have thought better on't, and instead of the brine, Would have fill'd the vast ocean with generous wine.

What trafficking then would have been on the main, For the sake of good liquor, as well as for gain, No fear then of tempest, or danger of sinking, The fishes ne'er drown that are always a-drinking.

The hot thirsty sun then would drive with more haste, Secure in the evening of such a repast; And when he'd got tipsey, wou'd have taken his nap, With double the pleasure in Thetis's lap.

By the force of his rays, and thus heated with wine, Consider how gloriously Phoebus would shine,

What vast exhalations he'd draw up on high, To relieve the poor earth as it wanted supply.

How happy us mortals, when blest with such rain, To fill all our vessels, and fill 'em again, Nay even the beggar that has ne'er a dish, Might jump in the river and drink like a fish.

What mirth and contentment, on every one's brow, Hob as great as a prince, dancing after his plough The birds in the air as they play on the wing, Altho' they but sip would eternally sing.

The stars, who I think, don't to drinking incline, Would frisk and rejoice at the fume of the wine; And merrily twinkling would soon let us know, That they were as happy as mortals below.

Had this been the case, what had we enjoy'd, Our spirits still rising our fancy ne'er cloy'd; A pox then on Neptune, when 'twas in his pow'r, To slip like a fool, such a fortunate hour.

FRIEND AND PITCHER.

THE wealthy fool with gold in store, Will still desire to grow richer, Give me but these I ask no more, My charming girl, my friend, and pitcher.

CHORUS.

My friend so rare, my girl so fair, With such what mortal can be richer; Give me but these, a fig for care, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

From morning sun I'd never grieve To toil a hedger or a ditcher, If that when I come home at eve, I might enjoy my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c.

Tho' fortune ever shuns my door, I know not what can thus bewitch her; With all my heart can I be poor, With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher My friend so rare, &c.

PUSH ABOUT THE PITCHER.

Tune, Friend and Pitcher.

THE silver moon that shines so bright, I swear, with reason, is my teacher; And if my minute-glass runs right, We've time to drink another pitcher. 'Tis not yet day, 'tis not yet day; Then why should we forsake good liquor? Until the sun-beams round us play Let's jocund push about the pitcher.

They say that I must work all day, And sleep at night, to grow much richer; But what is all the world can say, Compar'd to mirth, my friend, and pitcher. 'Tis not yet day, &c.

Tho' one may boast a handsome wife, Yet strange vagaries may bewitch her; Unvex'd I live a cheerful life, And boldly call for t'other pitcher. 'Tis not yet day, &c.

I dearly love a hearty man (No sneaking milk-sop Jemmy Twitcher, Who loves a lass and loves a glass, And boldly calls for t'other pitcher. 'Tis not yet day, &c.

THE YOUNG MAN's WISH.

••E from the bustle care and strife, Of this short variegated life,

O let me spend my days In rural sweetness, with a friend, To whom my mind I may unbend, Nor censure heed or praise.

Riches bring cares—I ask not wealth, Let me enjoy but peace and health, I envy not the great: 'Tis these alone can make me blest; The riches take of east and west, I claim not these or state.

Tho' not extravagant nor near, But through the well spent checker'd year, I'd have enough to live; To drink a bottle with a friend, Assist him in distress, ne'er lend, But rather freely give.

I too would wish, to sweeten life, A gentle, kind, good natur'd wife, Young, sensible and fair: One who could love but me alone, Prefer my cot to e'er a throne, And soothe my every care.

Thus happy with my wife and friend, My life I cheerfully would spend, With no vain thoughts opprest; If heav'n has bliss for me in store, O grant me this, I ask no more, And I am ••ly blest.

SONGS OF SHEPHERDS.

SONGS of shepherds in rustical roundelays, Form'd in fancy, and whistl'd on reeds, Sung to solace young nymphs upon holidays, Are too unworthy for wonderful deeds. Sottish Silenus to Phoebus the genius Was sent by dame Venus, a song to prepare,

In phrase nicely coin'd, and verse quite refin'd, How the states divine hunted the hare.

Stars quite tired with pastimes Olympical, Stars and planets that beautiful shone, Could no longer endure that men only should Revel in pleasures, and they but look on. Round about horned Lucina they swarmed, And quickly inform'd her how minded they were, Each god and goddess to take human bodies, As lords and ladies to follow the hare.

Chaste Diana applauded the motion, And pale Proserpina sat down in her place, To guide the welkin, and govern the ocean, While Dian conducted her nephews in chace. By her example, their father to trample, The earth old and ample, they soon leave the air: Neptune the water, and wine Liber pater, And Mars the slaughter, to follow the hare.

Young god Cupid was mounted on Pegasus, Borrow'd o' the muses with kisses and prayers; Stern Alcides upon cloudy Caucasus Mounted a c••taur that proudly him bears. The postilion of the sky, light-heeled sir Mercury, Made his swift courser sly fleet as the air; While tuneful Apollo the pastime did follow, To whoop and to hollow, boys, after the hare.

Drowned Narcissus, from his metamorphosis Rous'd by Echo, new manhood did take. Snoring Somnus upstarted from C••'ries: Before for a thousand years he did not wake. There was lame club-footed Mulciber booted; And Pan, too, promoted on Corydon's mare. Aeolus floured; with mirth Momus shouted; While wise Pallas pouted, yet follow'd the hare.

Grave Hymen ushers in lady Astrea. The humour took hold of Latona the cold.

Ceres the brown, too, with bright Cytherea, And Thetis the wanton, Bellona the bold; Shamefac'd Aurora, with witty Pandora, And Maria with Flora did company bear; But Juno was stated too high to be mated, Although, sir, she hated not hunting the hare.

Three brown bowls of Olympical nectar The Troy-born boy now presents on his knee; Jove to Phoebus now carouses in nectar, And Phoebus to Hermes, and Hermes to me: Wherewith infused, I piped and mused, In language unused, their sports to declare, 'Till the vast house of Jove like the bright spheres did move, Here's a health, then, to all that love hunting the hare.

DO YOU HEAR BROTHER SPORTSMAN.

DO you hear brother sportsman, the sound of the horn, And yet the sweet pleasure decline? For shame, rouse your senses, and e'er it be morn, With me the sweet melody join, Thro' the wood and the valley, How the traitor we'll rally, Nor quit him 'till panting he lies. While hounds in full cry, Thro' hedges shall fly, And chace the swift hare till he dies.

Then saddle your steed, to the meadows and fields, Both willing and joyous repair; No pastime in life greater happiness yields, Than chacing the fox or the hare. Such comforts my friend, On the sportsman attend, No pleasure like hunting is found; For when it is o'er, As br•• as before, Next morning we spurn up the ground.

SEE RUDDY AURORA.

SEE ruddy Aurora begins to appear, And chaces from hence the dull night, The huntsmen are up and the hounds 'gin to chear. Ye gods what a glorious sight, Yoicks,

Jowler and Sweetlips, hark forward away! Tantara we'll hail the sweet morn, To join in such pastimes no longer delay, But follow the sound of the horn.

The fox is unearth'd, and the chace is begun, Pursuing is each hound and steed, He doubles, and tries by his cunning to shun, His fate, and now skims o'er the mead, There closely pursued, by the river he aims To escape to the other side lawn, But, alas! he's o'erta'en, and the huntsman proclaims His death, by the sound of the horn.

Then while all your coxcombs and sweet-scented beaus, Who delight in the noise of the town, Hunt fashion and folly and such foolish shews, In pursuit of which oft they are thrown; Like them where such stupid dull pastime abounds, So idly to waste time we scorn, But pursue rosy health, whilst with horses and hounds We follow the sound of the horn.

WISDOM'S FAVOURITE.

BANISH sorrow, grief's a folly, Thought unbend thy wrinkled brow; Hence dull care, and melancholy, Wine and mirth engage us now. Bacchus opens all his treasure, Comu•• brings us wit and song; Join to follow, follow, follow pleasure, Let us join the jovial throng.

Life is short 'tis but a season, Time is ever on the wing; Let's the present moment seize on, Who knows what the next may bring, All our time by mirth we'll measure, All dull thoughts we will despise; Join to follow, &c. To be merry is to be wise.

Why the plague should we perplex us, Why should we not merry be, Since on earth there's nought to vex us; Drinking sets our hearts all free, We'll have drinking without measure, We'll have wine while life we have; Join to follow, &c. There's no drinking in the grave,

When death comes we'll say, good fellow, Take a glass, sit down by me; Drink with us 'till you are mellow, Then like us you will be free. Sit down death we must have leisure, Drinking can't be hurried so; Join to follow, &c. When there's no more wine we'll go.

YE SPORTSMEN DRAW NEAR.

YE sportsmen draw near, and ye sportswomen too, Who delight in the joys of the field, Mankind, tho' they blame, are all eager as you, And no one the contest will yield, His lordship, his worship, his honour, his grace, A hunting continually go; All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward, huzza tally ho.

The lawyer will ••ise with the first of the morn To hunt for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mortgage or deed; The husband gets up at the sound of the horn

And rides to the common full speed; The patriot is thrown in pursuit of the game; The poet too often lays low, Who, mounted on Pegasus, flies after fame, With hark forward, huzza, tally ho.

While fearless o'er hills and o'er woodlands we sweep Tho' prudes on our pastime may frown, How oft do they Decency's bounds overleap And the fences of Virtue break down? Thus public, or private, for pension, for place, For amusement, for passion, for shew, All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward, huzza, tally ho.

ONE BOTTLE MORE.

ASSIST me, ye lads who have hearts void of guile, To sing in the praises of old Ireland's isle, Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more.

Old England, your taunts on our country forbear; With our bulls, and our brogues, we are true and sincere, For if but one bottle remain'd in our store, We have generous hearts, to give that bottle more.

At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a sett Of six Irish blades who together had met; Four bottles a piece made us call for our score, And nothing remained but one bottle more.

Our bill being paid, we were loath to depart, For friendship had grappled each man by the heart; Where the least touch you know makes an Irishman roar And the whack from shilella, brought six bottles more.

Slow Phoebus had shone thro' our window so bright, Quite happy to view his blest children of light;

So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore, Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more.

Like our old Irish friends, let us brethren unite And toss off a glass to the Children of Light; But instead of twelve bottles we'll lessen the score, And content us with drinking but one bottle more.

FROM THE EAST BREAKS THE MORN.

FROM the east breaks the morn, See the sun-beams adorn The wild heath and the mountains so high; Shrilly opes the staunch hound, The steed neighs to the sound; And the floods and the valleys reply.

Our forefathers, so good, Prov'd their greatness of blood By encount'ring the pard and st••r; Ruddy health bloom'd each face, Age and youth urg'd the chace, And taught woodlands and forests to roar.

Hence of noble descent, Hills and wilds we frequent, Where the bosom of nature's reveal'd; Tho' in life's busy day Man of man make a prey, Still let ours be the prey of the field.

With the chace in full sight, Gods! how great the delight! How our mutual sensations refine! Where is care? where is fear? Like the winds in the rear, And the man's lost in something divine.

Now to horse, my brave boys: Lo! each pants for the joys

That anon shall enliven the whole: Then at eve we'll dismount, Toils and pleasures recount, And renew the chace over the bowl.

THE DUSKY NIGHT.

THE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in jovial cry, The huntsman winds his horn, And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay: My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows, You cannot hunt to-day. Yet a hunting, &c.

Sly Reynard now like light'ning flies, And sweeps across the vale; But when the hounds too near he spies He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting, &c.

Fond echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods and hills the sound retort, And music fills the sky, When a hunting, &c.

At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry homeward we return To feast away the night. And a drinking, &c.

Ye jovial hunters in the morn Prepare then for the chace; Rise at the sounding of the horn, And health with sport embrace, When a hunting, &c.

HARK AWAY.

THE moment Aurora peep'd into my room, I put on my clothes and I call'd for my groom: Will Whistle, by this, had uncoupl'd the hounds; Who lively and mettlesome frisk'd o'er the grounds; And now we're all saddl'd, fleet, dapple, and grey; Who seem'd longing to hear the glad sound hark away!

'Twas now, by the clock, about five in the morn; And we all gallop'd off to the sound of the horn: Jack Garter, Bill Babbler, and Dick at the goose, When, all of a sudden, out starts Mrs. Puss: Men, horses, and dogs, not a moment would stay, And echo was heard to cry, Hark, hark away!

The course was a fine one she took o'er the plain; Which she doubl'd, and doubl'd and doubl'd again; 'Till at last she to cover return'd out of breath: Where I and Will Whistle were in at the death: Then, in triumph, for you I the hare did display; And cry'd to the horns, my boys, Hark, hark away!

BRIGHT PHOEBUS.

BRIGHT Phoebus has mounted the chariot of day, And the horns and the hounds call each sportsman away; Thro' woods and thro' meadows, with speed now they bound, While health, rosy health, is in exercise found; Hark away! Hark away! Hark away is the word to the sound of the horn, And echo, blithe echo, makes jovial the morn.

Each hill and each valley is lovely to view, While Puss flies the covert, and dogs quick pursue. Behold where she flies o'er the wide-spreading plain! While the loud op'ning pack pursue her amain. Hark away, &c.

At length Puss is caught, and lies panting for breath,

And the shout of the hu•• the signal of death. No joys can delight like th•• sports of the field; To hunting all pa••mes and pleasures must yield. Hark away, &c.

TWIGGLE AND A FRIZ.

LONDON town is ••ust like a barber's shop; But by the Lord Harry, 'tis wondrous big! There the painted doll, and the powder'd fop, And many a blockhead wears a wig. And I tickled each phi•• with a twiggle and a friz.

A captain of horse I went for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 O, damme! says he, with a mar•• I pois'd my razor like a barber brave; I took him by the nose; but he knock'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 But I tickled. &c.

I next went to dress up a fine gallant miss, Down the lady sits and her bosom bares; Cupid or the devil made me seize a kiss; But ere my iron cool'd I was kick'd down stairs, But I tickled, &c.

I went to dress a lawyer, O rare sport! Who had a false oath that day for to swear. By my skill some trouble I spar'd the court; For my iron burn•• Six-and-eight-pence's ear. So I tickled, &c.

I went for to dress up an old maid's hair, Wrinkl'd and ••ld as a scalded pig; As she led the dance down with a swimming air, The poor old lady drop'd her wig. So I tickled, &c.

THE COACHBOX.

YOU may feast your ears with a fife or a drum, Or the cat-gut tickle, or the wire strum,

But next to the smack of a sweet girl's lip, The music for me is the smack of the whip. With my ding dong dash along heigh gee ho!

At the statesman's driving the patriot pouts, While the changes he rings of the ins and the outs, Swearing every courtier's a minister's hack, And that none but the devil's own cattle are so black. With my ding dong, &c.

When the prodigal son takes the rein in his hands, And the go-by gives to his houses and lands; With black, white, and brown, his career he runs, But alack he's at last overtaken by the duns. With my ding dong, &c.

But let them quarter the road of care, While I on the road have a birth to spare; If I overtake a friend that is put to a shift, Overturn me plump, but I'll lend him a lift, With my ding dong, &c.

When a passenger pointing at ten men pack'd On the top of the roof talk'd of Gammon's act, Why, says I, Master Gammon may a great man be, But all you can say, is but gammon now to me. With my ding dong, &c.

Once to ride in my coach little Teague had a mind, But for want of the blunt took the basket behind; When the great fear, that put poor Paddy in a bother, Was the basket and the coach running foul of one another. With my ding dong, &c.

When to silence all his scruples at once, He was pitch'd in the boot to secu•• his sconce, Now, says he, push away, I'll complain no more, Since I'm first at last, tho' behind 〈◊〉〈◊〉 before, With my ••ng dong, &c.

But whether before or behind we are stow'd, When in life we are over the ••pland road,

May the veil of years then the prospect crown, And the journey end in a safe set down. With my ding dong, &c.

IN PURSUIT OF THE FASHION.

HARK, forward's the word, and all join in the chace; Ambition, and politics, now must give place: After fancy and folly we eagerly fly; In pursuit of the fashion, Hark forward's the cry.

Pell-mell, after Cupid, each heart-wounding dame, From sixteen to sixty's pursuing the game: With their full-flowing tresses, some hobble, some fly! In pursuit of the fashion, Hark forward's the cry.

Ding-dong, helter-skelter, the sweet-scented beaux, Either lead the pursuit, or fall in at the close; With their pockets so low, and their collars so high. Pursuing the fashion, Hark forward's the cry.

Let the fashion be chang'd, it has lasted too long; If its conquest we aim at, we're all in the wrong; To the fame of Columbia, let each have an eye; And her foes be the game, when Hark forward's the cry.

EACH PLEASURE TO HUNTING MUST YIELD.

YE sportsmen for pleasure and exercise born, For shame, leave your beds, and arise with the morn, The Goddess Diana leads forth to the chace, And day, my brave fellows, breaks on us apace; The morn is a fine one, right healthy and clear, Fine sport will attend us, my boys, never fear. And now we're all ready, huzza! for the field, Each pleasure to hunting, &c.

Our steeds are sure-footed, our dogs staunch and good, Prepar'd to encounter with lake, fence, and wood, Now, Reynard, have at ye; the hounds have the scent,

And eager for blood, on destruction are bent. Hark! hark! how the clamour resounds thro' the spheres, The glorious confusion enraptures the ears; Old Crafty still heads them the length of a field, Each pleasure to hunting, sweet hunting must yield. Each pleasure to hunting, &c.

By Nimrod, how charming the chace does improve! Hills, vallies, and mountains apparently move; The fox is a stager, how daring he flies! Dogs, horses, and huntsmen, the brusher defies: But, see, how he trembles, and halts to gain breath, Now nothing can save him from imminent death; The harriers have seiz'd him, what shouts rend the field! Each pleasure to hunting, sweet hunting must yield. Each pleasure to hunting, &c.

'SQUIRE JONES.

YOU good fellows all, That love to be told where there's claret good store, Attend to the call; Of one that's ne'er frighted, But greatly delighted; With six bottles more, Be sure you don't pass The good house nor the glass, Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns; It will well suit your humour, For pray what would you more Than mirth with good claret in a bumper 'Squire Jones.

You lovers that pine, For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair, That whimper and whine; For lillies and roses, With eyes, lips and noses; Or tip of an ear, Come hither I'll show ye How Phillis and Chloe No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;

What mortal so stupid, As not to quit Cupid, When call'd by good claret in a bumper, 'Squire Jones.

Ye Physical tribe, Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, Whene'er you prescribe, Have at your devotion, Pills Bolus or Potion, Be what will the case; Pray what is the need, To purge blister or bleed; When ailing yourselves the whole faculty owns That the forms of old Galen Are not so prevailing; As mirth with good claret in a bumper, 'Squire Jones.

You lawyers so just, Be the cause what it will that so learnedly plead, How worthy of trust; You know black from white, Yet prefer wrong to right; As you chance to be fee'd, Leave musty reports, And forsake the law courts, Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones. Burn Salkeld and Ventris, With all their damn'd entries, And about with good claret in a bumper, 'Squire Jones.

You soldiers so stout, Who have plenty of oaths tho' not plenty of coin, That make such a rout; Of all your Commanders, That serv'd us in Flanders; And eke at the boyne; Then leave off your rattling, Of seiging and battling, And know 'tis much better to sleep with whole bones, Were you sent to Gibralter Your notes would soon alter, And wish for good claret in a bumper 'Squire Jones.

You poets who write And sing of your drinking fam'd Helicon's brook, Tho' all you get by't Is a dinner of't times, In reward of your rhymes, With Humphry the Duke: Learn Bacchus to follow, And quit your Apollo; Forsake all the Muses those senseless old drones, For the jingling of glasses, All rhyming surpasses When call'd by good claret in a bumper 'Squire Jones.

GIVE ME A RICH BUMPER.

LET the sportsman go boast of the joys of the chace, And tell how their coursers kept Reynard in pace; How they leap'd o'er the mounds, o'er the fences and rocks: And joy'd at ingloriously killing a fox.

CHORUS.

Give me a rich bumper of care killing wine, Of red rosy nectar that springs from the vine: To circle it freely doth friendship improve; And adds a fresh charm to the dimpels of love.

Let Grippus go boast of what money he's lent, At no less an in'trest than seventy per cent; Let the miser go boast of his coffers and bags Whose drink is cold water, whose clothing is rags. Give me, &c.

Let the deep politician exult in his scheme, And let the Misanthrop 'gainst mankind declaim; Let the tea table hero exult in his lies, And writers hunt fame 'till they write out their eyes. Give me, &c.

Let the great speculator amid his deep plans, Go boast of his purchase in Georgia lands;

Let Whigs and let Tories maliciously grin: For the votries of folly are all of a kin. Give me &c.

Let coxcombs with lapdogs coeval dispute, Which with the fine ladies shall gain most repute; Let wits crack a joke at the fops as they pass: And would be tho't wise men, look grave as an ass. Give me a rich, &c.

THO' BACCHUS MAY BOAST OF HIS CARE-KILLING BOWL.

THO' Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl, And folly in thought drowning revels delight, Such worship alas! hath no charms for the soul; When softer devotions the senses invite. When softer, &c.

To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care, His potions oblivious a balm may bestow: But to fancy, that feeds on the charms of the fair, The death of reflection's the birth of all woe. The death, &c.

What soul that's possest of a dream so divine, With riot would bid the sweet vision begone? For the tear that bedews sensibility's shrine Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun. Is a drop, &c.

The tender excess which enamours the heart, To few is imparted, to millions deny'd; 'Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart, And fools jest at that for which sages have died. And fools, &c.

Each change and excess hath through life been my doom, And well can I speak of its joy and its strife; The bottle affords us a glimpse thro' the gloom, But love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life. But love's, &c.

Come, then, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight The magic illusions that ravish the soul! Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight! And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl! And drop, &c.

Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine, Nor e'er, jolly god, from thy banquet remove; But each tube of my heart ever thirst for the wine That's mellow'd by friendship and sweeten'd by love. That's mellow'd, &c.

BONNY HODGE.

AS Dolly sat milking her cow, Young Hodge he by chance pass'd that way; He left both his cart and his plough; Her beauty so led him astray. With rapture he leap't o'er the style, And he swore he never saw a maid so pretty, very pretty, I will kiss you says he with a smile, But the nymph soon reply'd I wont let ye'. I wont let ye' I wont let ye', But the nymph soon reply'd I wont let ye'.

Young Hodge then his suit did renew, What harm is in kissing I pray; Was you the wide world to pursue, You'd find it was done night and day. The Monarch who sits on his throne, He kisses his Queen so pretty, very pretty; That is true Doll reply'd I must own. "Then why do you say you wont let me? You wont, &c."

The cow she perceiv'd in a trice, That Doll had neglected her call; And thinking 'twas Cupid's advice, Kick'd the milk pail, stool down and all, Oh! if these are your tricks then cry'd Hodge, I'll away to my dairy maid Betty, Bonny Betty, Curse the cow, Doll reply'd in a rage, Come back Bonny Hodge and I'll let ye'. And I'll, &c.

THE CAPTIVE.

OH! think on my fate! once I freedom enjoy'd, Was as happy, as happy could be! But pleasure is fled!—even hope is destroy'd! A Captive, alas! on the sea! I was ta'en by the foe—'twas the fiat of fate To tear me from her I adore! When thought brings to mind my once happy state, I sigh!—while I tug at the oar.

Hard, hard is my 〈…〉〈…〉! how galling my chain! My life's steer'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 chart; And though 'gainst 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tyrants I scorn to complain, Tears gush forth to 〈…〉〈…〉 full heart; I disdain e'en to shrink, tho' I feel the sharp lash; Yet my breast bleeds for her I adore! While around me, the unfeeling billows will dash, I sigh!—and still tug at the oar.

How Fortune deceives!—I had pleasure in tow, The port where she dwelt, we'd in view; But the wish'd nuptial morn was o'erclouded with woe, And, dear Anna! I was hurried from you! Our shallop was boarded, and I borne away, To behold my dear Anna no more! But despair wastes my spirits, my form feels decay! He sigh'd—and expir'd at the oar.

JACK THE GUINEA PIG.

WHEN the anchor's weigh'd, and ship's unmoor'd And landsmen lag behind, sir; The sailor joyful skips on board, And swearing prays for wind, sir. Hauling here, bawling there, Steadily, readily, merrily, cheerily; Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor's life at sea.

When we set sail with a fresh'ning breeze, And landsmen they grow sick, sir;

The sailor lo••ls with his mind at ease, And the song and can goes quick, sir. Laughing here, quaffing there, Steadily, &c.

When the wind at night whistles o'er the deep, And sings to landsmen drearily; The sailor fearless goes to sleep, Or takes his watch most cheerily. Snoring here, boozing there, Steadily, &c.

The sky grows black, and wind blows hard, And landsmen skulk below, sir; The sailor mounts the topsail yard, And turns his quid as he goes, sir. Hawling here, bawling there, Steadily, &c.

When the foaming waves run mountains high, And landsmen cry all's gone sir; The sailor hangs 'twixt sea and sky, And jokes with Davy Jones, sir. Swearing here, tearing there, steadily, &c.

When the ship, d'y'see, becomes a wreck, And landsmen hoist the boat, sir, The sailor scorns to quit the deck, While a single plank's afloat, sir. Dashing here, splashing there, Steadily, &c.

THE WEST COUNTRY BUMPKIN.

JOHN BULL was a bumpkin born and bred At a clodhopping village in Gloucestershire, And as for this world or the world that's to come, For to puzzle his noddle 'twas never the near: For he never was known to set foot in a church, 'Till the day he took Dorothy there for a wife; And says John, 'by the Lord I was never before,

In a place like a church, all the days of my life. Tol lol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol lol, Tol lol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol lol.

For there I look'd up and zeed nine or ten fellows, A zinging as loud as their lungs could clink; So thinking that I was got into an ale-house, I look'd up and ax'd if they'd nothing to drink: When up came a man and he pull'd off my hat, And he told me no drink was allow'd in the place; I thought that for zartain he must be the landlord, Or else I'd have fetch'd him a punch in the face.

Howsomdever I fancied 'twas never the ne'ar For to kick up a dust and to frighten the bride, So I went further in for to look at the place, And Lord what a comical zight I espy'd: There were men folks and women folks penn'd up together, Like so many weathers and ewes at a fair; Besides a long booby-h••tch, built up for holding The whole Corporation, Just-asses and Mare.

Then up got a little man into a tub, And he look'd just as tho'f he'd been roll'd in the dirt, For you could not suppose he coul'd be very clean, When he'd got nothing on but a long black shirt; Excepting a little whi••e slobbering bib, Tuck'd under his chin and slit in two: To be perch'd in a tub, and to wear a black shirt, I was puzzled to think what a plague he could do.

For while he did turn up the whites of his eyes, And for mercy upon us did heartily pray, Another below that sat in a chest, Was mocking of every word he did say: And when he had fairly tired him out, To the very last word—to do nothing by halves, I verily thought he was going to fight him, For he stood up and call'd for a couple of staves!

But the little man tho'f he had a black shirt on,

Whipp'd over another as white as a clout, And then in a twink, with a twist of his fist, He sat open the tub and he let himself out: Upon which he took hold of a poor little babe, And as tho'f he had got neither shame nor grace, He dipp'd his fingers into a trough, And splash'd the cold water all over his face.

To be sure I thought 'twas a shameful thing, To serve a poor babe such a woundy trick, For tho'f he did squeak like a pig that is stuck, They did mind him no more than a goosemunchick! Ods bobs, and I thought if the maggot should bite, And they wanted to make but a child of a man, Who could tell but in turn such a baby as I, May be ••ous'd in the trough like a sop in a pan.

So I took to my heels and I scamper'd away, Like a lusty fellow for sure and sure, And swore in my guts if they ever catch'd I, O' the in-a-door-side of a church any more; They should plump me up to the ears in the hog-tro', Just like a toast in a tankard then, And souse me and sop me, and sop me and souse me, A hundred times over and over again.

THE COBLER.

A PSALM or a song-singing cobler be I, Who cares not a snap for the proudest; I joket in my stall with the girls passing by, And hammers away with the loudest; My soul's made of right honest well-wearing stuff, And my upper-leathers can't be surpass'd; As the very best tann'd hide my merry heart's tough, First of coblers, I stick to my last:

With hammer, awl, and sharp'ning hone, Wax and strap, pegs and paring-knife, Bristles, thread, and lap-stone, The cobler leads a jolly life;

Singing loudly all the while, To make his work go merry, Tol de rol, lol lol lol de rol lol, And heigh down derry.

When a bachelor spruce, all the young giggish tits, With their eyes a love story would tell, Says I, that won't do girl, that shoe never fits, 'Till at last I got tack'd to my Nell: What tho'f now and then Doctor Strap gives advice, Our quarrels are unmix'd with gall; A kiss and a smile makes it up in a trice, I'm Nell's, and my Nell is my all. With hammer, &c.

I was ax'd by a master to dine at his shop, Who'd a deuce of a quarrelsome wife, Who made the house shake, aye from bottom to top, A vixen she was to the life: In her tantrums, her spouse swore he'd kick her (he was vex'd) Out of doors if no stranger was nigh; I seeing the gemman and his lady so perplex'd, Cry'd don't make a stranger of I. With hammer, &c.

ABSENCE.

THE meadows look chearful, the birds sweetly sing, So gaily they carol the praises of spring, Tho' nature rejoices poor Norah must mourn, Until her dear Patrick again shall return.

Ye lasses of Dublin, ah! hide your gay charms, Nor 'lure my dear Patrick from Norah's fond arms, Tho' sattins, and ribbons, and laces are fine, They hide not a heart with such feelings as mine.

THE KISS.

ONE kind kiss before we part, Drop a tear and then adieu;

Tho' we sever, my fond heart 'Till we meet shall pant for you.

Yet, yet weep not so, my love, Let me kiss that falling tear; Tho' my body must remove, All my soul will still be here.

All my soul and all my heart, Ev'ry wish shall pant for you; One kind kiss then 'ere we part, Drop a tear and bid adieu.

FOR WE SHALL BOTH GROW OLDER.

THEY tell me I'm too young to wed, But sure 'tis all a fancy; A smiling girl runs in my head, 'Tis pretty little Nancy: My mother says it must not be, Tho' this I've often told her That Nancy is as young as me, And we shall both grow older.

Her eyes are blue, with flaxen hair, Her smile just hit my fancy; No girl so mild, so soft, so fair, As pretty little Nancy: Then why not wed as well as love, And so I've often told her, If now too young, we shall improve, For we shall both grow older.

When year on year rolls o'er her head, She still will please my fancy, As when to church I fondly led, My pretty little Nancy: Then let us wed as love invites, For this I've often told her, 'Tis love alone can give delight, When we are both grown older.

BEN BLOCK.

I WAS press'd while a rowing so happy— No matter, 'twas childish to grieve; So to drown care with grog I got nappy, Yet sigh'd my sweet Kitty to leave; But what hurt me most were those ninnies, On whom I had thought to depend, For I wish'd to raise Kate a few guineas, But found I had got ne'er a friend.

When aboard, why I troubled a shipmate A note to my sweetheart to write, Which in doing he somehow a slip made, His own tale of love did indite! So when I at Battersea landed, (He'd patter'd her so to his end) I learnt he my frigate commanded, And found I had got ne'er a friend.

When again on the salt seas in motion, The ill-humour'd winds loudly roar, And friendship I found on the ocean, As scant as I left it on shore: We were wreck'd—but my tale little matters, While messmates to Davy descend, I escap'd but was poor, all in tatters, And found I had got ne'er a friend.

Yet still to all fear was I stranger, In battle (where death tips the grin) Was expos'd to the heat of each danger, 'Till a musket-ball splinter'd my fin: Well, away to the cock-pit I hobble, Where so many customers tend, Then the surgeon, to save further trouble, Lopp'd it off, damme,—not like a friend.

But now ev'ry comfort's imparted, I find, I laid in Greenwich snug dock, My messmates are true, honest hearted, And each wishes well to Ben Block:

The rear of my life glides on cheerly In a calm here my moments I'll end, I have fought for my King late and early, And, bless him, the King is my friend.

SEE THE DAWN HOW IT RISES.

SEE the dawn how it rises in golden array, While the horn sounds the summons to join in the chace; Hark! the dogs with their voices now welcome the day, Which for sport and true concord we hunters embrace: The hounds are abroad, see the breaking of day, From the cover unkennel the fox: Attend to the cry—hark away, hark away, We'll bound over mountains and rocks.

While we sweep o'er the dale, or the mountain ascend, Or thro' rapid rivers our steeds boldly guide; No danger we fear that can hunting attend, For courage was ne'er to a huntsman deny'd. The hounds are abroad, &c.

Then leave for awhile the soft arms of your fair, See Aurora, to tempt you, has nature display'd; The sports of Diana the morning must share, Then to friendship and love let due tribute be paid. The hounds are abroad, &c.

PRETTY BRUNETTE.

DEAR Nancy, I've sail'd the world all around, And seven long years been a rover, To make, for my charmer, each shilling a pound. But now my hard perils are over. I've sav'd from my toils many hundreds in gold, The comforts of life to beget; Have borne in each climate the heat and the cold, And all for my pretty Brunette: Then say, my sweet girl, can you love me?

Tho' others may boast of more riches than mine, And rate my attractions e'en fewer; At their jeers and ill-nature, I'll scorn to repine, Can they boast of a heart that is truer? Or, will they, for thee, plough the hazardous main? Brave the seasons, both stormy and wet? If not, why I'll do it again, and again, And all for my pretty Brunette. Then say, &c.

When order'd afar, in pursuit of the foe, I sigh'd at the bodings of fancy, Which fain wou'd persuade me, I might be laid low, And ah! never more see my Nancy▪ But hope, like an Angel, soon banish'd the thought, And bade me such nonsense forget: I took the advice, and undauntedly fought, And all for my pretty Brunette. Then say, &c.

BELLISARIUS.

O! FORTUNE, how strangely thy gifts are awarded, How much to thy shame, thy caprice is recorded; As the wise, great & good of thy frowns, seldom 'scape any, Witness, brave Bellisarius, who begged for a halfpenny. Date Obolum, Date Obolum, Date Obolum, Bellisario.

He whose fame for his valour and victories, arose sir, Of his country, the shield, and the scourge of her foes, sir, By his poor faithful dog blind and aged was led, sir, With one foot in the grave, thus to beg for his bread, sir. Date Obolum, &c.

When a young Roman Knight, in the street passing by sir, The vet'ran survey'd, with a heart-rending sigh, sir; And a purse in his helmet he dropp'd with a tear, sir, While the soldier's sad tale thus attracted his ear, sir. Date Obolum, &c.

I have fought, I have bled, I have conquer'd for Rome, sir,

I have crown'd her with laurels, which for ages will bloom, sir; I've enrich'd her with wealth, swell'd her pride and her pow'r sir, I espous'd her for life, and disgrace is my dow'r, sir. Date Obolum, &c.

Yet blood I ne'er wantonly wasted at random, Loosing thousands their lives with a Nil Desperandum; But each conquest I gain'd I made friend and foe know, That my soul's only aim was pro Publico Bono. Date Obolum, &c.

I no colonies lost by attempts to enslave them, I of Roman's free rights never strove to bereave them; Nor to bow down their necks to the ••e, for my pleasure, Have an Empire dismember'd, or sqander'd its treasure. Date Obolum, &c.

Nor yet for my friends, for my kindred, or self, sir, Has my glory been stain'd by the base views of pelf, sir; For such sordid designs I've so far been from carving, Old and blind, I've no choice but of begging or starving. Date Obolum, &c.

Now if soldier, or statesman, of what age or nation, He hereafter may be, should, hear this relation; And, of eye-sight bereft, should, like me, grope his way, sir, The bright sun-beams of virtue will turn night to day, sir. Date Obolum, &c.

So I to distress and to darkness inur'd, sir, In this vile crust of clay when no longer immur'd, sir; At death's welcome stroke my bright course shall begin, sir, And enjoy endless day from the sunshine within, sir; Date Obolum, Date Obolum, Date Obolum, Bellisario.

THE POOR CABIN BOY.

NO lark that e'er whistled aloft o'er the downs Was more cheerful or blithesome than I, 'Till fate lost my pleasure with fortune's rude frowns,

And caus'd my poor heart for to sigh: For father he died, and friends turn'd me adrift On the billows my time to employ; To weather life's voyage I've made many a shift, Altho' but a Poor Cabin Boy.

I've oft' times remember'd the maxim of old As a loose to my sorrows I gave, That love's not worth having when purchas'd for gold, Or friendship, where interest's a slave: So contented I've brav'd the rude storms, dry or wet, Buoy'd up with hope's flattering joy, That fortune perchance might yet not forget To smile on the Poor Cabin Boy.

Now three years elaps'd 'ere our vessel was bound To England again for to steer; My heart felt with raptures new life at the sound, My eyes dropt with pleasure a tear: But, alas! adverse fate, like false friends, prov'd untrue, And soon did my wishes destroy, For wreck'd was our ship by the tempest's rude wind, And the hopes of the Poor Cabin Boy.

Yet thro' fortune's smiles I again reach'd the shore, And sought my companions to find; But the friends of my youth were dispers'd or no more, Or scarce left a relict behind: If this be life's fate, with a sigh, I reply'd, May heav'n soon my hours employ, And give that fond blessing which here is deny'd, To the orphan, or Poor Cabin Boy.

I CAN BEAT HIM, SIRS, AT THAT.

BUT three months yet I've been a wife, And spouse already shows his airs; I wish I'd liv'd a single life, But as I did not, why, who cares? Besides, let husband use his tongue, And scold, and bounce and cock his hat,

By Jove he'll find I'm not so young But I can beat him, Sirs at that.

I'll go to operas, balls and plays, Or where I will, and wont be check'd Egad I'll racket nights and days, Until he treats me with respect, And if he romps with I know who, Perhaps he'll meet with tit for tat; And faith may find, and shall so too, That I can beat him, Sirs at that.

But this I vow if he'll be good, And let me sometimes have my will, (Young wives you know most surely should) I'll duly ev'ry rite fulfil, And never, O! no never rove, But stay with him at home and chat; And prove by kindest deeds of love, That I can beat him, Sirs, at that.

THE SAILOR's CONSOLATION.

SPANKING Jack was so comely, so blythe, and so jolly, Though winds blew great guns, still he'd whistle and sing; Jack was true to his friend and was kind to his Molly, And if honor gives greatness was great as a King. One night as we drove with two reefs in the mainsail, And the scud came on low'ring upon a lee shore, Jack went up aloft for to hand the top ga'nt sail; A spray wash'd him off, and we ne'er saw him more. But grieving's a folly, come let us be jolly, If we've troubles at sea boys, we've pleasures ashore.

Whissling Tom, still of mischief and fun in the middle, Through life, in all weathers, at random would jog, He'd dance and he'd sing, and he'd play on the fiddle, And swig with an air his allowance of grog; Alongside of a Don, in the Terrible frigate,

As yard arm and yard arm we lay off the shore, Whissling Tom, in and out did so caper and jig it; His head was shot off and we ne'er saw him more. But grieving's a folly, &c.

Bonny Ben was to each jolly messmate a brother, He was manly and jovial, kind hearted and free, If ever one tar was more true than another; To his friend and his duty, that sailor was he; One day with the David, to heave the kedge anchor, Ben went in the boat, on a bold craggy shore, He overboard tip't, when a shark, and a spanker, Soon nipt him in two, and we ne'er saw him more. But grieving's a folly, &c.

But what of it all lads shall we be downhearted, Because now perhaps we may take the last sup, Life's cable must one day or other be parted; And death in safe moorings will bring us all up; But 'tis always the way on't one can scarce find a brother, Sound as pitch, honest, hearty, and true to the core, But by battle or storm, or some dam'd thing or other; He's popp'd off the hooks and we ne'er see him more. But grieving's a folly, &c.

HARK FORWARD! TANTIVY, HUZZA.

TO pleasure let's raise the heart-chearing song, While echo repeats the sweet sound; In the prime of our life, whether man, maid, or wife, 'Tis gay pleasure we hunt through the throng, And sweet the reward when she's found. When bright pleasure's in view, we all briskly pursue. Hark forward! hark forward! huzza! Tantivy, hark forward, away!

All ages and states will join in the song, While echo repeats the sweet sound; Some in riches delight, some few love to fight, Some the bottle will hunt the night long,

Some seek her in study profound. When bright pleasure's in view, we all briskly pursue, &c.

Then all will delight in the heart-cheering song, While echo repeats the sweet sound; We diff'rently aim, our plan still's the same, While winding our pleasures prolong, Contentment by pleasure is crown'd. When bright pleasure's in view, we all briskly pursue, &c.

GATHER YOUR ROSE BUDS.

GATHER your rose-buds while you may: Old Time is ever flying; And that same flow'r which smiles to day, To-morrow will be dying.

That age is the best which is the first, While youth and blood are warmer; Expect not, then, the last the best, The worst succeeds the former.

Then be not coy, nor waste your time; But while you're young, go marry; For, having once gone past your prime, You may for ever tarry.

NO, THAT WILL NEVER DO.

WHEN lovers are too daring grown, Young maidens should beware; For men, it is for certain known, Will oft protest and swear; But virgins, though they kneel and vow, And each fond art pursue. No foolish freedom should allow, For that will never do; No, that will never do.

My Damon calls me dear, and love, And ev'ry thing that's kind, Then vows he'll die to prove his love,

But this I never mind. Last night, he fain would have a kiss, Nay, even ask'd for two; Dear, sir, said I, 'twould be amiss; O! that will never do; No, that will never do.

To-morrow, he declares he'll prove, His love can't be deny'd, And at the church, each doubt remove, By making me his bride. If that's the case, what can I say? I'll e'n appeal to you; Wou'd it be right to answer nay? Pshaw, that will never do. No, that will never do.

I'D FAIN ASK YOU A THIS.

I'D fain ask you a this, but in steps a that, Ah! why did you, truant, away from me go? Yet, not that I'm curious, but merely for chat! 'Tis only no harm to know it, you know.

What lady detain'd you? I'm sure she was fair, Much taller than I am, perhaps full as low: No business of mine 'tis—what colour her hair? 'Tis only no harm to know it, you know.

Pray was she demure? or coquetishly gay? The voice of a cherub, or may be so, so? Her eyes—I don't ask whether ha••le or grey, 'Tis only no harm to know it, you know.

But one thing, O tell me! No more then impart, Did'st give her what was not your's to bestow? Tho' sure you don't venture to give her your heart, 'Tis only no harm to know it, you know.

THE SENTIMENTALIST.

NOW we're launch'd on the world, With our sails all unfurl'd, 'Fore the wind, down the tides proudly posting, May the voyage of life, Free from tempest and strife, Prove as calm as a smooth water coasting; But should some sudden squall, incidental to all, Rouse up reason to reef ev'ry sail, boys, May it be your's and my lot to have such a pilot, When passion increases the gale, boys.

For to what point soe'r Of the compass we steer, While the helm still obeys our direction; 'Tis as true as the light, That the sports of the night Will ne'er shrink from the morning's reflection, And when rest or refreshment succeeds work or play, Of enjoyment from both to be certain; May true friendship's hand draw the cork ev'ry day, And true love ev'ry night draw the curtain.

But blow high or blow low, Let it rain, freeze, or snow, And clay cold and wet should our birth be; The lamb newly shorn, Shews the blast may be borne, Let our station on sea or on earth be, And as poor Robin Redbreast will ch••p on the spray, Almost stripp'd by the frost of each ••er, May a conscience as clear as the 〈…〉〈…〉, Keep us warm in the coldest of weather.

THE LOVING QUA••R.

Tune—What 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••e m•• be.

VERILY ah! 〈…〉〈…〉 bumping▪ A pendu•• 〈…〉〈…〉 Or a mo•• 〈…〉〈…〉

'Tis truth now by yea and by nay! And it's umph! umph! what can the matter be, Umph, umph, what can the matter, Mov'd by the spirit so, what can the matter be, Ephraim, thou'rt going astray.

Yea, marvellous 'twas, when mine eyes first went roving, From meek sister Sarah towards vanity moving, I found a profane one it was I was loving. 'Tis truth, &c.

'Twas folly's vain garment, the maid smil'd so good in, Yea, silk hose and pumps on the pavement she stood in, Which stir'd up my zeal, as you'd stir up a pudding. 'Tis truth, &c.

When I, yea and nay ever pronounce to deceive her, May I bow down my body or take off my beaver, I would cherish the maiden for ever and ever, By yea and nay thus much I own, And 'tis umph, umph, what can the matter be, Umph, umph, what can the matter be, I verily long to know what can the matter be, When she is bone of my bone.

JACKY AND THE COW.

THERE were Farmer Thrasher, and he had a cow, And gammer were very fond on un, And they'd a son Jacky that made a fine bow, So they sent un a prentice to London.

Jacky's master a barber and hair-dresser were, Than some squires 'cod he thought unself bigger, In the day through the town he would dress and cut hair, And dressed out at night—cut a figure.

To ape Jacky's master, were all his delight, The soap suds and razor both scorning, He's been took't by the nose by the same fop at night, That he took't by the nose in the morning.

Now to see the cow moan, would have made a cat laugh, Her milk were his food late and early, And even if Jacky had been her own calf, She could not ha loved un more dearly.

She moaned, and she moaned, nor knew what she did ail, To heart so she took this disaster, At last roaming about, some rogues cut off her tail, And then sent her back to her master.

Here's the kiaw come home, Gammer, come bring out the pail, Poor creature I'ze glad we have found her, Cried Dame, ten't our kiaw, she's got never a tail, Here Roger goo take her and pound her.

'Tis our kiaw, but you zee she's been maimed by somebrute, Why, dame, thou'rt a vool—give me patience; So to squabbling they went—when to end the dispute, Came home Jacky to see his relations.

His spencer he sported, his hat round he twirled, As whistling a tune he came bolt in, And bedocked, and belopped, wounds, he look'd all the world Like trimmed bantums, or magpies a moulting.

Oh dear! 'tis our Jacky, come bring out the ale, So Gammer fell skipping around him, Our Jacky, why, dom't, he's got never a tail— Here, Roger, go take un, and pound un.

'Tis the kick, I say, old one, so I brought it down, Wore by Jemmies so neat, and so spunky; Ah, Jacky, thou went'st up a puppy to town, And now thee bee'st come back a monkey.

Gammer stormed, Gaffer swore, Jacky whistled, and now, 'Twas agreed, without any more passion, To take Jacky in favour as well as the cow, Because they were both in the fashion.

TOM TRUELOVE's KNELL.

TOM Truelove woo'd the sweetest fair, That e'er to tar was kind; Her face was of a beauty rare, More beautiful her mind. His messmates heard, while with delight, He nam'd her for his bride. A sail appear'd—ah, fatal sight! For grief his love had died. Must I, cry'd he, those charms resign, I lov'd so dear, so well: Would they had toll'd, instead of thine, Tom Truelove's knell.

Break, heart, at once, and there's an end! Thou, all that heav'n could give.— But hold! I have a noble friend, Yet, yet for him I'll live. Fortune, who all her baleful spight, Not yet on Tom had try'd, Sent news, one rough tempestuous night, That his dear friend had dy'd:— And thou too!—must I thee resign, Who honour lov'd so well? Would they had toll'd, instead of thine, Tom Truelove's knell.

Enough, enough, a salt-sea wave, A healing balm shall bring. A sailor you, cry'd one, and brave? Live still, to serve your king! The moment comes, behold the foe, Thanks, generous friend, he cry'd: The second broadside laid him low; He nam'd his love and dy'd. The tale, in mournful accents sung, His friends still sorrowing tell, How sad and solemn, three times rung, Tom Truelove's knell.

THE BLACKBIRD.

'TWAS on a bank of daisies sweet, A lovely maiden sigh'd; The little lambs play'd at her feet, While she in sorrow cry'd— Where is my love, where can he stray? When thus a Blackbird sung— Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, he will not stay, The air with music rung.

Ah! mock me not, bold bird, she said, And why pray tarry here? Dost thou bemoan some youngling fled, Or, hast thou lost thy dear? Dost thou lament his absence? say: Again the Blackbird sung— Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, he will not stay: The air with music rung.

Sing on, she cry'd, thou charming bird, Those dulcet notes repeat! No music e'er like thine was heard, So truly sweet, sweet, sweet. Oh, that my love was here to-day, Once more the Blackbird sung; Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, he comes this way! The air with music rung.

YOU SHAN'T SIR.

JOHNNY met me t'other day, Blithe young soldier Johnny; Whither going he did say, Pretty lass, so bonny: Stop awhile, and let us tall— No, says I, I can't, Sir, Then, says he, with you I'll walk— No, says I—you shan't Sir.

Johnny dropp'd his hand with speed,

And he kiss'd me sweetly; Yes, he truly did, indeed, Oh, he did it neatly:— Still he cry'd, come, let us woo— No, says I—I can't, Sir, Then, says he, I'll gang with you— No, says I—You shan't, Sir.

Come, my dear, be kind—says he— Soothe a lover's sorrow; And to Church repair with me, Bonny lass, to-morrow: Say you will, and ease my woe— No, says I—I can't, Sir. Then, said he, to war I'll go— No, says I—You shan't, Sir.

A PRIZE.

SCARCELY had the blushing morning, Woo'd the waves with tender light; When the bright'ning plain adorning, A distant vessel rose in sight.

Aloft, the crouding sailors viewing Her misty sails with straining eye, In fancy now the foe subduing, A prize! a prize! exulting cry.

The boatswain's whistle loud and shrill. Shames the tardy sleeping wind: In vain our chuse-gun fires—for still The crouds her sail—we're left behind.

At length the breeze affords assistance; Right-afore the wind's our course; We clear our decks—she threats resistance, And proudly boasts superior force.

Amid her thunder boldly steering.

Our batter'd ship almost a wreck, With steady courage persevering, They board, they storm her gory deck.

Her wounded Captain—life disdaining, Yet mourning o'er his gallant crew; Casts a last look on those remaining; Then strikes to save the valiant few.

THE GLEANERS.

WHEN the rosy morn appearing, Paints with gold the verdant lawn, Bees on banks of thyme disporting, Sip the sweets, and hail the dawn.

See, content, the humble gleaners, Take the scatter'd ears that fall: Nature, all her children viewing, Kindly bounteous, cares for all.

Warbling birds, the spring proclaiming, Carol sweet th' enlivening strain; They forsake their leafy dwelling, To secure the golden grain. See, content, &c.

When his weary task is over, Ended with the setting sun, Soon the mind forgets its labour, To his lowly cot does run: See, content, &c.

Lisping babes all fly to meet him, And receive a father's pray'r; His lov'd partner smiles to see them, Climb, the envy'd kiss to share. See, content, &c.

Balmy sleep attends his pillow, Free from sorrow, free from fear▪

Heav'n-born guards each moment watch him, Peace and innocence live here. See, content, &c.

THE TIMID HARE.

WHEN morn, 'twixt mountain and the sky, On tiptoe stands, how sweet to hear The hounds melodious cheerful cry, As starts the game possess'd with fear: O'er brook and brake Our course we take, The sportsman knows no grief or care: When sweet the horn, Across the lawn Awakes the sleeping timid hare.

Who panting flies, like freed from pain, As trembling she resigns her breath, The sportsman joyous leaves the plain, Well pleas'd to be in at her death; Then sweet the horn, Across the lawn, Re-echoes blithe both far and near; O'er meads and downs, We know no bounds, While coursing of the timid hare.

Then say what pleasure can inspire To that of coursing?—Sweet employ! Except when homeward we retire, Our bottles and our friend enjoy: The brook and brake We then f••sake, For sportsmen know no grief or care; Then sweet the horn, Across the ••v••, Awakes the trembling timid hare.

SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN ••ES. PARAPHRASED.

OUR immortal Poet's page, Says that all the world's a stage; And that men with all their airs, Are nothing more than players; Each using skill and art, In his turn to play his part, All to fill up this farsical scene O! Enter here, Exit there, Stand in view, Mind your cue. High down, ho down, derry derry down. All to fill up this farsical scene O!

First the infant in the lap, Mewling, pewling, with its pap, Like a chicken that we truss, Is swaddled by its nurse; Who to please the puppet tries, As it giggles and it cries. All to fill, &c. Hush a bye, Wipe an eye, Kisse pretty, Suck a titty. High down, &c.

Then the pretty babe of grace, With his shining morning face; And satchel on his back, To school alas! must pack, But like a snail he creeps, And for bloody Monday weeps, All to fill up, &c. Book mislaid, T••ant play'd, Rod in pickle, Tom to ••ickle. High down, &c.

Then the lover next appears, Soused over head and ears; Like a lobster on the fire, Sighing ready to expire; With a great hole in his heart, Thro' which you may drive a cart, All to fill, &c. Beauty spurns him, Passion burns him; Like a wizard, Guts and gizzard. High down, &c.

Then the soldier ripe for plunder, Breathing slaughter—blood and thunder. Like a cat among the mice, Kicks a dust up in a trice, And talks of shattered brains, Scattered limbs, and streaming veins. All to fill, &c. Fight or fly, Run or die, Pop and pelter, Helter skelter, High down, &c.

Then the justice in his chair, With broad and vacant stare: His wig of formal cut, And belly like a but, Well lin'd with turtle hash, Calipee and calipash. All to fill, &c. Wig profound, Body round; Sit at ease, Snatch the fees. High down, &c.

Then the slipper'd pantaloon, In life's dull afternoon;

With spectacles on nose. Shrunk Shank in youthful hose, His voice once big and round, Now whistling in the sound. All to fill, &c. Body bent, Vigor spent, Shaking noddle, Widdle waddle, High down, &c.

At last to end the play, Second childhood leads the way; And like sheep that's got the rot, All our senses go to pot. So death among us pope, And down the curtain drops. All to fill, &c. Then the coffin, We move off in, While the bell, Tolls the knell, Of high and low down into the cold ground. All to fill, &c.

POOR TOM, OR THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah many's the time and oft! But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall Poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd; For, tho' his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

BUXOM NAN.

THE wind was hush'd, the storm was over, Unfurl'd was every flowing sail, From to•• releas'd, when Dick of Dover Went with his messmates to regale. All danger's o'er, cried he, my neathearts, Drown care, then, in the smiling can: Come, bear a hand, let's toast our sweethearts, And first I'll give my buxom Nan.

She's none of they that's always gigging, And stem and stern made up of art; One knows a vessel by her rigging, Such ever slight a constant heart. With straw-hat, and pink-streamers flowing, How oft to meet me has she ran; While for dear life would I be rowing, To meet with smiles my buxom Nan.

Jack Jollyboat went to the Indies, To see him stare when he came back, The girls were so all off the hinges, His Poll was quite unknown to Jack. Tant masted all, to see who's tallest, Breast works, top-ga'nt sails, and a fan;

Messmate, cried I, more sail than ballast, Ah still give me my buxom Nan.

None on life's sea can sail more quicker, To shew her love, or serve a friend: But hold, I'm preaching o'er my liquor, This one word more, and there's an end. Of all the wenches whatsomever, I say, then, find me out who can, One half so true, so kind, so clever, Sweet, trim, and neat, as buxom Nan.

SOMEBODY.

WERE I oblig'd to beg my bread, And had not where to lay my head; I'd creep where yonder herds are fed, And steal a look at—Somebody, My own dear—Somebody, My constant—Somebody; I'd creep where yonder herds are fed, And steal a look at—Somebody.

When I'm laid low, and am at rest, And may be number'd with the blest, Oh! may thy artless feeling breast Throb with regard for—Somebody: Ah! will you drop the pitying tear, And sigh for the lost—Somebody?

But should I ever live to see That form so much ador'd by me, Then thou'lt reward my constancy, And I'll be blest with—Somebody: Then shall my tears be dried by thee, And I'll be blest with—Somebody.

THE TARTAN PLAIDIE.

BY moonlight on the green, Where lads and lasses stray,

How sweet the blossom'd bean! How sweet the new made hay! But not to me so sweet The blossoms on the thorn. As when my lad I meet, More fresh than May-day morn: Give me the lad so blithe and gay, Give me the Tartan plaidie; For, spite of all the wise can say, I'll wed my Highland laddie.

His skin is white as snow, His e'en are bonny blue, Like rose-bud sweet his mou' When wet with morning dew. Young Will is rich and great, And fain wou'd ca' me his; But what is pride or state, Without love's smiling bliss? Give me the lad, &c.

When first he talk'd of love, He look'd sae blithe and gay, His flame I did approve, And cou'd na say him nay. Then to the kirk I'll haste, There prove my love and truth; Reward a love sae chaste, And wed the constant youth. Give me the lad, &c.

HOW BLEST HAS MY TIME BEEN.

HOW blest has my time been, what joys have I known, Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own: So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain.

Thro' walks grown with woodbines as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: How pleasing their sport is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me.

To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen, In revels all day with the nymphs on the green: Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she begailes, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles.

What tho' on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good humour blooms all the year thro': Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And cheat with false vows the two credulous fair, In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam, To hold it for life you must find it at home.

LUCY, OR SELIM's COMPLAINT.

NIGHT o'er the world her curtain hung, The vale was silent late so gay, The bird of night melodious sung, Her anthem at departing day; When Selim on a bank reclin'd, Beneath a spreading willow tree Thus spoke the feelings of his mind, Oh! Lucy shed one tear for me.

Yes had I all that Heav'n could give, Were my possessions rich and great, Then for my Lucy would I live: Then at her feet a suppliant wait, But since hard poverty's my lot No hope remains to wed with thee, Thy beauties ne'r can grace my cot; Oh! Lucy shed one tear for me.

Depriv'd of all that life could bless, Its torments now no more I crave; The hour that offers happiness Is that which marks my hapless grave, Be each fond wish enjoy'd of thine; May Heav'n protect and comfort thee, The turf must press this head of mine; Oh! Lucy shed one tear for me.

ARABELLA.

SAY, have you seen my Arabell? The Caledonian maid, Or heard the youths of Scotland tell, Where Arabell has stray'd? The damsel is of Angel mein, With sad and downcast eyes; The Shepherds call her, sorrow's queen, So pensively she sighs.

But why her sighs so sadly swell, Or why her tears so flow; In vain, they press the lovely girl, The innate cause to know. E're reason fram'd her tender mind, The virgin learn'd to love, Compassion taught her to be kind, Deceit she was above.

And had not War's terrific voice, Forbid the mutual bands, E're now, had Sandy been her choice, And Hymen join'd our hands: But, since the sword of War is sheath'd, And peace resumes her charms, My every joy is now bequeath'd To Arabella's arms.

ELLEN, or the RICHMOND PRIMROSE GIRL.

NEAR Bow'ry Richmond, Thames' side, Dwelt Ellen when her father died; One snowy night he lost his way, And never more beheld the day: Two infant boys, around their mother clung. And kindred grief the heart of Ellen wrung.

Upon the earth her eyes she threw, Where flowerets wild before her grew; Those gifts, by bounteous nature spread, She gather'd to procure them bread:

And through the hollow founding streets, By some reliev'd, but jeer'd by many, Her cry each morning she repeats, Primroses, Primroses, two bunches a penny.

Her pensive way I've seen her keep, With anxious step, from door to door, And oft, I've turn'd aside to weep, And mourn'd that fortune made me poor: E're early light adorns the sky, She roves the heath, or valley, Jenny, And towards proud London hastes, to cry Primroses, Primroses, two bunches a penny.

THE TOKEN.

THE breeze was fresh, the ship in stays, Each breaker hush'd, the shore a haze, When Jack, no more on duty call'd, His true Love's Tokens overhaul'd: The broken gold, the braided hair, The tender motto writ—so fair; Upon his Bacco Box he views Nancy, the Poets love the muse— "If you loves I, as I loves you, "No pair so happy as we two."

The storm that, like a shapeless wreck, Had strew'd with rigging all the deck; That jaws for sharks had given a feast, And left the ship a hull, had ceas'd; When Jack, as with his messmates dear, He shar'd the grog, their hearts to cheer, Took from his Bacco Box a quid, And spell'd for comfort on the lid, If you loves I, &c.

The battle, that with horror grim, Had m••ly ravish'd life and limb, Had see, ••s drench'd with human gore

And widow'd many a wife, was o'er, When Jack, to his companions dear, First gave ••ribute of a tear; Then as the Bacco Box he held Restor'd his comfort while he spell'd, If you loves I, &c.

The voyage that had been long and hard, But that had yielded full reward; Had brought each sailor to his friend Happy and rich, was at an end: When Jack, his toils and perils o'er, Beheld his Nancy on the shore; He then the Bacco Box display'd, And cry'd and seiz'd the lovely maid, If you loves I, &c.

BOB OF THE MILL.

MY heart is as honest and brave as the best, My body's as sound as a roach; Tho' in gay fangled garments I ne•• was drest, Nor stuck up my nob in a coach: If fortune refuses to flow with my 〈◊〉〈◊〉, My sacks with her riches to fill; Why surely 'tis fortune alone that's to blame, And not honest Bob of the Mill.

My breast is as artless and blithe as my lay, From my cottage content never flies; She is sure to reward the fatigue of the day, And I know how to value the prize: Would the girl that I love, then, but give me her hand, The world it may wag as it will; I defy the first 'squire, or the lord of the land, To dishonor plain Bob of the Mill.

THE LONG TROT.

HERE I was, my good masters, my name's Teddy Clinch, My cattle are sound, and I drives to an inch;

From Hyde-Park to White-Chapel I well know the town, And many's the time I've took up and set down: In short, in the bills I'll be bound for't there's not A young youth who, like Teddy, can tip the long trot.

Oh the notions of life that I see from my box, While fares of all kinds come about me in flocks; The sot, whom I drive home to sleep out the day, The kind one, who plies for a fare at the play; Or, your gents of the law, there, who four in a lot, To Westminster-hall I oft tip the long trot.

My coach receives all, like the gallows and sea, So I touch but my fare, you know all's one to me; The men of the gown, and the men of the sword, A ma'am, or a gambler, a rogue, or a lord: To wherever you're going, I well know the spot, And, do you tip me a tizzy, I'll tip the long trot.

DRINKING SONG.

WHAT argufies pride and ambition? ••on or late death must take us in tow: Each bullet has got its commission, And when our time's come we must go: Then drink and sing, hang pain and sorrow, The halter was made for the neck, He that's now 'live and lusty—to-morrow Perhaps may be stretch'd on the deck.

There was little Tom Linstock, of Dover, Got kill'd, and left Polly in pain, Poll cry'd, but her grief was soon over, And then she got married again. Then drink, &c.

Jack Junk was ill used by Bet Crocker, And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 took ••o guzzling the stuff, 'Till he tumbled in old Davy's locker, And there b••g••t liquor enough. Then drink, &c.

For our prize-money then to the proctor, Take of joy while 'tis going our freak; For what argufies calling the doctor, When the anchor of life is apeak. Then drink, &c.

MORALITY IN THE FORE-TOP.

TWO real tars, whom duty call'd To watch in the fore-top, Thus one another over-haul'd, And took a cheering drop, I say, Will Hatchway! cried Tom Tow, Of conduct what's your sort, As thro' the voyage of life you go, To bring you safe to port?

Cried Jack, you lubber, don't you know Our passions close to reef? To steer where honour points the prow, To hand a friend relief. These anchors get but in your power, My life for't that's your sort, The bower, the sheet, and the best bower, Must bring you into port.

Why then you're out, and there's an end, Tom cried out, blunt and rough, Be good, be honest, serve a friend, The maxim's well enough; Who swab•• his bows at other's woe, That tar's for me your sort, The vessel right a-head shall go, To find a joyful port.

The storms of life upon me press, Misfortunes make me ••eel, Why, damme, what's my own distress, For others let me feel; Ay, ay if bound with a fresh gale, To heaven this is your sort,

A hand••rchief's the best wet sail To bring you safe to port.

SWEET ELLEN, SORROW'S CHILD.

COLD blew the wind, no gleam of light, When Ellen left her home, And brav'd the horrors of the night, O'er dreary wilds to ••oam: The lovely maid had late been gay, When hope and pleasure ••'d, But now, alas! to grief a prey Was Ellen, sorrow's child.

She long was William's promis'd bride, But, ah! how sad a doom, The gentle youth in beauty's pride, Was summon'd to the tomb: No more those joys shall Ellen prove, Which many an hour beguil'd, From morn to eye she mourns her love, Sweet Ellen, sorrow's child.

With falt'ring step away she hies, O'er William's grave to weep, For Ellen there with tears and sighs, Her watch would often keep: The pitying angel saw her woe, And came, with aspect mild, Thy tears shall now no longer flow, Sweet Ellen, sorrow's child.

Thy plaintive notes were heard above, Where thou shalt soon find rest; Again thou shalt behold thy love, And be forever blest: Ah! can such bliss be mine, she cry'd, With voice and looks so wild, Then sunk upon the earth and dy'd— Sweet Ellen, sorrow's child.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

COME loose ev'ry sail to the breeze, The course of my vessel improve, I've done with the toils of the seas, Ye sailors! I'm bound to my love, Ye sailors! I'm bound to my love, Ye sailors! I'm bound to my love. I've done with the toils of the seas, Ye sailors! I'm bound to my love.

Since Emma is true as she's fair, My griefs I fling all to the wind, 'Tis a pleasing return for my cares; My mistress is constant and kind.

My sails are all fill'd to my dear: What tropick-bird swifter can move, Who cruel shall hold his career, That returns to the nest of his love.

Hoist ev'ry sail to the breeze, Come, ship-mates, and join in the song; Let's drink while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along.

POOR JACK.

GO patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like, A tight water boat and good sea room give me, And t'ent to a little I'll strike; Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck, stow the yards, & bowse ev'ry thing tight, And under reef'd foresail we'll feud: Avast, nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft, To be taken for trifles a-back, For they say there's a providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

Why I heard our good Chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy and such— And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay! Why 'twas all just as one as high Dutch: But he said, how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see, Without orders that come down below, And many fine things that prov'd clearly to me That providence takes us in tow; For says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft Take the topsails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

I said to our Poll, for d'ye see she would cry, When last we weighed anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? Why what a great fool you must be! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore; And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, Why you never will hear of me more: What then, all's a hazard, come don't be so soft, Perhaps I may laughing come back; For, d'ye see there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be ev'ry inch, All as one as a piece of the ship, And with her brave the world without off'ring to flinch, From the moment the anchor's a-trip; As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ••ds, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino my friend's, And as for my life 'tis the king's: E'en when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft, As with grief to be taken aback; That same little cherub that sits up aloft, Will look out a good birth for poor Jack.

CAN OF GROG.

WHILE up the shrouds the sailor goes, Or ventures on the yard,

The landsman who no better knows, Believes his lot is hard: Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets, Weighs anchor, heaves the log, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, And drinks his can of grog.

When mountains high the waves that swell The vessel rudely bear, Now sinking in a hollow dell, Now quiv'ring in the air: Bold Jack, &c.

When waves 'gainst rocks and quicksands roar, You ne'er hear him repine; Freezing near Greenland's icy shore, Or burning near the line: Bold Jack, &c.

If to engage they give the word, To quarters all repair, While splinter'd masts go by the board, And shot sing thro' the air. Bold Jack, &c.

HENRY.

MY heart from my bosom wou'd fly; And wander, oh! wander afar, Reflection bedews my sad eye, For Henry is gone to the war. Oh! ye winds, to my Henry bear One drop, let it fall on his breas•• The tear, as a pearl he will wear, And I in remembrance be blest.

In vain smiles the glittering scene, In vain blooms the roseat flow'r: The sunshine of April's not seen, I have only to do with the show'r. Oh, ye winds, &c.

Ye winds that have borne him away, Restore my dear youth to my arms; Restore me to sunshine and day— 'Tis night 'till my Henry returns. Oh, ye winds, &c.

NOTHING LIKE GROG.

A PLAGUE of those musty old lubbers, Who tell us to fast and to think, And patient fall in with life's rubbers, With nothing but water to drink. A can of good stuff, had they twigg'd it, Would have set them 〈…〉〈…〉 agog, And spite of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 The rules of the schools, The old fools would have all of them swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

My father, when last I from Guinea Return'd with abundance of wealth, Cry'd, Jack, never be such a ninny To drink;—says I,—father your health! So I pass'd round the stuff, and he twigg'd it, And it set the old codger agog; And he swigg'd, and mother, And sister, and brother, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

One day, when the chaplain was preaching, Behind him I curiously slunk, And, while he our duty was teaching, As how we should never get drunk I tipt him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, Which soon set his reverence agog; And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

Then trust me, there's nothing like drinking So pleasant on this side the grave, It keeps the unhappy from thinking, And makes 'em more valiant, more brave, For me, from the moment I twigg'd it, The good stuff has set me agog, Sick or well, late or early, Wind foully or fairly, I've constantly, constantly swigg'd it; And d—mn me, there's nothing like grog.

I SAIL'D in the good ship the Kitty, With a stiff blowing gale and rough sea, Left Polly the lads call so pretty, Safe here at anchor, yo yea, yo yea, yo yea, yo yea, yo yea.

She blubber'd salt tears when we parted, And cry'd, now be constant to me; I told her not to be down-hearted, So up with the anchor, yo yea.

When the wind whistled larboard and starboard, And the storm came on weather and lee, The hope I with her shou'd be harbour'd, Was my cable and anchor, yo yea.

And yet, my boys, would you believe me, I return'd with no rhino from sea; My Polly wou'd never receive me, So again I heav'd anchor, yo yea.

TALLY HO.

AT the sound of the horn, We rise in the morn, And waken the woods as we thunder along; Yoix, yoix, Tally ho! After Reynard we go,

While echo on echo redoubles the song. We waken the woods as we thunder along, Tally ho! tally ho! After Reynard we go, While echo on echo redoubles the song.

Not the steeds of the sun Our brave courses outrun, O'er the mound horse and hound see us bound in full cry, Like Phoebus we rise, To the heights of the skies, And, careless of danger five bars we defy. We waken the woods, &c.

At eve, Sir, we rush, And are close to his brush; Already he dies, see him panting for breath: Each feat and defeat, We renew and repeat, Regardless of life, so we're in at the death. We waken the woods, &c.

With a bottle at night, We prolong the delight. Much Trimbush we praise, and the deeds that were done; And y••x, Tally ho! The next morning we go With Phoebus, to end as we mount with the sun. We waken the woods, &c

ADIEU MA LIBERTE.

NO more from fair to fair I rove, A convert now to love I prove, And boast my constancy; I pensive sigh beneath the shade, While thus resounds the echoing glade, Adieu ma liberté.

No more with pipe or jocund song I now attract the list'ning throng,

With merry wanton glee; Alone I sigh for Chloe's charms, And musing cry, with solded arms, Adieu ma liberte.

Yet wou'd the smiling fair 〈◊〉〈◊〉 My fond desires, my const•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 How happy should I be? With jocund song each grove should 〈◊〉〈◊〉 With joyful heart would Streph•• Adieu ma liberté.

THE TWINS OF LATONA

THE twins of Latona so kind to my boo••, Arise to partake of the chace, And Sol lends a ray to chaste Dian's fair moon, And a smile to the smiles of her face. For the sport delight in, the bright Queen of love, With myrtles my brows shall adorn, While Pan breaks his chaunter, and skulks in the grove, Excell'd by ••e sound of the horn. The dogs are uncoupl'd, and sweet is their cry, Yet sweeter the notes of sweet echo's reply; Hark forward, bark forward, the game is in view, But love is the game that I wish to pursue.

Tho s••ng from his chamber of woodbine peeps out, His sentence he hears in the gale; Yet flies, 'till entangl'd in fear and in doubt, His courage and constancy fail. Surrounded by foes, he prepares for the fray, Des•• taking place of his fear! With antlers erected a while stands at bay, The•• surrenders his life with a tear. The dogs are, &c.

THE LUCKY ESCAPE.

I THAT once was a ploughman, a sailor am now, No lark that a••o•• in the sky, Ever flutter'd his wings to give speed to the plough, Was so gay and so ••less as I,

But my friend was a carfindo aboard a king's ship, And he ax'd me to go just to sea for a trip; And he talk'd of such things As if sailors were kings, And so teazing did keep, That I left my poor plough to go ploughing the deep. No longer the horn Call'd me up in the morn, I trusted the Carfindo and the inconstant wind, That made me for to go and leave my dear behind.

I did not much like for to be aboard a ship, When in danger there's no door to creep out; I liked the jolly t••rs, I liked bumbo and flip, But I did not like rocking about; By and by came a hurricane, I did not like that, Next a battle that many a sailor laid flat; Ah! cried I, who would roam, That like me had a home; When I'd sow and I'd reap, Ere I left my poor plough, to go ploughing the deep, Where sweetly the horn Call'd me up in the morn, Ere I trusted the Carfindo and the inconstant wind, That made me for to go and leave my dear behind.

At last safe I landed, and in a whole skin, Nor did I make any long stay, Ere I found by a friend who I ax'd for my kin, Father dead and my wife ran away! Ah who but thyself, said I, hast thou to blame? Wives losing their husbands oft lose their good name. Ah why did I roam When so happy at home: I could sow and could reap, Ere I left my poor plough to go ploughing the deep; When so sweetly the horn Call'd me up in the morn, Curse light upon the Carfindo and the inconstant wind, That made me for to go and leave my dear behind.

Why if that be the case, said this very same friend,

And you ben't no more minded to roam, Gi'e's a shake by the fist, all your care's at an end, Dad's alive and your wife's safe at home, Stark staring with joy, I leapt out of my skin, Buss'd my wife, mother, sister, and all of my kin: Now, cried I, let them roam, Who want a good home, I am well, so I'll keep, Nor again leave my plough to go ploughing the deep; Once more shall the horn Call me up in the morn, Nor shall any damn'd Carfindo, nor the inconstant wind E'er tempt me for to go and leave my dear behind.

JACK RATLIN WAS THE ABLEST SEAMAN.

JACK Ratlin was the ablest seaman, None like him could hand, reef, and steer: No dang'rous toil but he'd encounter, With skill and in contempt of fear. In fight a lion, the battle ended, Meek as the bleating lamb he'd prove: Thus Jack had manners, courage, merit, Yet did he sigh, and all for love.

The song, the jest, the flowing liquor, For none of these had Jack regard: He, while his messmates were carousing, High sitting on the pendant yard, Would think upon his fair one's beauties, Swore never from such charms to rove; That truly he'd adore them living, And dying sigh—to end his love.

The same express the crew commanded Once more to view their native land, Amongst the rest brought Jack some tidings, Wou'd it had been his love's fair hand; Oh fate! her death defac'd the letter; Instant his pulse forgot to move;

With quiv'ring lips, and eyes uplifted, He heav'd a sigh—and dy'd for love.

THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

THERE are grinders enough, sirs, of every degree, From jewel-deck'd great to low poverty; Whatever the station, it sharpens the sense, And the wheel it goes round to wind in the pence. Master-grinders enough at the helm you may find, Tho' I'm but a journeyman—Knives to grind.

Whatever the statesman may think of himself, He turns fortune's wheel in pursuit of the pelf; He grinds back and edge, sirs, his ends to obtain, And his country may starve, so he pockets the gain. Master-grinders, &c.

The rich grind the poor, is a saying of old; The merchant the tradesman, we need not be told: Whether Pagan, Mahometan, Christian you be, There are grinders of all sorts, of ev'ry degree. Master-grinders, &c.

The patriot, with zeal animated, declares The curtain he'll draw, and display the state-play'rs; He is a staunch grinder, to some 'tis well known, And they're mightily gall'd by the grit of his stone. Master-grinders, &c.

I too am a grinder; what, what, sirs, of that? I am but in taste, since I copy the great: To be, sirs, ingenuous, I'll tell you my mind; 'Tis for what I can get, makes me willing to grind. Master-grinders enough at the helm you may find, Tho' I'm but a journeyman—Knives to grind.

ADVICE TO THE LADIES.

TRUST not man for he'll deceive you; Treach'ry is his sole intent;

First he'll court you, then he'll leave you, Poor deluded! to lament.

Form'd by nature to undo us, They escape our utmost heed; Oh! how humble when they woo us, But how proud when they succeed!

So the Bird when once deluded, By the fowler's artful snare; Pines out life, in cage secluded;— Fair ones, while you're young, beware!

ADVICE TO THE GENTLEMEN.

TRUST not WOMAN she'll beguile you, All her smiles are form'd by art; First she'll flatter then exile you, Sighing with a broken heart!

Form'd by nature to pursue us, They outstrip the fleetest men;— Ah! how sweet they bill and coo us, But how proud they triumph then!

So the FISH the bait admiring, On the angler's fatal snare, Gasps out life in pangs expiring;— LOVERS, of the hook, beware!