A collection of songs, selected from the works of Mr. Dibdin. ; To which are added, the newest and most favourite American patriotic songs. ; [Six lines of quotations]

DIBDIN's SELECTED SONGS.

SONG—IN THE WEDDING RING.

I SAW what seem'd a harmless child, With wings and bow, And aspect mild, Who sobb'd, and sigh'd, and pin'd, And begg'd I would some boon bestow On a poor littJe boy stone blind.

Not aware of the danger, I instant comply'd, When he drew from his quiver a dart, Cry'd 'My power you shall know,' Then he levelled his bow, And wounded me right in the heart.

BALLAD—IN THE DESERTER.

THERE was a miller's daughter Liv'd in a certain village, Who made a mighty slaughter: For I'd have you to know Both friend and foe, The clown and the beau, She always laid low; And her portion, as I understand, Was three acres of land, Besides a mill, That never stood still, Some sheep and a cow, A harrow and plough, And other things for tillage: What d'ye think of my miller's daughter?

This miller's pretty daughter Was a damsel of such fame sir, That knights and squires sought her; But they soon were told That some were too bold, And some too cold, And some too old; And she gave them to understand That, though ther were grand, She'd never be sold: For says Betty, says she, Since my virtue to me Is ••••arer than gold, Let 'em go from whence they came sir. What d'ye think of my miller's daughter? But when t••e miller's daughter Saw Ned the morrice dancer, His person quickly caught her; For who so clean Upon the green As Ned was seen, For her his queen: Then b••ithe as a king, His bells he'd ring, And dance, and sing, Like any thing:— Says he, 'My life, 'Woot be my wife?' A blush, and yes, was Betty's answer. What d'ye think of my miller's daughter?

BALLAD—IN THE WATERMAN.

TWO youths for my love are contending in vain; For, do all they can, Their suff'rings I rally, and laugh at their pain; Which, which is the man That deserves ••e the most? Let me ask of my heart;— Is it Robin, who s••••rks, and who dresses so smart? Or Tom, honest Tom, who makes plainness his plan? Which, which is the man?

Indeed to be prudent, and do what I ought, I do what I can;

Yet surely papa and mamma are in fault; To a different man They, each, have advised me to yield up my heart, Mamma praises Robin, who dresses so smart: Papa honest Tom, who makes plainness his plan: Which, which is the man?

Be kind then, my heart, and but point out the youth, I'll do what I can His love to return, and return it with truth; Which, which is the man? Be kind to my wishes, and point out, my heart, Is it Robin, who smirks and who dresses so smart? Or Tom, honest Tom, who makes plainness his plan? Which, which is the man?

BALLAD—IN THE WATERMAN.

AND did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, Who at Black friar's bridge used for to ply; And he feather'd h••s oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart, and delighting each eye He look'd so neat, and row'd so steadily, The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily, And he ey'd the young rogues with so charming an air, That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'Twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal; He was always fi••st oars when the fine ci••y ladies In a party to Rane••agh went, or Vauxhall And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering, But 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is all one to Tom, their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and jeering, For loving or liking he 〈…〉〈…〉 care▪ For this waterman 〈…〉〈…〉 want of a fare.

And yet but to see how strang••ly things happen, 〈…〉〈…〉 thinking of ••••thing at all, 〈…〉〈…〉 by a damsel so lovely and charming. 〈…〉〈…〉, and so st••ai••way in love he did fall. And would this young d••msel but banish his sorrow, 〈…〉〈…〉 her to n••ght, before to-morrow, And how should this•• a••erman ever know care, When he's married, and never in want of a fare.

BALLAD—IN THE WATERMAN.

THEN farewel my trim-built wherry, Oars, and coat, and badge farewel; Never more at Chelsea ferry, Shall your Thomas take a spell.

But to hope and peace a stranger, In the battle's heat I'll go, Where exposed to every danger, Some friendly ball may lay me low.

Then, may-hap, when homeward steering, With the news my messmates come, Even you, the story hearing, With a sigh may cry poor Tom!

BALLAD—IN THE WATERMAN.

INDEED, Miss, such sweethearts as I am, I fancy you'll meet with but few, To love you more true I defy them, I always am thinking of you.

There are maidens would have me in plenty, Nell, Cicely, Priscilla, and Sue, But instead of all these were there twenty, I never should think but of you.

False hearts all your money may squander, And only have pleasure in view, Ne'er from you a moment I'll wander, Unless to get money for you.

The tide, when 'tis ebbing and flowing, Is not to the moon half so true, Nor my oars to their time when I'm rowing, As my heart, my fond heart is to you.

BALLAD—IN THE COBLER.

'TWAS in a village, near Castlebury, A cobler and his wife did dwell; And for a time no two so merry, Their happiness no tongue can tell,

But to this couple, the neighbours tell us, Something did happen that caus'd much strife, For going to a neighb'ring alch••use, The man got drunk and beat his wife.

But though he treated her so vilely, What did this wife, good creature do? Kept snug, and found a method slily To wring his heart quite through and through:

For Dick the tapster and his master, By the report that then was rise, Were both in hopes, by this disaster, To gain the cobler••s pretty wife.

While things went on to rack and ruin, And all their furniture was sold, She seem'd to approve what each was doing, And got from each a purse of gold.

So when the cobler's cares were over. He swore to lead an alter'd life, To mind his work, ne'er be a rover, And love no other than his wife.

BALLAD—IN THE SERAGLIO.

THE world's a strange world, child, it must be confest, We all of distress have our share; But since I must struggle to live with the rest, By my ••r••th 'tis no great matter where. We all must put up with what fortune has sent, Be therefore one's lot poor or rich, So there is but a portion of ease and content, By my troth 'tis no great matter which.

A living's a living, and so there's an end; If one honestly gets just enow, And something to spare for the wants of a friend, By my troth 'tis no great matter how. In this world about nothing we busy'd appear; And I've said it again and again, Since quit it one must, if ones conscience be clear, By my troth 'tis no great matter when.

RONDEAU—IN THE SERAGLIO.

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear, The main mast by the board; My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love well-stor'd, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore To be once more Safe moor'd with thee.

Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge roaring from below, Shall my signal be To think on thee And this shall be my song. Blow high, blow low, &c.

And on that might when all the crew The mem'ry of their former lives, O'er flowing cans of flip renew. And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a figh, and think on thee; And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burthen of my song shall be Blow high, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE SERAGLIO.

THE little birds, as well as you, I've mark'd with anxious care, How free their pleasures they pursue, How void of every care. But birds of various kinds you'll meet, Some constant to their loves: Are chatt'ring sparrows half so sweet As tender cooing doves?

Birds have their pride, like human kind, Some on their notes presume,

Some on their form, and some you'll find Fond of a gaudy plume. Some love a hundred; some you'll meet Still constant to their loves; Are chatt'ring sparrows half so sweet As tender, cooing doves?

SONG—IN POOR VULCAN.

VENUS now no more behold me, But an humble village ••••ame, Coarse and homely trappings fold me, And Mistress Maudlin is my name.

Yet here no less is paid that duty Ever due to Venus's worth, Not more insensible of beauty Than gods in heaven, are men on earth.

BALLAD—IN POOR VULCAN.

THAT nature's every where the same, Each passing day discovers; For that in me Some charms they see, Behold me, though a country dame, Leading a crowd of lovers.

My sporting squire to keep at bay The course I'll double over, Whilst he, intent On a wrong scent, Shall always find me stole away When he cries 'Hark to cover.'

With new-coin'd oaths, my grenadier May think to storm and bluster, And swear by Mars, My eyes are stars, That light to love:—he'll soon find here Such stuff will ne'er pass muster.

Thus will I serve those I distrust, First laugh at, then refuse 'em;

But, ah! not so My shepherd Joe? He like Adonis look'd, when first I press'd him to my bosom.

BALLAD—IN POOR VULCAN.

THE moment Aurora peep'd into my room, I put on my cloaths, and I call'd to my groom; And, my head heavy still, from the fumes of last night, Took a bumper of brandy to set all things right; And now were well saddled Fleet, Dapple, and Gray, Who seem'd longing to hear the glad sound hark away.

Will Whistle by this had uncoup••ed his hounds, Whose extacy nothing could ke••p within bounds; First forward came Jowler, then Scent well, then Snare, Three better staunch harriers ne'er started hare; Then Sweetlips, then Driver, then Staunch, and then Tray, All ready to open at hark, 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 Gater, Bill Babler, and Dick at the gun, And by this time the merry Tom Fairplay made one, Who, while we were jogging on blithsome and gay, Sung a song, and the chorus was—Hark, hark away.

And now Jemmy Lurcher had every bush beat, And no signs of madam, nor trace of her feet; Nay, we just had began our hard fortunes to curse, When a••l of a sudden out starts mistress Puss; Men, horses, and dogs all the glad call obey, And echo was heard to cry—Hark, hark away.

The chase was a fine one, she took o'er the plain, Which she doubled, and doubled, and doubled again; Till at last she to cover return'd out of breath, Where I an•• Will Whistle were in at the death; Then in triumph for you I the ••are ••id display, And cry'd, to the horns my boys, hark, hark away.

BALLAD—IN PO••R VULCAN.

COME all ye gem'men volunteers, Of glory who would share,

And leaving with your wives your fears, To the drum head repair;

Or to the noble serjeant Pike, Come, come, without delay, You'll enter into present pay, My lads the bargain strike. A golden guinea and a crown, Besides the Lord knows what renown, His majesty the donor, And if you die, Why then you lie Stretch'd on the bed of honor.

Does any 'prentice work too hard, Fine cloaths would any wear, Would any one his wife discard, To the drum head repair. Or to the, &c.

Is your estate put out to nurse, Are you a cast-off heir, Have you no money in your purse, To the drum head repair. Or to the, &c.

BALLAD—IN POOR VULCAN.

COME, every man now give his toast, Fill up the glass, I'll tell you mine, Wine is ••he mistress I love most, This is my toast—now give me thine.

Well said my lad, ne'er let it stand, I give my Chloe, nymph divine, My love and wine go hand in hand;— This is my toast—now give me thine.

Fill up your glasses to the brink, Hebe let no one dare decline, Twas Hebe taught me first to drink:— This is my toast—now give me thine.

C••m'men I give my wife, d'ye see; May all to make her blest combine, So she be far enough from me;— This is my toast, now give me thine▪

Let constant lovers at the feet Of pale-sa••'d wenches sigh and pine, For me the first kind girl I meet Shall be my toast—now give me thine.

You toast your wise, and you your lass, My boys, and welcome: here's the wine, For my part, he who fills my glass Shall be my toast—now give me thine.

Spirit, my lads, and toast away, I have still one with yours to join; That we may have enough to pay: This is my toast—now give me thine.

BALLAD—IN POOR VULCAN.

MADAM, you know my trade is war, And what should I deny it for? Whene'er the trumpet sounds from far, I long to hack and hew; Yet madam credit what I say, Were I this moment cal••'d away, And all the troops drawn in array, I'd rather stay with you.

Did dru•••• and sprightly trumpets sound, Did Death and Car••••age stalk around, Did dying ••orses ••ite the ground, Had we no hope in view; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the whole army lost in smoke, Were they the la••t words that I spoke, I'd ••ay, and dam'me i•• I joke, I'd rather stay with you.

Did the foe charge us front and rear, Did e'en the bravest face appear Impress'd with signs of mortal f••ar, Th••ugh never veteran knew So terrible and hot a ••••ght, Though all my laurels it should blight, Though I should loose so fine a sight. I'd rather stay with you.

DUET.

JOE.

WHEN Serjeant Belswagger, that masculine brute, One day had been drinking to swear a recruit, He kiss'd you, I saw him, or else may I die, And you cruel Maudlin, ne'er once cry'd O f••e!

Again, when the squire had come home from the chase, You receiv'd him, O Gods, with a smile on your face, Henceforth, then, my sheep harum skarum may run, For Maudlin is faithless, and I am undone.

MAUDLIN.

Ah, Joe! you're a good one; one day in my place— My husband at home—I was forced to send Grace: I know for a truth, which you cannot gainsay, You touzled her well on a cock of new hay.

Nay, swore you'd be hers—and, what is worse yet, That you only lov'd me just for what you could get; As for charms then I ne'er will believe I have one, For Joey is faithless, and I am undone.

JOE.

Will you know then the truth on't? I touz'd her I own, Though I rather by half would have left it alone; But I did it to see if you jealous would prove, For that, people say, is a sure sign of love.

MAUDLIN.

And for me, if the squire said soft things in my ear, I suffer'd it, thinking he'd call for strong beer; And as to the serjeant, 'tis always a rule, One had better be kiss'd, than be teaz'd—by a fool.

BALLAD—IN THE QUAKER.

I LOCK'D up all my treasure, I journi••u many a mile, And by my gri••f did measure The passing time the while.

My business done and over, I hasten'd back back amain, Like an expecting lover, To view it once again.

But this delight was stifled, As it began to dawn: I sound the casket rifled, And all my treasure gone.

SONG—IN THE QUAKER.

WOMEN are Will o' th' Wisps 'tis plain, The closer they seem, stlil the more they retire; They teaze you, and jade you, And round about lead you, Without hopes of shelter, Ding dong, helter skelter, Through water and fire; And, when you believe every danger and p••in From your heart you may banish, And you're near the possession of what you desire, That instant they vanish, And the devil a bit can you catch them again.

By some they're not badly compared to the sea, Which is calm and tempestuous within the same hour, Some say they are Sirens, but, take it from me They're a sweet race of angels o'er man that has pow'r, His person, his heart, nay his reason to seize, And lead the poor devil wherever they p••ease.

BALLAD—IN THE QUAKER.

A Kernel from an apple's core One day on either cheek I wore, Lubin was plac'd on my right cheek, That on my left did Hodge bespeak;

Hodge in an instant dropt to ground, Sure token that his love's unsound, But Lubin nothing could remove, Sure token his is constant love.

Last May I sought to find a snail, That might my lover's name reveal, Which finding, home I quickly sped And on the hearth the embers spread; When, if my letters I can tell, I saw it mark a curious L: O may this omen lucky prove, For L's for Lubin and for love.

RONDEAU—IN THE QUAKER.

WHILE the lads of the village shall merrily ah, Sound their tabors, I'll hand thee along, And I say unto thee, that merrily ah, Thou and I will be first in the throng.

Just then, when the youth who last year won the dow'r, And his mate shall the sports have begun, When the gay voice of gladness resounds from each bow'r, And thou long'st in thy heart to make one, While the lads, &c. Those joys that are harmless what mortal can blame? 'Tis my ••axim that youth should be free; And to prove that my words and my deeds are the same, Believe thou shalt presently see, While the lads, &c.

BALLAD—IN ROSE AND COLIN.

I lost my poor mother When only a child, And I fear'd such another, So gentle and mild, Was not to be found:

But I saw my mistake, For scarce was she gone, But I prov'd I had mother and father in one: And though at this minute he makes my heart ach, There's not such another search all the world round.

I'd reach'd my teens fairly, As blithe as a bee, His care, late and early, Being all to please me: No one thing above ground Was too good for his Rose; At wake, or at fair, I was drest out so gaily, lord, people would stare, And I say it again, though he's peevish, God knows, There's not such another, search all the world round.

But love, who, they tell us, Do••s many strange things, Makes all the world jealous, And mad—even kings They say he can wound. This love is the sore:— Since Colin came here, This father so kind is a father severe; Yet still will I say, though he scolds more and more, There's not such another, search all the world round.

BALLAD—IN ROSE AND COLIN.

HERE's all her geer, her wheel, her work; These little bobbins to and fro, How oft I've seen her fingers j••rk, Her pretty fingers, white as snow▪ Ea••h object to me is so dear, My heart at sight on't throbbings goes; 'Twas here she sat her down, and here She told me she was Colin's Rose.

This poesy for her when she's dress'd, I've brought alas! how happy I▪ Could I be, like these flowers, caress'd, And, like them, on her bosom die.

Th•• violet and pink I took, And every pretty flower that blows; The rose too, but how mean twill look When by the side of my sweet Rose.

BALLAD—IN ROSE AND COLIN.

There was a jolly shepherd lad, And Colin was his name, And all unknown to her old dad, He sometimes to see Peggy came— The object of his flame. One day of his absence too secure, Her father thunder'd at the door, When, fearing of his frown, Says she, 'dear love the chimney climb;' 'I can't,' cries he, 'there is not time 'Besides, I should tumble down.'

What could they do, ta'en unawares? They thought, and thought again; In closets underneath the stairs To hide himself 'twere all in vain, He'd soon he found, 'twere plain: 'Get up the chimney, love yo must,' Cry'd she, 'or else the door he'll burst, 'I would not for a crown;' Young Colin seeing but this shift, E'en mounted u••—P••g lent a ••ift, And cry'd, 'don't tumble down.'

With throbbing heart, now to the door, P••or Peggy runs in haste; Thinking to trick her father sure; But 〈◊〉〈◊〉, the proverb says, makes waste, Which proverb's here well plac'd. Her father scolded her his best, Call'd names, and said, among the rest, 'Pray have you seen that clown?' She scarce had time to answer no, When all over black as a crow, Poor Colin tumbled down.

BALLAD—IN ROSE AND COLIN.

EXCUSE me, pray ye do, dear neighbour, But Rose, you know, and I Have oft partook one sport or labour, While you have pleas'd stood by. And since from little children playing You've kindly called me son, I thought to Rose I might be saying 'Good day,' and no harm done.

When you and father gravely counted, One morning in the barn, To how much in a day it mounted That both of us could earn, Since then you down the law were laying, And calling me your son, I thought to Rose I might be saying 'Good day,' and no harm done.

BALLAD—IN ANNETTE AND LUBIN.

YOUNG, and void of art or guile, From ill intention free, If love I've cherish'd all this while, It came in spight of me.

When you've to me▪ and I've to you, Try'd who could kindest prove, If that was love—what then to do To fly from this same love?

When absent from you I have mourn'd, And thought each hour a score; When on a sudden you returned, I've thrill'd with joy all o'er;

They say 'twas love—I thought 'twas you Had made my heart thus move; Alas what can a poor girl do, To fly from this same love?

To every thing that you can ask, What should I say but yes?

It is because I like the task, I freely grant each kiss.

You're all to me—I'm all to you— This truth our deaths would prove, Were we to part:—What then to do To fly from this same love?

DUET—IN ANNETTE AND LUBIN.

BAILIFF.

THEY tell me you listen to all that he says; That each hour of the day you are full of his praise; That you always together your flocks lead to graze: Is this true damsel?

ANNETTE.

Yes, Mister Bailly.

BAILIFF.

They tell me also you are so void of grace As to brag that dear form, and that dear pretty face, That young dog shall be welcome to kiss and embrace: Is this true damsel?

ANNETTE.

Yes, Mister Bailly.

BAILIFF.

The neighbours all say, though I credit them not, They have heard you declare that, content with your lot, Any king you'd refuse for that lout and a cot: Is this true damsel?

ANNETTE.

Yes, Mister Bailly.

BAILIFF.

But one thing I vow frights me out of my life, 'Tis allow'd on all hands, that is, barring the strife, That you both live together just like man and wife: Is this true damsel?

ANNETTE.

Yes, Mister Bailly.

DUET—IN ANNETTE AND LUBIN.

LUBIN.

'Tis true that oft, in the same mead, We both have led our flocks to feed, Where by each other's side we've sat;

ANNETTE.

Alas! there was no harm in that.

LUBIN.

'Tis true for thee this cot I rose, Where thou tak'st pleasure to repose▪ For which I found the greenest plat:

ANNETTE.

Alas! there was no harm in that.

LUBIN.

'Tis true when tired thou fain would'st rest, And thy dear lips to mine I've press'd, Thy breath, so sweet! I've wonder'd at:

ANNETTE.

Alas! there was no harm in that.

LUBIN.

Ah, but 'tis true, when thou hast slept, Closer and closer have I crept; And while my heart went pit-a-pat—

ANNETTE.

Alas! there was no harm in that.

BALLAD—IN ANNETTE AND LUBIN.

A PLAGUE take all such grumbling elves, If they will rail, so be it; Because we're happier than themselves, They can't endure to see it.

For me, I never shall repine, Let whate'er fate o'ertake us; For love and A••••ette shall be mine, Though all the world forsa••••••▪

Then, dear Annette, regard them not, The hours shall pass on gaily, In spite of every share and plot Of that old doating Bailly.

No, never, Annette, thou'lt repine, Let whate'er fate o'ertake us; For love and Lubin shall be thine, Though all the world forsake us.

BALLAD—IN ANNETTE AND LUBIN.

MY Lord, and please you, he and I, Morn, noon, and night, in every weather, From little children, not this high, In the same cottage liv'd together.

Our parents left me to his care, Saying, let no one put upon her: 'No, that I won't,' says he, 'I swear;' And he ne'er lies, and like your honour.

As I was saying, we grew up, For all the world sister and brother, One never had nor bit nor sup, Unless it was partook by t'other:

And I am sure, instead of me, Were it a duchess, he had won her; He is so good, and I've, d'ye see, A tender heart, ank like your honour.

But, woe is ours, now comes the worst, To-day our sorrows are beginning, What I thought love—oh, I shall burst— That nasty Bailly says was sinning.

With Lubin, who, of all the bliss I ever tasted is the donor, I took delight to toy and kiss, Till I'm with child, and like your honour.

BALLAD—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

BROTHER soldiers why cast down? Never, boys, be melancholy:

You say our lives are not our own, But therefore should we not be jolly?

This poor tenement, at best, Depends on fickle chance: mean while, Drink, laugh, and sing; and, for the rest, We'll boldly brave each rude campaign; Secure, if we return again, Our pretty landlady shall smile.

Fortune his life and yours commands, And this moment, should it please her To require it at your hands, You can but die, and so did Caesar.

Our span, though long, were little worth, Did we not time with joy beguile: Laugh then the while you stay on earth, And boldly brave, &c.

Life's a debt we all must pay, 'Tis so much pleasure, which we borrow, Nor need, if on a distant day It is demanded, or to-morrow.

The bottle says we're tardy grown, Do not the time and liquor spoil, Laugh out the little life you own, And boldly brave, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

SING the loves of John and Jean, Sing the loves of Jean and John; John, for her, would leave a queen, Jean, for him, the noblest don. She's his queen, He's her don; John loves Jean, And Jean loves John.

Whate'er rejoices happy Jean, Is sure to burst the sides of John, Does she▪ for grief, look thin and lean, He instantly is pale and wan: Thin and lean, Pale and wan, John loves Jean. And Jean loves John.

'Twas the lily hand of Jean Fill'd the glass of happy John; And, heavens! how joyful was she seen When he was for a license gone! Joyful seen, They'll dance anon, For John weds Jean, And Jean weds John.

John has ta'en to wife his Jean, Jean's become the spouse of John, She no longer is his queen, He no longer it her don. No more queen, No more don; John hates Jean, And Jean hates John.

Whatever 'tis, that pleases Jean, Is certain now to displease John; With scolding they're grown thin and lean, With spleen and spite they're pale and wan. Thin and lean, Pale and wan, John hates Jean, And Jean hates John.

John prays heaven to take his Jean, Jean at the devil wishes John; He'll dancing on her grave be seen, She'll laugh when he is dead and gone. They'll gay be seen, Dead and gone. For John hates Jean, And Jane hates John.

BALLAD—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

WHEN thou shalt see his bosom swelling, When soft compassion's tear shall start, As my poor father's woes thou'rt telling, Come back and claim my hand and heart.

The cause blest eloquence will lend thee; Nay, haste, and ease my soul's distress; To judge thy worth, I'll here attend thee, And rate thy love by thy suceess.

BALLAD—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

'TWAS not her eyes, though orient mi••es Can boast no gem so bright that glows; Her lips, where the deep ruby shines, Her checks, that shame the blushing rose,

Nor yet her form, Minerva's mien. Her bosom, white as Venus' dove, That made her my affection's queen, But 'twas alone her filial love.

The ruby lip, the bril••iant eye, The rosy cheek, the graceful form, In turn for commendation vie, And justly the fir'd lover charm:

But transient these—the charm for life, Which reason ne'er shall disapprove, Which truly shall ensure a wife, Faithful and kind, is filial love.

SONG—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

LET your courage boy be true t'ye, Hard and painful is the soldier's duty; 'Tis not alone to bravely date, To fear a stranger, Each threat'ning danger, That whistles through the dusky air; Where thund'ring jar Conflicting arms, All the alarms, And dreadful havock of the war.

Your duty don••, and home returning, With self-commended ardour burning, If this right pride Foes should deride, And from your merit turn aside, Though than the war the conflict's more severe, This is the trial you must learn to b••ar.

BALLAD—IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.

WHILE up ••he shrouds the sailor goes, Or ventures on the yard, The landsman, who no better knows, Believes his lot is hard.

But Jack with smiles each danger meets, Casts anchor, heaves the log, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, And drinks his can of grog.

When mountians high the waves that swell Th•• vessel rudely bear, Now sinking in the 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 through the air. Bold Jack, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.

I SAIL'D in the good ship the Kitty, With a smart blowing gale and rough sea, Left my Polly, the lads call so pretty, Safe here at an anchor, 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 went the anchor, Yo Yea.

And from that time▪ no worse nor no better, I've thought on just nothing but she; Nor could grog nor flip make me forget her, She's my best bower anchor, Yo Yea.

When the wind whistled larboard and starboard, And the storm came on weather and lee, The hope I with her should be harbour'd Was my cable and anchor, Yo Yea.

And yet, my boys, would you believe me, I returned with no rhino from sea, Mistress Polly would never receive me, So again I heav'd anchor, Yo Yea.

BALLAD—IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.

IF 'tis love to wish you near, To tremble when the wind I hear, Because at sea you floating rove: If of you to dream at night, To languish when you're out of sight, If this be loving—then I love.

If, when you're gone, to count each hour, To ask of every tender power That you may kind and faithful prove; If void of falshood and deceit, I feel a pleasure now we meet, If this be loving—then I love.

To wish your fortune to partake, Determin'd never to forsake, Though low in poverty we strove; If, so that me your wife you'd call, I offer you my little all; If this be loving—then I love.

BALDAD—IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.

Yet though I've no fortune to offer, I've something to put on a par; Come then, and accept of my proffer, 'Tis the kind honest heart of a tar.

Ne'er let such a trifle as this is, Girls, be to my pleasure a bar, You'll be rich, though 'tis only in kisses, With the kind honest heart of a tar.

Besides, I am none of your ninnies; The next time I come from afar I'll give you your lap full of guineas, With the kind, honest heart of a tar.

Your lords, with such fine baby faces, That strut in a garter and star, Have they, under their tambour and laces, The kind, honest heart of a tar.

I've this here to say, now, and mind it, If love, that no hazard can mar, You are seeking, you'll certainly find it In the kind honest heart of a tar.

BALLAD—IN THE OLD WOMAN OF EIGHTY.

Come here ye rich, come here ye great, Come here ye grave, come here ye gay, Behold our blest, though humble fate, Who, while the sun shines, make our hay.

The gay plum'd lady, with her state, Would she in courts a moment stay. Could she but guess our happy fate, Who, while the sun shines, make our hay.

Nature we love, and art we hate, And, blithe and cheerful as the day, We sing, and bless our humble fate, And, while the sun shines, make our hay.

Hodge goes a courting to his mate, Who ne'er coquets, nor says him nay, But shares content, an humble fate, And, while the sun shines, they make hay.

The captain puts on board his freight, And cuts through waves his dangerous way, But we enjoy a gentler fate, And, while the sun shines, make our hay.

See Hodge, and Dick, and Nell, and Kate, In the green meadow frisk and play, And own that happy is our fate, Who, while the sun shines, make our hay.

Come then, and quit each glitt'ring bait, Simplicity shall point the way

To us, who bless our humble fate. And, while the sun shines, make our hay.

BALLAD—IN THE OLD WOMAN OF EIGHTY.

HOW kind and how good of his dear majesty, In the midst of his matters so weighty, To think of so lowly a creature as me, A poor old woman of eighty.

Were your sparks to come round me, in love with each charm, Says I, I have nothing to say t'ye; I can get a young fellow to keep my back warm, Though a poor old woman of eighty.

John Strong is as comely a lad as you'll see, And one that will never say nay t'ye; I cannot but think what a comfort he'll be To me, an old woman of eighty.

Then fear not, ye fair ones, though long past your youth, You'll have lovers in scores beg and pray t'ye, Only think of my fortune, who have but one tooth, A poor old woman of eighty.

BALLAD—IN THE TOUCHSTONE.

PARENTS may fairly thank themselves, Should love our duty master, Checking his power, the senseless elves But tie the knot the faster.

To trick such dotards, weak and vain, Is duty and allegiance, Whilst love, and all his pleasing train, To fly were disobedience.

As fickle fancy, or caprice, Or headlong whim, advises, Children, and all their future peace, Become the sacrifices:

Then trick these dotards, weak and vain, 'Tis d••ty and allegiance; Whilst love, and all his pleasing train, To fly were disobedience.

SONG—IN THE TOUCHSTONE.

THIS life is like a troubled sea, Where, h••lm a-weather or a-lee, The ship will neither stay nor wear, But drives, of every rock in fear;

All seamanship in vain we try, We cannot keep her steadily, But, just as fortune's wind may blow, The vessel's tosticated to and fro;

Yet, come but love on board, Our hearts with pleasure stor'd, No storm can overwhelm, Still blows in vain The hurricane, While he is at the helm.

BALLAD—IN THE TOUCHSTONE.

MY name's Ted Blarney, I'll be bound, And man and boy, upon this ground, Full twenty years I've beat my round, Crying Vauxhall watch:

And as that time's a little short, With some small folks that here resort, To be sure I have not had some sport, Crying Vauxhall watch.

Oh of pretty wenches drest so tight, And macaronies what a sight, Of a moonlight morn I've bid good night, Crying Vauxhall watch.

The lover cries no soul will see, You are deceived my love, cries she, Dare's that Irish taef there—meaning me— Crying Vauxhall watch.

So they goes on with their amorous talk, Till they gently steals to the dark walk, While I steps aside, no sport to balk, Crying Vauxhall watch. Oh of pretty wenches, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WIVES' REVENGE.

CURTIS was old Hodge's wife, For virtue none was ever such, She led so pure, so chaste a life, Hodge said 'twas vartue over much: For says sly old Hodge, says he, Great talkers do the least d'ye see.

Curtis said if men were rude She'd scratch their eyes out, tear their hair; Cry'd Hodge, I believe thou'rt wond'rous good, However, let us nothing swear. For says, &c.

One night she dreamt a drunken fool Be rude with her in spight would fain; She makes no more, but, with joint stool, Falls on her husband might and main. Still says, &c.

By that time she had broke his nose, Hodge ••••de shift to wake his wife; Dear Hodge, said she, judge by these blows, I prize my vartue as my life. Still says, &c.

I dreamt a rude man on me fell; However I his project marr'd: Dear wife, cried Hodge, 'tis mighty well, But next time don't hit quite so hard. For says, &c.

At break of day Hodge cross'd a stile, Near to a field of new-mown hay, And saw, and curst his stars the while, Curtis and Numps in am'rons play▪ Was'nt I right, says Hodge, says he, Great talkers do the least d'ye see.

GLEE—IN THE WIVES' REVENGE.

YOUNG Paris was blest just as I am this hour, When proud Juno offer'd him riches and power, When stately Minerva of war talk'd and arms, When Venus beam'd on him a smile full of charms.

Venus' charms gain'd the prize, what an idiot was he! The apple of gold I'd have parted in three; And, contenting them all by this witty device, Given juno, and Pallas, and Venus a slice.

BALLAD—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

WHEN jealous out of season, When deaf and blind to reason, Of truth we've no belief; With rage we're overflowing, Nor why, nor wherefore knowing, And the heart goes throb with grief.

But when the fit is over, And kindness from the lover Does every doubt destroy, Away fly thoughts alarming, Each object appears charming, And the heart goes throb with joy.

BALLAD—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

BY love and fortune guided, I quit the busy town; With cot and sheep provided, And vestments of a clown.

Thus have I barter'd riches For a shepherd's little stock; A crook to leap o'er ditches, And well to climb each rock: A faithful dog, my steps to guide, A scrip and hautboy by my side, And my horn, to give the alarm, When wolves would harm My flock.

Ah, say then, who can blame me? For beauty 'tis I roam; But, if the chase should tame me, Perhaps I may come home. Till then I'll give up riches, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

THE rising sun Lysander found, Shedding tears o'er Phillis' tomb, Who swore he ne'er would leave the ground, But pass his life in that dear gloom. Tearing his hair, the frantic youth Cry'd, food and raiment I deny; And with my life shall end my truth, For love of Phillis will I d••e.

The radient god made half his tour, The kine sought shelter from his heat, Which pass'd within the cottage door, Where poor Lysander drank and eat. His dinner finish'd, up he rose, Stalk'd, sighing, silently and slow, To where were hung his Sunday's clothes. Then took a walk to chase his woe.

The sun to Thetis made his way, When, underneath a friendly shade, A shepherd sung in accents gay, His passion for a gentle maid. O lovers, what are all your cares! Your sighs! your sufferings! tell me what! To Daphne 'tis Lysander swears, And lovely Phillis is forgot.

SONG—IN THE TOUCHSTONE.

MY tears—alas! I cannot speak! Must thank this goodness, sure, divine! For had I words—words are too weak, Too poor to vent such thoughts as mine.

The sun, in its meridian height, Will gratitude like this inspire; Whose kindly heat and piercing light, We wonder at, and we admire.

BALLAD—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

THE coy Pastora Damon woo'd, Damon the witty and the gay; Damon, who never fair pursu'd But she became an easy prey. Yet, with this nymph, hit ev'ry power In vain he tries, no language moves; Thus do we see the tender flower Shrink from the sun whose warmth it loves.

Piqued at the little angry puss, Cry'd he, she sets me all on fire! Then plagues herself, and makes this fuss, Only to raise her value higher. For, that she loves me every hour, Each moment some new instance proves: Thus do we see the tender flower Shrink from the sun, whose warmth it loves.

How to resolve then? what resource? By fair means she will near come to; What of a little gentle force? Suppose I try what that will do? I know she'll tears in torrents pour; I know her cries will pierce the groves: Thus do we see the tender flower Shrink from the sun, whose warmth it loves.

RONDEAU—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

AH men! what silly things you are, To woman thus to humble, Who, fowler like, but spreads her snare, Or, at her timid game Takes aim, Pop, Pop, and down you tumble.

She marks you down, fly where you will, Or'e clover, grass, or stubble; Can wing you, feather you, or kill, Just as she takes the trouble. Ah men, &c.

Then fly not from us, 'tis in vain, We know the art of setting, As well as shooting, and can train The shyest man our net in. Ah men, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

BRIGHT gems that twinkle from afar, Planets, and every lesser star, That darting each a downward ray, Console us for the loss of day, Begone! e'en Venus, who so bright, Reflects her visions pure and white, Quick disappear, and quit the skies, For lo! the moon begins to rise!

Ye pretty warblers of the grove, Who chant such artless tales of love, The th••••stle, gurgling in his throat, The linnet with his ••••lver note, The soaring lark, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 whistling thrush, The mellow blackbird, goldfinch, hush, Fly, vanish, disappear, take wing, The nightingale begins to sing.

BALLAD—IN THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

HERE sleeps in peace, beneath this rustic vase, The tenderest lover a husband could prove; Of all this distress, alas! I am the cause, So much I ador'd him, heaven envied my love. The sighs I respire ev'ry morn I arise, The misery I cherish, the grief, and the pain, The thousand of tears that fall from my eyes, Are all the sad comforts for me that remain.

When, his colours display'd, honour call'd him to arms, By tender persuasions I kept him away, His glory forgetting for these fatal charms, And to punish me he is deprived of the day.

Since when to his memory I've rais'd this sad tomb, Where to join him, alas! I shall shortly descend; Where sorrow, nor pain, nor affliction can come, And where both my love and my crime shall have end.

BALLAD—IN HARLEQUIN FREEMASON.

IN all your dealings take good care, Instructed by the friendly square, To be true, upright, just, and fair, And thou a fellow-craft shalt be: The level so must poise thy mind, That satisfaction thou shalt find, When to another fortune's kind:— And that's the drift of masonry.

The compass t'other two compounds. And says, though anger'd on just grounds, Keep all your passions within bounds, And thou a fellow craft shalt be. Thus symbols of our order are The compass, level, and the square; Which teach us to be just and fair: And that's the drift of masonry.

BALLAD—IN HARLEQUIN FREEMASON.

THE Sun's a free-mason, he works all the day, Village, city, and town to adorn; Then from labour at rest, At his lodge in the west, Takes with good brother Neptune a glass on his way. Thence ripe for the fair, He flies from all care, To Dame Thetis' charms, Till rous'd from her arms By the morn. So do we, our labour done, First the glass, And then the lass, And then

Sweet slumbers give fresh force To run our course, Thus with the rising sun.

The course of the sun all our mysteries defines: F••••st masonry rose in the east, Then, to no point confin'd, His rays cheer mankind; Besides, who'll deny but he well knows the signs? The Grand Master he Then of masons shall be, Nor shall ought the craft harm, Till to shine and to warm He has ceas'd. Then like him▪ our labour done, &c.

BALLAD—IN HARLEQUIN FREEMASON.

AT a jovial meeting of gods once on high, Ere Bacchus was hatch'd from old Jupiter's thigh, This one told his story, and that sung his song, And did what he could lest the time should seem long. Apollo read verses, the Graces wreath'd flowers, The Muses of harmony sung forth the powers, Bully Mars crack'd his joke, and sly Momus his jest; Yet their mirth wanted something to give it a zest.

Said Jove, our assembly to-day's pretty full, Yet, I don't know how 'tis, we are horridly dull; We have all the ingredients that mirth should inspire, But some clay-born alloy damps our heavenly fire, I have it—in this I'll a mixture inclose Of all the delights whence good fellowship slows, And we'll taste of its produce, for mirth's bad at best When there's any thing wanting to give it a zest.

So saying, so doing, he buried the shrine, Which quickly sprung up in the form of a vine, The leaves broad and verdant, the fruit deepest blue, Whence a juice flow'd that health, love, or youth might renew. Its influence to feel, they came round it in swarms, Mars took draughts of courage, and Venus drank charm••; Momus swallow'd bon mots, Cupid love—so the rest, While Jove, spurning nectar, cry'd—This is the zest.

BALLAD—IN HARLEQUIN FREEMASON.

HERE I was, my good masters, my name's Teddy Clinch, My cattle are found, 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 Ted••••, can tip the long trot.

Oh the notions of life that I see from my box, While faces 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 fair 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 a tizzy, I'll tip the long trot.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

THE ladies' faces, now a-days, Are various as their humours, And on complexions oft we gaze, Brought home from the perfumer's.

Hid as it were beneath a cloak, The beauty's false that wins you, Then parpon me, by way of joke, If I prefer my Dingy.

A handkerchief can rub away Your roses and your lillies; The more you rub, the more you may, My Dingy dingy still is.

Besides, her hair is black as jet, Her eyes are gems from India; Rail as you list then, I shall yet, For joke's sake love poor Dingy.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

DID fortune bid me chuse a state From all that's rich, and all that's great, From all that ostentation brings, The splendor, pride, and pomp of kings; These gifts, and more, did she display, With health, that felt not life's decay, I'd spurn with scorn the useless lot, Were my Camilla's name forgot.

But did she for my fate assign, That I should labour in a mine; Or, with many wretches more, In slavery chain me to an oar; Or from the sight of men exiled, Send me to a Siberian wild, For this and more would she attone, Were my Camilla all my own.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

WHEN Yanko dear fight far away, Some token kind me send; One branch of olive, for dat say Me wish de battle end. The poplar tremble as him go, Say of dy life take care, Me send no laurel, for me know Of that him find him share.

De ivy say my heart be true, Me droop say willow tree, De torn he say me sick for you, De sun-flower tink of me. Till last me go, weep wid the pine, For fear poor Yanko dead; He come, and I de myrtle twine, In chaplet for him head.

SONG—IN THE ISLANDERS.

I'LL mount the cliffs, I'll watch the coast, Anxious some welcome tidings soon to bear, Nor let your fortitude be lost, Confiding still in honest Yanko's care, Though to my comrades I'm untrue, Honour shall infidelity applaud, And call in charity to you, My broken faith to them a pious fraud.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

ORRA no talk, no say fine word, No dress him, no look gay, Vay little sing you hear von bird, Him mate be gone away. Orra tell true, she have no grace Of lady for him part, Dare beauty all be in him face, But Orra in him heart.

Orra do little, all she do; Frogive, for she no gall, To every ting she promise true, Love Yanko, and dat all. But Orra, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

POOR Orra tink of Yanko dear, Do he be gone forever, For he no dead, he still live here, And he from here go never. Like on a sand me mark him face, De wave come roll him over, De mark him go, but still the place 'Tis easy to discover.

I see fore now de tree de flower, He droop like Orra, surely, And den by'm bye there come a shower, He ho••d him head up purely: And so some time me tink me die, My heart so sick he grieve me, But in a lily time me cry Good deal, and dat relieve me.

SONG—IN THE ISLANDERS.

PASSION is a torrent rude, Which rapid bears down every height, A turbulent, unruly flood, Which with the ocean would unite.

Reason's a fountain, calm serene, Which, near gay fields, and laughing bow'rs, While it reflects th' enchanting scene, Is born among a bed of flowers.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

A BED of m••ss we'll straight prepare, Where, near him gently creeping, We'll pat his cheeks, and stroke his hair, And watch him while he's sleeping.

Sweet flowers of every scent and hue, Pinks, violets, and roses, And blooming hyacinths we'll strew, As sweetly he reposes.

And we'll with fond emotion start, And while, with admiration, We softly feel his fluttering heart, Partake its palpitation.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

COME, courage lads, and drink away, A man upon his wedding day Ought rarely well his part to play At Stingo, or October:

For, who would be that stupid elf For whim, caprice, or love, or pelf, To poison, hang, or drown himself, Or marry when he's sober.

••or madam's will at nothing stops, She must have balls, and routs, and sops, And often ransack all the shops, In gay attire to robe her: Then drink the day you take a wife, As the last comfort of your life: For, ever after, noise and strife Are sure to keep you sober.

BALLAD—INTENDED FOR THE QUAKER.

THOU'ST heard those old proverbs, ne'er lean on a rush, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, 'Tis the money paid down that decides who's the winner, Who waits upon fortune's ne'er sure of a dinner: Out of sight out of mind, delaying breeds danger, He ought to be cozen'd who trusts to a stranger▪ Heaven take my friend, and the old one my brother, Promising's one thing, performing another.

Much may fall out 'twixt the cup and the lip, The builder's receipt's the best sail in the ship, 'Tis a good thing to lend, but a better to borrow, Pay me to-day, and I'll trust you to-morrow. Brag is a good dog, but hold-fast a better, You may guess at a word when you know the first letter, There's not the most fire where you see the most smother, Promising's one thing, performing another.

BALLAD—IN THE MISCHANCE.

O THINK on the time when you came home at night, And supp'd upon muscles, no lily more white, When I u••ed to provide you with many a treat Of as fine Melton oysters as ever were eat. Now see what a change! all the muscles for me May be trod under foot, or thrown into the sea; My Joey is false! and the once sprightly tone With which I cry'd oysters is sunk to a drone!

When the last kit of salmon we sat down to broach. And you told me your heart was as sound at a roach, How sweet was my temper! what joys did I fell, Little thinking you'd slip through my hands like an eel. But my temper's now chang'd—I, that once was so mild, I was thought to be gentle and meek as a child, So crusty am grown, I ne'er speak a word civil, And my customers say I'm as cross as the devil.

My stall was so clean, and my tubs were so white, They were perfectly—people would tell me—a fight: I listen'd with joy when the folks told me so, For my stall and my tubs were both scower'd for Joe. But now they're all dirty, neglected they lie, I oft take them up, and as oft throw them by, For his sake I pleasure in cleaning them found, He has left me, and now they're as black as the ground.

BALLAD—IN PANDORA.

What naughty things we women are, Who long for fruit forbidden; Though 'twere our bane, we cannot bear The least thing from us hidden. But what we see will we believe, Though ill on ill we're heaping, Though to this day, from mother Eve, We have always paid for peeping.

Thus curious girls, urged by their youth, Thoughtless what they were doing. Have falshood found disguis'd like truth, And mask'd like pleasure, ruin. Instead of s••iling, who must grieve, Whose joys are turn'd to weeping, And who too late, like mother Eve, Find they have paid for peeping.

Should I to my desires give way, I may encounter sorrow, And that I think a good to-day, May prove an ill to-morrow. Yet, cautious prudence, by your leave, The secret's in my keeping; I am weak woman, and, like Eve, Cannot refrain from peeping.

BALLAD—IN THE REASONABLE ANIMALS.

—A Wolf who had been a Lawyer.—

By roguery, 'tis true, I opulent grew, Just like any other professional sinner; An orphan, d'ye see, Would just wash down my tea, And a poor friendless widow would serve me for dinner.

I was, to be sure, Of the helpless and poor A guardian appointed to manage the pelf; And I manag'd it well, But how—says you—tell? Why I let them all starve, to take care of myself.

With these tricks I went on Till, faith sir, anon, A parcel of stupid, mean-spirited souls, As they narrowly watch'd me, Soon at my tricks catch'd me. And, in their own words, haul'd me over the coals.' In the pillory, that fate For rogues, soon or late, I stood, for the sport of a dissolute mob; Till my neck Master Ketch Was so eager to stretch, That I gave the thing up as a dangerous job.

Now a wolf—from their dams I steal plenty of lambs, Pamper'd high, and well fed—an insatiable glutton— In much the same sphere When a man, I move here, Make and break laws at pleasure, and kill my own mutton. Then since, for their sport, No one here moves the court, Nor am I amenable to an employer, I shall ever prefer, With your leave, my good sir, The life of a wolf to the life of a lawyer.

BALLAD—IN THE REASONABLE ANIMALS.

—A hog who had been an alderman—

FOR dainties I've had of them all, At taverns, Lord Mayor's, and Guildhall, Where the purveyors, nothing stingy, To fill the wallet, And pamper the palate, Have rarities brought from India.

Then what signifies what one takes in, For, when one's cram'd up to the chin, Why, really, good friend to my thinking, If on venison and wines, Or on hogwash, one dines, At last 'tis but eating and drinking.

Besides, I've no books I arrange, Nor at two need I e'er go to change; Have no business with note, bond, or tally, Nor need I, from any ill luck, Either bull, or a bear, or lame duck, Ever fear waddling out of the alley. For dainties, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE REASONABLE ANIMALS.

—A bull who had been an Irishman—

IS'T my story you'd know?—I was Patrick Mulrooney, A jolman, and Ireland my nation, To be sure I was not a tight fellow too, honey, Before my transmogrification.

I did not at all talk of flames and of darts, To conquer the fair—the dear jewels! And wid husbands, becase why I won their wives' hearts, I did not fight plenty of duels.

Then arrah, bodder how you can, You'll ne'er persuade me, honey, For I shall always, bull or man, Be Patrick Mulrooney.

When at Almack's, or White's, o•• at Brookes's, or Boodle's, I've sat up all night in the morning, 'Mongst black legs, and coggers, and pigeons, and noodles, The calling to use I was born in: To be sure many honest gold guineas it yields, But, since 'tis a service of danger, I'm a better man now I'm a bull in the fields, To popping and tilting a stranger.

BALLAD—IN LIBERTY-HALL.

WERE Patience kind to me Oh he de nos! Far plyther than a coat I'd be, On he de no••!

Leap, skip, and pound, would poor Ap Hugh, And capriole, and caper too, And frisk, and jump, and dance, look you, Oh he de nos!

But Patience very cruel is, Oh he de nos! With jibes, and cheers, and mockeries, Oh he de nos!

Which makes to sigh and sob Ap Hugh And whining, his sad fortune rue, And crieve, and croan, and cru••••, look you, Oh he de nos!

BALLAD—IN LIBERTY-HALL.

WHEN faintly gleams the doubtful day, Ere yet the dew drops on the thorn, Borrow a lustre from the ray That tips with gold the dancing corn, Health bids awake, and homage pay To him who gave another morn. And, well with strength his nerves to 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Urges the sportsman to the chase.

Do we pursue the timid hare, As trembling o'er the lawn she bounds? Still of her safety have we care,

While seeming death her steps surrounds, We the defenceless creature spare, And instant stop the well taught hounds: For cruelty should ne'er disgrace The well-earn'd pleasure of the chase.

Do we pursue the subtle fox, Still let him breaks and rivers try, Through marshes wade, or climb the rocks, The deep-mouth'd hounds shall following fly And while he every danger mocks, Unpitied shall the culprit die: To quell this cruel, artful race, Is labour worthy of the chase.

Return'd, with shaggy spoils well stor'd, To our convivial joys at night, We toast, and first our country's lord, Anxious who most shall do him right; The fair next crowns the social board, Britons should love as well as fight— For he who slights the tender race, Is held unworthy of the chase.

SONG—IN LIBERTY-HALL.

WHO to my wounds a balm advises, But little knows what I endure; The patient's pain to torture rises When medicine's try'd, and fails to cure.

What can the wisest counsel teach me, But sad remembrance of my grief? Alas! your kindness cannot reach me, It gives but words—I ask relief.

BALLAD—IN LIBERTY-HALL.

JACK RATLIN was the ablest sea-man, None like him could hand, reef, and steer, No dangerous toil but he'd encounter, With skill, and in contempt of fear: In fight a lion—the battle ended, Meek as a bleating lamb he'd prove;

Thus Jack had manners, courage, merit, Yet did he figh, 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 ones beauties, Swear 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, Among the rest, brought Jack some tiding••, Would it had been his love's fair hand •• Oh fate—her death defac'd the letter, Instant her pulse forgot to move, With quiv'ring lips, and eyes uplifted, He heav'd a sigh—and dy'd for love!

GLEE—IN LIBERTY HALL.

WHAT if my pleasures fools condemn, Because I am not dull, like them, Because no minute I let pass, Unmark'd by a convivial glass? Or else retir'd from strife and noise, I tempt the fair to softer joys; A mortal with a soul divine, Alternate crown'd with love and win••.

These shall on earth my being share, And when I'm gone, if in my heir My spirit live, let him not mourn, But see emboss'd upon my 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Bacchus and Venus in a wreath, With this inscription underneath: "This mortal had a soul divine, "Alternate crow'd with love and wine."

BALLAD—IN LIBERTY-HALL.

WHEN fairies are lighted by night's silver queen. And feast in the meadow, or dance on the green, My Lambkin aside lays his plough and his ••••ail,

By you oak to sit near me, and tell his fond tale. And though I'm assur'd the same vows were believed By Patty and Ruth, he forsook and deceived, Yet, so sweet are his words, and like truth so appear, I pardon the treason, the traitor's so dear.

I saw the straw bonnet he bought at the fair, The rose-colour'd ribbon to deck Jenny's hair, The shoe-••ies of Bridget, and still worse than this, The gloves he gave P••ggy for stealing a kiss. All these did I see, and with heart-rending pain, Swore to part; yet I know, when I see him again, His words and his looks will like truth so appear, I shall pardon the treason, the traitor's so dear.

BALLAD—IN LIBERTY HALL.

SEE the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun The confusion but hear!—I'll bet you fir—done, done; Ten thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockies, assail the tir'd ear: While with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd, his head touching his breast Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Now renard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush, Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at this brush; They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent and by view cheat a long tedious way: While, alike born for sports of the field and the course, Always sure to come thorough, a staunch and fleet horse; When fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud. Lame, spavin'd, and windgall'd, but yet with some blood; While knowing postillions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won the sweepsteakes, his sire gain'd that race; And what matches he won to the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter their time at some hedge ale house door, While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.

Till at last, having labour'd, drudg'd early and late, Bow'd down by degrees, he bends on his fate, Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still: And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view, In the very same cart which he yesterday drew, While a pitying crowd his sad relicks surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.

BALLAD—IN LIBERTY HALL.

DO salmonds love a lucid stream? Do thirsty sheep love fountains? Do Druids love a doleful theine? Or goats the craggy mountains? If it be true these things are so, As truly she's my lovey, And os wit I yng carie I, Roo•• fit dwyn de garie di, As ein, dai, tree, pedwar, pimp, chweck go The bells of Aberdovey.

Do kessels love a whisp of hay? Do sprightly kids love prancing? Do curates crowdies love to play? Or peasants morice dancing? If it be true, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE BENEVOLENT TAR.

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, 'Twould have set them for pleasure agog, And, spight if the rules Of the schools, The old fools Would have all of 'em 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:—said I —father your health. So I shew'd him 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.

T'other day as the chaplain was preaching, Behind him I curiously slunk, And while he our duty was teaching, As how we should never get drunk, I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, And it soon set his rev'rence 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 e'en they aliant more brave. As for me, from the moment I twigg'd it, The good stuff has so set me agog, Sick or well, late or early, Wind soully or fairly, Helm a-lee or a-weather, For hours together, I've constantly swigg'd it, And, dam'me, there's nothing like grog.

BALLAD—IN THE BENEVOLEWT TAR.

WHAT argufies pride and ambition? Soon or late death will 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 de••k.

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 so took to guzzling the stuff, Till he tumbled in old Davy's locker, And there he got 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.

BALLAD—IN THE BENEVOLENT TAR.

A Sailor's love is void of art, Plain sailing ••o his port, the heart, He knows no jealous folly: 'Twere hard enough at sea to war With hoisterous elements that jar— All's peace with lovely Polly.

Enough that, far from sight of shore, Clouds frown, and angry billows roar, Still is he brisk and jolly: And while carousing with his mates, Her health he drinks—anticipates The smiles of lovely Polly.

Should thunder on the horizon press, Mocking our signals of distress, E'en then dull melancholy, Dares not intrude:—he braves the di••, In hopes to find a calm within The snowy arms of Polly.

BALLAD—IN THE MILK MAID.

SWEET dities would my Patty sing, Old Chevy Chase, God save the King, Fair Rosemy, and Sawny Scot, Lilebularo, the Irish Trot, All these would sing my blue-ey'd Patty. As with her pail she'd trudge along, While still the burthen of her song My hammer beat to blue-ey'd Patty.

But nipping frosts and chilling rain Too soon alas choak'd every strain; Too soon, alas! the miry way Her wet shod feet did sore dismay, And hoarse was heard my blue-ey'd Patty. While I for very mad did cry; Ah could I but again, said I, Hear the sweet voice of blue-ey'd Patty!

Love taught me how—I work'd, I sung, My anvil glow'd, my hammer rung, Till I had form'd from out the fire, To bear her feet above the mire, An engine for my blue-ey'd Patty. Again was heard each tuneful close, My fair one on the patten rose, Which takes its name from blue-ey'd Patty.

BALLAD—IN HARVEST HOME.

AS Dermot toil'd one summer's day, Young Shelah, as she sat behind him, Fairly stole his pipe away— Oh den to hear how she'd deride him. Where, poor Dermot is it gone, Your lily lily loodle? They've l••ft you nothing but the drone. And that's yourself, you noodle. Beum bum boodle, loodle lo, Poor Dermot's pipe is lo••t and gone, And what will the poor devil do?

Fait, now I am undone and more, Cry'd Dermot—ah wi••l you be aesy? Did not you stale my heart before? Is it you'd have a man run crazy? I've nothing left me now to moan, My lily lily loodle, That used to chear me so is gone— Ah Dermot thou'rt a noodle. Beum bum boodle, loodle lo, My heart, and pipe, and peace are gone— What next will cruel Shelah do?

But Shelah hearing Dermot vex, Cry'd she, 'twas little Cupid mov'd me, Ye fool to steel it out of tricks, Only to see how much you lov'd me. Come cheer thee Dermont, never moan, But take your lily loodle, And for the heart of you that's gone, You shall have mine, you noodle. Beum bum boodle, loodle lo, Shela's to church with Dermot gone, And for the rest—what's dat to you.

BALLAD—IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.

THIS, this my lad's a soldier's life, He marches to the sprightly fife, And in each town to some new wife, Swears he'll be ever true; He's here—he's there—where is he not? Variety's his envied lot. He eats, drinks, sleeps, and pays no shot, And follows the loud tattoo.

Call'd out to face his country's foes, The tears of fond domestic woes He kisses off, and boldly goes To earn of fame his due. Religion, liberty, and laws, Both his are, and his country's cause— For these, through danger, without pause, He follows the loud tattoo.

A••d if at last, in honour's wars, He earns his share of danger's scars,

Still he feels bold, and thanks his stars He's no worse fate to ••ue: At Che••sea, free from toil and pain, He wi••lds his crutch, points out the slain, And, in fond fancy, once again, Follows the loud tattoo.

BALLAD—IN TOM THUMB.

IS it little Tom Thumb that you mean, and his battles? Arrah send him for playthings some whistles and rattles: At the fight of a sword all his nerves would be quaking, He fight! he kill giants! is it game you are making? As well may you tell us that eagles fear larks, That mice eat up lions, and sprats swallow sharks: Then talk not of any such nonsense to me— Wid your confounded boderum bumboodle liddle lee.

Tom Thumb! such a shrimp sure no eyes ever saw— 〈◊〉〈◊〉 handles his arms as a fly hugs a straw: To be sure in the wars dangers certain to quit him, ••••r the taes's such a flea dare's no bullet can hit him. And then as to courage, my jewel—hoot, hoot! 〈◊〉〈◊〉 did not I find him chin deep in my boot? Then talk not of any such nonsense to me, Wid your confounded boderum bumboodle liddle lee.

Tom Thumb marry you!—mus••a honey be aesy, Were it not for your sense, I should think you gone crazy Shall a fine stately ostrich thus wed a cock-sparrow? 'Twere a halb••rd stuck up by the side of an arrow— Or a fly on a church, or a mountain and mouse, Or a pi••••ire that crawls by the side of a house: Then talk not of any such nonsense to me, Wid your confounded boderum, bumboodle liddle lee.

BALLAD.

THAT all the world is up in arms, And 〈…〉〈…〉 but 〈◊〉〈◊〉 charms, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 crowd 〈…〉〈…〉 near and far, Come all to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this blazing star,

Is true—who has not heard on't. But that she all at distance keeps, And that her virtue never sleeps— I don't believe a word on't.

That for one lover had she ten, In short, did she from all the men Her homage due each day receive, She has good sense, and, I believe, Would never grow absurd on't: But for soft dalliance she'd refuse Some favourite from the crowd to chuse— I don't believe a word on't.

That in the face of standers-by She's modesty itself's no lie; That then were men rude things to say, 'Twould anger her—oh I would lay A bottle and a bird on't: But to her bedchamber, d'ye see, That Betty has no private key I don't believe a word on't.

BALLAD.

I Thought we were fiddle and bow, So well we in concert kept time, But, to strike up a part base and low, Without either reason or rhime: What a natural was I so soon With pleasure to quaver away! For I'm humm'd, I think, now to some tune, She has left me the piper to pay.

I plainly perceive she's in glee, And thinks I shall be such a flat As to shake, but she's in a wrong key, For she never shall catch me at that. Whoe'er to the crotches of love Lets his heart dance a jig in his breast, 'Twill a bar to his happiness prove, And shall surely deprive him of rest.

BALLAD.

I sing of a war set on foot for a toy, And of Paris, and Helen, and Hector, and Troy, Where on women, kings, gen'rals, and coblers you stumble, And of mortals and gods meet a very strange jumble, Sing didderoo bubberoo, oh my joy, How sweetly they did one another destroy! Come, fill up your bumpers, the whisky enjoy, May we ne'er see the like of the siege of Troy!

Menelaus was happy wid Helen his wife, Except that she led him a devil of a life, Wid 〈◊〉〈◊〉 handsome ta••e Paris she'd toy and she'd play, Till they pack'd up their alls, and they both ran away. Sing didderoo, &c.

Agamemnon, and all the great chiefs of his house, Soon took up the cause of this hornified spouse, While Juno said this thing, and Venus said that, And the gods ••••ll a wrangling they knew not for what. Sing didderoo, &c.

Oh den such a slaughter, and cutting of trotes, And slaying of bullocks, and offering up goats! Till the cunning Ulysses, the Trojans to cross, Clapt forty fine fellows in one wooden horse. Sing didderoo, &c.

Oh den for to see the maids, widows, and wives, Crying some for their virtue, and some for their lives; Thus after ten years they'd defended their town, Poor dear Troy in ten minutes was all burnt down! Sing didderoo, &c.

But to see how it ended's the best joke of all, Scarce had wrong'd Menelaus ascended the wall, But he bl••bb'ring saw Helen, and, oh strange to te••l, The man took his ••••are, and so all was we••l. Sing didderoo, &c.

BALLAD.

I Sing Ulysses and those chiefs Who, out of near a million,

So luckily their bacon fav'd Before the walls of Ilion. Yankee doodle doodle doo, Black negro he get fumbo, And when you come to our town We'll make you drunk with bumbo.

Who having taken, sack'd, and burnt, That very first of cities, Return'd in triumph, while the bard. All struck up amorous ditties. Yankee doodle, &c.

The Cyclops first we visited, Ulysses made him cry out, For he eat his mut••on, drank his wine, And then he pok'd his eye out. Yankee doodle, &c.

From thence we went to Circe's land, Who saith a girl of spunk is, For she made us drunk, and chang'd us all To asses, goats, and monkies. Yankee doodle, &c.

And then to hell and back again, Then where the Syrens Cara, Swell cadence, trill, and shake, almost As well as Madam Mara. Yankee doodle, &c.

To fell Charibdis next, and then Where yawning Scylla grapples Six men at once, and cats them all, Just like so many apples. Yankee doodle, &c

From thence to where Apollo's bulls And sheep all play and skip so, From whence Ulysses went alone To the Island of Calypso. Yankee doodle, &c.

And there he kiss'd, and toy'd, and play'd, 'Tis true upon my life sir, Till, having turn'd his mistress off, He's coming to his wife sir. Yankee doodle, &c.

GLEE.

WE, on the present hour relying, Think not of future, nor of past, But seize each moment as 'tis flying, Perhaps the next may be our last. Perhaps old Charon, at his wherry, This moment waits to waft us o'er; Then charge your glasses, and he merry, For fear we ne'er should charge them more.

With 〈◊〉〈◊〉 austere, and head reclining, Let 〈◊〉〈◊〉 age, and haggard care ••••ow ••our, and at our joy repining, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 p••e••sures which they cannot share. Put round the glasses, and be jolly, In spight of all such idle stuff, Whether 'tis wisdom or 'tis folly, 'Tis pleasure boys and that's enough.

BALLAD.

I'VE made to marches Mars descend, Justice in jigs her scales suspend, Magicians in gavots port••••d. And Furies black wigs bristle: To prestos Pallas Aegis' blaze, Snakes twist to fugues a thousand ways, And Jove whole towns with lightning raze, At sound of the prompter's whistle.

I've made a sun of polish'd tin, Dragons of wood, with ghastly grin, A canvas sea, the which within Did leather Dolphins caper; I've strung with packthread Orpheus' lyre, Made sheep and oxen dance with wire, And have destroyed, with painted fire, Grand temples of cartridge paper.

I've made a swain, his love asleep, Chide warbling birds and b••eating sheep, While he himself did bawling keep, Like boatman at a ferry:

I've racks made that no blood could spill, Foul poison that could do no ill, And daggers queens and princes kill, Who are alive and merry.

BALLAD.

WHEN last from the straights we had fairly cast anchor, I went, bonny Kitty to hail, With quintables stor'd, for our voyage was a spanker, And bran new was every sail: But I knew well enough how, with words sweet as honey, They trick us poor tars of our gold, And when the ••ly gipsies have finger'd the money, The bag they poor Jack give to hold.

So I chased her, d'ye see, my lads, under false colours, Swore my riches were all at an end, That I'd sported away all my good-looking dollars, And borrow'd my togs of a friend: Oh the•• had you seen her, no longer my honey, 'Twas varlet, audacious and bold, Begone from my sight—now you've spent all your money For Kitty the bag you may hold.

With that I took out double handfuls of shiners, And scornfully bid her good bye, 'Twould have done your heart good had you then seen her fine airs, How she'd leer, and she'd sob, and she'd sigh; But I stood well the broadside, while jewel and honey She call'd me, I put up the gold, And bearing away, as I sack'd all the money, Left the bag for Ma'am Kitty to hold.

BALLAD—INTENDED FOR THE QUAKER.

THOU man of firmness turn this way, Nor time by absence measure, The sportive dance, the sprightly lay Shall wake thee into pleasure: Spite of thy formal outward man, Thou'rt gay, as we shall pr••ve thee;

Then cheer thee, laugh away thy span, And let the spirit move thee.

None are more just, more true, more fair, More upright in their dealings, Than men of thy profession are, But are they without feelings? E'en now I know thy honest heart Full sorely doth reprove thee; Be gay then, in our joy take part, And let the spirit move thee.

BALLAD.

IN Paris, as in London, Vice thrives, and virtue's undone; Errors, passions, want of truth, Folly, in age as well as youth, Are things by no means rare, But honest usurers, friends since••e, And judges with their conscience clear, C'est qu'on ne voit guere.

In Paris All things vary, Sixteen and sixty marry; Men presuming on their purse, Heirs with their estates at nurse, Are things by no means rare: But doctors who refuse a fee, And wives and husbands who agree, C'est qu'on ne voit guere.

In Paris idle passion And folly lead the fashion; Attention paid to shew and dress, Modest merit in distress, Are things by no means rare: But friendship in sarcastic sneers, And honesty in widow's tears, C'est qu'on ne voit guere.

BALLAD.

BEHOLD the fairies' jocund band, Who firm, though low of stature,

'Gainst giant vice shall make a stand. Pourtraying human nature.

We've characters of every mould, All tempers, forms, and sizes, The grave, the gay, the young, the old, Hid under quaint disguises. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

We have a priest who never swears, But who is always ready With money, or advice, or prayers, To help the poor and needy. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

A man and wife, who both on crutch Are now obliged to hobble, Who fifty years, or near as much, Have never had a squabble. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

A magistrate upright and wise, To whom no bribe is given, And who before two charming eyes Can hold the balance even. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

A learn'd physician of great skill, All cures, like Galen, pat in, Who never does his patients kill, Take fees, or jabbers latin. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

A country squire who hates the smell Of Stingo and October, A modern poet who can spell, And a musician sober. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

Away then, comrades, beat to arms, Display your sportful banners, Strike hard at vice, explore false charms, And catch the living manners. Then hey for the fairies, &c.

BALLAD.

CHAIRS to mend, old chairs to mend. Like mine to botch is each man's fate, Each toils in his vocation—

One man tinkers up the state, Another mends the nation. Your parsons preach to mend the heart, They cobble heads' at college; Physicians patch with terms of art And latin want of knowledge. But none for praise can more contend Than I, Who cry Old chairs to mend.

Your lawyer's tools are flaws and pleas; They manners mend by dancing; Wigs are patches for degrees, And lovers use romancing: Fortunes are mended up and made, Too frequently, with places— With rouge, when their complexions fade, Some ladies mend their faces. But none for praise, &c.

BALLAD.

A Tinker I am, My name's Natty Sam, From morn to night I trudge it; So low is my fate, My personal estate Lies all within this budget. Work for the tinker ho, good wives, For they are lads of mettle— Twere well if you could mend your lives, As I can mend a kettle.

The man of war The man of the bar, Physicians, priests, free-thinkers, That rove up and down Great London town, What are they all but tinkers? Work for the tinker, &c.

Those 'mong the great Who tinker the state,

And badger the minority, Pray what's the end Of their work, my friend, But to rivet a good majority? Work for the tinker, &c.

This mends his name, That cobbles his fame, That tinkers his reputation: And thus, had I time, I could prove th my rhyme, Jolly tinkers of all the nation. Work for the tinker, &c.

BALLAD.

ART one of those mad wags, whose brain Intruder reason can't contain, Who are of such unruly minds, They buffet waves, and split the winds; In blanket robe, and crown of straw, Who to mad subjects deal mad law? If this 'tis makes thy bosom swell, Hie demoniac to thy cell.

Or art thou drunk—a frenzy too, One of that hair-brain'd, noisy crew, Who vigils keep at Bacchus' shrine, And drown good reason in bad wine? Every desire in life who think Compris'd in a desire to drink! If by this demon thou'r•• possest, Hie the good drunkard home to rest.

Or art in love, and so gone mad? Dost in with folded arms? art sad? Dost sigh? dost languish? dost play pranks? For which contempt is all thy thanks? Dost pant? dost long for some frail charms, Devoted to another's arms? Is this thy madness, stupid elf? Hie thee away and hang thyself.

BALLAD—IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.

WHEN in order drawn up, and adorn'd in his best, If my soldier appears with more grace than the rest, If his gaiters are jet, his accoutrements fine, If his hair's tied up tight, and his arms brightly shine, Let him turn, wheel, or face, march, kneel, stoop, or stand, Anxious still to obey every word of command; Erect like an arrow, or bending his knee, 'Tis not for the general, 'tis all to please me.

If with smoak and with dust cover'd over by turns, To gain a sham height, or false bastion, he burns; If, of danger in spight, and regardless of fear, He rushes to fight when there's nobody near: In short, let him turn, &c.

BALLAD—IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.

A Novice in love, and a stranger to art, As pure as my wishes my unpractis'd heart; When I rose with the lark, and out-warbled the thrush, Free from falshood or guile, for I knew not to blush: Those past days I deplore. When innocence guarded my unsullied fame, When to think, and to act, and commend were the same; When on my face, In artless grace, Danc'd frolic sport and pleasure—now no more.

Ere I listen'd and lov'd, ere man smil'd, and betray'd, Ere by horror appall'd, and of conscience afraid; Lost to each fond delight that e'er woman adorn'd, By a hard judging world look'd at, pity'd, and scorn'd, Those past joys I deplore: Those joys, ere by man's artful treachery forsook, Which, guiltless and pleased, with the world I partook: When on my face, With artless grace, Danc'd frolic sport and pleasure—now no more.

DUET—IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.

PLATOON.

SAY Fanny, wilt thou go with me? Perils to face, by land and sea, That tongue can never tell ye? And wilt thou all these dangers scorn, Whilst in these arms I hold thy charms, Enraptur'd ev'ry opening morn, When the drum beats reveillez.

FANNY.

Yes, yes, Platoon—I'll go with thee In danger, whatsoe'er it be— Believe 'tis truth I tell you: My constant mind shall peril scorn, Brave all alarms, So in my arms I hold thee every opening morn, When the drum beats leveillez.

PLATOON.

Still Fanny wilt thou go with me? Suppose the cruel fates decree, Alas how shall I tell you? The news should come—thy soldier fell, And thou sha••t hear, Appall'd with fear, Next morning his fatal passing bell, When the drum beats reveillez.

FANNY.

Still fearless will I go with thee, Resign'd to cruel fate's decree, And bravely this I tell you: When on the spot my soldier fell I'd shed a tear, The world should hear, Mingling with his, my passing bell, When the drum beats reveillez.

BOTH.

To the world's end I'd go with thee. Where thou art, danger ne'er can be. My j••y no tongue can tell ye••

And sure such love may perils scorn, Brave all alarms, While in my arms I hold thee every op'ning morn, When the drum beats reveillez.

BALLAD.

NOSEGAYS I cry, and, though little you pay, They are such as you cannot get every day. Who'll buy,? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry. Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry. Each mi••••ing, ambling, ••••sping blade, Who smiles, and talks of blisses He never felt, is here portray'd In form of a Narcisses. Nosegays I cry, &c.

Statesmen, like Indians, who adore The sun, by courting power, Cannot be shewn their likeness more Than in th' humble sun-flower. Nosegays I cry, &c.

Poets I've here in sprigs of bays, Devils in the bush are friars; Nettles are critics, who damn plays, And satirists are briars Nosegays I cry, &c.

BALLAD—IN TOM THUMB.

THE younker, who his first essay Makes in the front of battle. Stands all ag••ast, while 〈◊〉〈◊〉 play, And bullets round him ••attle But pride steps in, and now no more Fell fear his jav'li•• lances, Like dulcet flutes the canno••s roar, And groans turn country dances

So frights, and flurries, and what not, Upon my fancy rushes, I fear I know not why or what, I'm cover'd o'er with blushes,

But let the honey season fly, To second well my clapper, The kitchen's whole artillery Shall grace my husband's napper.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

'TIS said we venturous die-hards, when we leave the shore, Our friends should mourn, Left we return To bless their sight no more: But this is all a notion Bold Jack can't understand, Some die upon the ocean, And some on the land:

Then since 'tis clear, Howe'er we steer, No man's life's under his command. Let tempests howl, And billows roll, And dangers press: Of those in spight, there are some joys Us jolly tars to bless, For Saturday night still comes my boys, To drink to Poll and Bess.

One seaman hands the sail, another heaves the log, The purser swops Our pay for slops, The landlord sells us grog; Then each man to his station, To keep life's ship in trim, What argufies noration? The rest is all a whim: Cheerly my hearts, Then play your parts, Boldly resolved to sink o•• swim; The mighty surge May ruin urge, Of those in spight, &c.

For all the world just like the ropes aboard a ship, Each man's rigg'd out A vessel stout, To take for life a trip:

The shrouds, the stays, and braces Are joys, and hopes, and fears, The halliards, sheets and traces, Still, as each passion veers, And whim prevails, Direct the sails. As on the sea of life he steers: Then let the storm Heaven's face deform, And danger press: Of those in spight, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

THE grey-ey'd Aurora, in saffron array, 'Twixt my curtains in vain took a peep, And though broader and broader still brightened the day, Nought could wake me, so sound did I sleep. At length rosy Phoebus look'd full in my face, Full and fervent but nothing would do, Till the dogs yelp'd impatient, and long'd for the chase, And shouting appear'd the whole crew. Come on, yoics honies, hark forward my boys, There ne'er was so charming a morn, Follow, follow, wake Echo, to share in our joys— Now the music, now echo—mark! mark! Hark! hark! The silver-mouth'd hounds, and the mellow ton'd horn. Fresh as that smiling morn from which they drew breath, My companions are rang'd on the plain, Blest with rosy contentment, that nature's best wealth, Which monarchs aspire to in vain: Now spirits like fire every bosom invade, And now we in order let out, While each neighb'ring valley, rock, woodland, and glade, Re-vo••lies the air-rending shout. Come on, &c.

Now renard's unearth'd, and runs fairly in view, Now we've lost him so subtily he turns, But the scent lies so strong, still we fearless pursue, While each object impatiently burns: Hark! Babler gives tongue, and Fleet, Driver, and Sly, The fox now the covert forsakes, Again he's in view, let us after him fly, Now, now to the river he takes. Come on, &c.

From the river poor renard can make but one push, No longer so proudly he flies, Tir'd, jaded, worn out, we are close to his brush, And conqer'd, like Caesar, he dies. And now in high glee to board we repair, Where sat, as we jovially quaff, His portion of merit let every man share, And promote the convivial laugh. Come on, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

FROM prudence let my joys take birth, Let me not be passion's slave, Approv'd by reason, sweet's the mirth, Vice of pleasure is the grave. Then still to reason's dictates true, Select the sweets of life like bees; Thus your enjoyments will be few But such as on reflection please.

Wine exhilirates the soul, Inspires the mirth of every feast, But gluttons so may drain the bowl, Till man degenerates to beast: Then mirth and wisdom keep in view, And freely on the b••ttle seize; What though your pleasures are but few! They're such as on reflection please.

Love the source of human joys, The mind with bliss that sweetly ••••lls, Too often its own end destroys, And proves the source of human ills. Here reason's dictates keep i•• view, Or, farewell freedom, farewell ease, The real joys of life are few But such as on reflection please.

Then while we meet, let's only own Joys that do honor to the heart, And ceasing to prize these alone, Deplore our frailty, sigh, and part; Meanwhile to reason's dictates true, Select the sweets of life like bees, Thus your enjoyments will be few But such as on reflection please.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

THE spangled green confess'd the morn, The rose bud dropt a tear, And liquid prisms bedeck'd the thorn, When Sandy sought his dear:

Sure never loon was e'er so cross'd— Ye shepherds swains impart, Where did she gang? ah me! I've lost The lassy of my heart.

Her charms are felt as soon at kenn'd, Eyne bright at brilliant gem, But of her beauties there's no end, Why need I talk of them?

Each shepherd swain finds, to his cost, What power they can impart, But most poor Sandy, who has lost The lassy of his heart.

But mine's the fault, and mine's the grief, How could I rashly dare! Oh I have finn'd beyond relief, 'Gainst all that's sweet and rare:

But see, she comes! cease heart to bound, Some comfort ah impart? She smiles! ah shepherds I have found The lassy of my heart!

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

OF all sensations pity brings, To proudly swell the ample heart, From which the willing sorrow springs, In others grief that bear a part.

Of all sad sympathy's delights, The manly dignity of grief A joy in mourning that excites, And gives the anxious mind relief:

Of these would you the feeling know, Most gen'rous, noble, greatly brave,

That ever taught a heart to glow, 'Tis the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

For hard and painful it his lot, Let dangers come he braves them all; Valiant perhaps to be forgot, Or undistinguish'd doom'd to fall:

Yet wrapt in conscious worth secure, The world, that now forgets his toil, He views from a retreat obscure, And quits it with a willing smile.

Then trav'ler one kind drop bestow, 'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave; Nought ever taught the heart to glow Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

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 tempests top gallant masts smack smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouze every thing tight, And under reef'd foresail we'll ••••ud: Avast! nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft To be taken for trifles aback, For they says there's a providence sits up aloft To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

Why I heard the good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, and such, And, my timbers, what lingo he'd coil and belay, Why, 'twas just all as one as high D••tch: But he said how a sparrow can't founder d'ye see, Without orders that comes down below, And many fine things that p••o••'d clearly to me That providence takes us in tow; For, say•• he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft Take the top-sails 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 you see she would cry, When last we weigh'd anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'••ing, and piping your eye, Why what a damn'd fool you must be! Can't you see the wor••d'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 sit smiling aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

D'ye mind me a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the ship, And with her brave the world without offering to flinch, From the moment the anchor's a trip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my Rhino's my friend's, And as for my life 'tis the king's; Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As for grief to be taken aback, That same little cherub that sits up aloft Wil•• look out a good birth for poor Jack.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

WHAT though from Venus Cupid sprung, No attribute divine —Whate'er the bawling ba••ds have sung— Had he, his bow till Bacchus strung, And dipp'd his darts in wine: Till old Si••enus plung'd the boy In nectar from the vine, Then love, that was before a toy, Became the source of mortal joy; The urchin shook his dewy wings, And careless levelled clowns and kings, Such power has mighty wine.

When Theseus on the naked shore Fair Ariadne lest, D'ye think she did her fate deplore, Or her fine locks or bosom tore, Like one of hope bereft:

Not she indeed, her fleeting love From mortal turns divine, And as gay Bacchus' tigers move, His car ascends amidst a grove Of vines, surrounded by a throng, Who lead the jolly pair along, Almost half gone with wine.

Ma'm Helen lov'd the Phrygian boy, He thought her all his own, But hottest love will soonest cloy, He ne'er had brought her safe to Troy But for the wife of Thone. She, merry gossip mixed a cup Of tipple, right divine, To keep love's flagging spirits up, And He en drank it every sup; This liquor is 'mongst learned elves, Nepenthe called, but 'twixt ourselves, 'Twas nothing more than wine.

Of Lethe and its flowery brink Let musty poets prate, Where thirsty souls are said to drink, That never they again may think Upon their former state, What is there in this soulless loss, I pray you so divine? Grief finds the palace and the cot, Which, for a time, were well forgot; Come here then, in our let he share, The true oblivion of your care Is only found in wine.

RONDEAU—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

SMILING grog is the sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor, His compass, his cable, his log, That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker, Though dangers around him Unite, to con••ound him, He br••••es them, and tips off his grog. 'Tis grog, only grog, Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log, The sailor's sheet anchor is grog.

What though he to a friend in trust His prize money convey, Who to his bond of faith unjust, Cheats him and runs away: What's to be done? he vents a curse 'Gainst all false hearts a••••ore, Of the remainder clears his purse, And then to sea for more. There's smiling grog, &c.

What though his girl, who often swore To know no other charms, He finds, when he returns ashore, Clas••'d in a rival's arms: What's to be done? he vents a curse And seeks a kinder she, Dances, gets groggy, clear•• his purse, And goes again to sea. To crosses born, still trusting there, The waves less faithless than the fair; There into toils to rush again, And stormy perils brave—what then? Smiling grog, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

YANKO he tell, and he no lie, We near one pretty brook, Him flowing hair, him lovely yie•• Sweetly on Orra look: Him see big world fine warrior men, Grand cruel king love blood; Great king! but Yan••o say what den If he no honest good? Virtue in foe be virtue still, Fine stone be found in mine, The sun one dale, as well one hill, Make warm where'er him shine.

You brod••r him, him broder you, So all the world should call, For nature say, and she say true, That men be broder all. If cruel man, like tiger grim, Come bold in thirst of blood, Poor man:—be noble—pity him, That he no honest good:

Virtue in foe be virtue still, Fine stone be found in mine, The sun one dale, as well one hill, Make warm where'er him shine.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

I am a jolly fisherman, I catch what I can get, Still going on my betters' plan, All's fish that comes to ••••t; Fish, just like men, I've often caught, Crabs, gudgeous, poor John, Codfish, And many a time to market brought, A dev'lish sight of odd fish.

Thus all are fishermen through life, With weary pains and labour, This baits with gold, and that a wife, And all to catch his neighbour; Then praise the jolly fisherman, Who takes what he can get, Still going on his betters' plan, All's fish that comes to net.

Then pike to catch the little fry, Extends his greedy jaw, For all the world as you and I, Have seen your men of law: He who to laziness devotes His time, is sure a numb fish, And members who give silent votes May fairly be called dumb fish: False friends to eels we may compare, The roach resembles true ones! Like gold fish we find old friends rare, Plenty as herrings new ones. Then praise, &c.

Like fish then mortals are a trade, And trapp'd, and sold, and bought; The o••d wife and the tender maid Are both with tickling caught; Indeed the fair are caught, 'tis said, If you but throw the line in, With maggots, flies, or something red,

Or any thing that's shining: With small fish you must lie in wait For those of high condition, But 'tis alone a golden bait Can catch a learn'd physician. Then praise, &c.

SONG—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

ARM'D with jav'lin, arm'd with dart, With mighty arm and steady heart, We to the battle go; Yet, 'ere we part, We join with all our friends so dear, And fervent adoration pay To the bright orb that gave us day. Then void of fear, We rush to meet the foe; Station'd on impervious ground, We watch their number scatter'd round; The subtle ambush then prepare, And see they fall into the snare Hid as in the woods we lay, They tread the unsuspected way; Sudden and fierce from every bush, Upon the astonish'd foe we rush, Bold and resolved:—and now around, Hark! the dreadful war-whoop sound, Confusion, terror, and dismay, It scatters as it wings its way: They fly! confusion in their train, And slaughter treads the sanguine plain Hark of our friends the welcome cry, Proclaims for us the victory? Then fervent adoration pay To the bright orb that gave us day.

See the festive train advance, Breathe the music, lead the dance! Sound the cymbals! Beat the tymbals! Haste, in glad procession come To our anxious friends at home, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 our reception who prepare, While acclamations rend the air,

And loudly a whole nation cry, Honour, glory, victory.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

BE it known to all those whoso••••••r it regard••, That we fingers of baliads were always ca••l'd bards; And from Ida to Grub-street the muses who follow Are each mother's son the true spawn of Apollo: Thus recording great men, or a flea, or a star, Or the spheres, or a jew's-harp, we're all on a par; Nor in this do I tell you a word of a lie, For Homer sung ballads and so do I.

Don't you know what the ancient's were—great things they talk'd, How they rode upon Pegasus—that's to say, walk'd— That near kindred gods they drove Phoebus's chariot, The English of which is—they liv'd in a garret: And thus they went forward, Diogenes quaff'd, Heraclitus cried, and Democritus laugh'd, Menander made multitudes both laugh and cry, But Homer sung ballads and so do I.

Thus did they strange whimsical notions pursue, Some argued on one leg, and some upon two; To which last my pretensions are not hypothetic, For 'tis certainly clear I'm a perapatetic: Lycurgus and Solon 'bout laws made a pother, Which went in at one ear, and then out at t'other. Old songs such as mine are will nobody buy? Come, Homer sung ballads and so do I.

Historic was Pliny, and Plato divine, Ovid wrote about love, and Anacreon wine, Great Cicero argued to every man's palate, And when he was out—'twas a hole in the ballad: Thus to great men of old, who have made such a rout, My 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to call cousin I've fairly made out, And if any hereafter my right should deny, Te•••• em Homer sung ballads, and so do I.

BALLAD—IN THE BY STANDER.

Look fair••y all the world around, And, a•• you truth deliver,

Tell me what character is found A real savoir vivre? Who truly merits sober same— To find you need not wander, None can detect life's fraudful game So well as the By-stander.

The lover cogs, and palms, and slips, The easy fair to buffle, And still ••o win that slake her lips, Will deal and cut, and shuffle: Still will he ply each subtle art, Till he has quite trapann'd her, And then is sure to trump her heart, If absent the By-stander.

Preferment is a bowling green, Where, placed in each position, Bowls jostling in and out are seen, To reach the Jack ambition. The bias int'rest still they try, Twist, turn, and well meander, Yet their manoeuvres, rub or sly, Are known to the By-stander.

The law's a game at whist, wherein The parties nine are both in, Where tricks alone the game can win, And honours go for nothing: And while they, a sure game to nick, Their client's money squander, Fu••l many more than one odd trick Discovers the By-stander.

The coxcomb plays at shuttlecock, The wit commands and questions, The carping cits to commerce ••lock, Each follows his suggestions. Yet he alone who merits fame, Who blunts the shafts of slander, And on the square life's mo••ely game Best plays is the By-stander.

BALLAD—IN THE GRACES.

AT first like an infant appearing, With neither his bow nor his darts,

To his wiles we attend without fearing, Till he creeps by degrees to our hearts.

When soon for our folly requited, This guest the sole master we find, For scarce to the bosom invited, He lords it at will o'er the mind.

BALLAD—IN THE GRACES.

SAY, fluttering heart, Why after days of sweet delight, Where conscious innocence bore part, Serene as smiling morn, peaceful as silver night, Or gay as gaudy noon, when Phoebus' beams shone bright.

Say, how one hour, One little instant could remove That vacant careless joy? what power Inflict the torments we now prove; Cynthia forbid it ever should be love.

Dear goddess, for fair honour's sake, Relieve the torments we partake! Teach us to cure our am'rous fires, Or else permit us our desires: And this with zealous care perform, Swift as the wind that rules the storm; Swift as the glowing god of day Darts from afar a downward ray, And so shall vot'ries to thy praise A thousand, thousand altars raise.

BALLAD—IN THE HONEST IMPOSTORS.

THAT girl who fain would chuse a mate, Should ne'er in fondness fail her, May thank her lucky stars if fate Should splice her to a sailor. He braves the storm, the battle's heat, The yellow boys to nail her; Diamonds, if diamonds she could eat, Would seek her honest sailor.

If she'd be constant, still his heart She's sure will never fail her; For, though a thousand leagues apart, Still faithful it her sailor.

If she be false, still he is kind, And absent does bewail her, Her trusting as he trusts the wind, Still faithless to the sailor.

A butcher can procure her prog, Three threads to drink a tailor, What's that to buiscuit and to grog, Procur'd her by her sailor.

She who would such a mate refuse, The devil sure must a••l her; Search round, and, if your wi••e, you'll chuse To wed an honest sailor.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

'TWAS in the good ship Rover I sail'd the world around, And for three years and over, I ne'er touched British ground;

At length in England landed, I lest the roaring main, Found all relations stranded, And went to sea again.

That time bound straight to Portugal, Right fore and aft we bore; But when we made Cape Ortugal, A ga••e blew off the shore:

She lay, so did it shock her, A log upon the main, Till, sav'd from Davy's locker, We stood to sea again.

Next in a frigate sailing, Upon a squally night, Thunder and lightning hailing The horrors of the fight, My precious limb was loop'd off, I, when they'd eas'd my pain,

Thank'd God I was not popp'd off, And went to sea again.

Yet still am I enabled To bring up in life's rear, Although I'm quite disabled, And lie in Greenwich tier; The king, God bless his royalty, Who sav'd me from the main, I'll praise with love and loyalty, But ne'er to sea again.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

THE morning breaks, Those ruddy streaks Proclaim the opening day, With glowing health, The sportsman's wealth, Away boys, come away.

The mellow horn On the still morn Pours sounds which echo mocks, While following bound Man, horse, and hound, T' unearth the wily fox.

Hark echo mocks The winding horn, That on the expanded wing of morn, Though sweet the sound in dreadful yell, Tolls out a knell To the devoted fox.

Now off he's thrown, The day's our own, See yonder where he takes; To cheat our eyes, In vain he tries The rivers and the brakes.

The mellow horn Breaks on the morn, And leads o'er hills and rocks; While following bound Man, horse, and hound,

T' entrap the wily fox. Hark echo mocks, &c.

Now, now he's seiz'd, The dogs well pleas'd Behold his eye-balls roll; He yields his breath, And from his death Is born the flowing bowl.

The mellow horn That through the morn Led over hills and rocks, Now sounds a call To see the fall Of the expiring fox.

GLEE—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

COME around me and weep, to your hearts take despair: 'Tis a cause that all nature must mourn, Poor Hylas, of love from all had a share, From our wishes for ever is torn.

That Hylas to whom we look'd up for a smile, As we blessings from heaven would obtain, Whose form was so faultless, whose tongue knew no guile, Is gone, and our wishes are vain.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

'TIS true the marks of many years Upon my wrinkled front appears, Yet have I no such idle fears This will my fortune spoil: Gold sti•• some happiness bestows, E'en where no youthful ardour glows; For proof dear girl, take these rouleaus, And give a sweet smile. 'Tis true upon my haggard face No marks of beauty can you trace, Nor wears my figure ought of grace To ensure the lover's bliss?

Yet am I no such horrd fright But that bank notes may set things right, Take then these bills all drawn, at sight, And give me a sweet kiss. 'Tis true I know not to be kind. And that within my harden'd mind To more a jewel can you find Then beauty in my face: But one within this casket here May make a ••ends, its lustre's clear, Nor shall I think I've sold it dear Paid by a sweet embrace.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

COME painter, with thy happiest slight, Portray me every grace In that blest region of delight, My charming Silvia's face:

And hear me painter, to enhance The value of thine art, Steal from her eyes that very glance That stole away my heart,

Her forehead paint, in sway and rule, Where sits, with pleasure grac'd, A form like Venus beautiful, And like Diana Chaste:

Then paint her cheeks—come, paint and gaze, Guard well thy heart the while, And then her mouth, where Cupid plays In an eternal smile.

Next draw—presumptuous painter hold; Ah think'st to thee 'twas given To paint her bosom?—would'st so bold Presume to copy heaven!

Nay leave the task, for 'tis above; Far, far above thine art! Her portrait's drawn—the painter love, The tablet my fo••d heart.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

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: Blest 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 pondrous anchor fish: For while the grog goes round, All sense of danger 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 eas••, For Jack's to fear a stranger; Blest with the smiling grog we fly, Where now below We headlong go, Now rise on mountains high; Spight 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 fate 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 gayly 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.

CATCH—IN THE BY-STANDER.

HERE lies a philosopher, knowing and brave, From whom madam nature ne'er hid the least wonder, Who looking to heaven, tumbled into his grave, And disdain'd that same earth where he rotting lies under.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

AWAY and join the rendezvous, Good fellowship reigns here, Joys standard flying in your view, To invite each volunteer. Hark! pleasures drum Cries come, come, come, Obey the kind salute, The echoing hall Resounds the call, To welcome each recruit.

Behold the dinner in array, A column it appears;

While pyramids of whips display A corps of grenadiers. Hark! pleasure's drum, &c.

See rivers, not of blood, poured out, But nectar, clear and strong, Young Ganemede's become a scout, Hebe an aid-de-camp. Hark! pleasure's drum, &c. Mow down the ranks, see, see, they fly, Attack them glass in hand; Close quarters, rally, fight or die, 'Tis Bacchus gives command. Hark! pleasures drum, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

To Bachelor's-Hall we good fellows invite, To partake of the chase that makes up our delight; We have spirits like fire, and of health such a stock, That our pulse strike the seconds as true as a clock.

Did you see us you'd swear, as we mount with a grace, That Diana had dubb'd some new gods of the chase. Hark away, hark away, all nature looks gay, And Aurora with smiles ushers in the bright day.

Dick Thickset came mounted upon a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 black, A better fleet gelding ne'er hunter did back; Tom Trig rode a bay, full of mettle and bone, And gaily B••b Buxom rode proud on a roa••; But the horse of all horses that rivall'd the day Was the squire's Neck-or-Nothing, and that was a grey. Hark away, &c.

Then for hounds, there was Nimble, so well that climbs rocks, And Cocknose, a good one at scenting a fox, Little Plunge, like a mole who will ferret and search, And beetle-brow'd Hawk's-eye, so dead at a lurch. Young Sly-looks, who scents the strong breeze from the sou••h, And musical Echo-well, with his deep mouth. Hark away, &c.

Our horses thus all of the very best of blood, 'Tis not likely you'll easily find such a stud▪

And for hounds our opinions with thousands we'd back, That all England throughout can't produce such a pack. Thus, having described you dog••, horses, and crew, Away we set off, for the fox is in view. Hark away, &c.

Sly renard's brought home, while the horns sound a call, And now you're all welcome to Bachelor's Hall, The sav'ry sirloin grateful smoaks on the board, And Bacchus pours wine from his favourite hoard. Come on then, do honour to this jovial place, And enjoy the sweet pleasures that spring from the chase; Hark away, hark away, while our spirits are gay, Let us drink to the joys of the next coming day.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

LET bards elate, Of Sue and Kate And Moggy take their fill O, And pleas'd rehearse In jingling verse The lass of Richmond hill O:

A lass more bright My am'rous flight, Impell'd by love's fond workings, Shall loudly sing, Like any thing, 'Tis charming Peggy Perkins.

Some men compare The favourite fair To every thing in nature; Her eyes divine Are suns that shine, And so on with each feature.

Leave, leave, ye fools, The hackneyed rules, And all such subtle quirkings, Sun, moon, and stars Are all a farce, Compar'd to Peggy Perkins.

Each twanging dart That through my heart From Cupid's bow has morric'd, Were it a tree, Why I should be For all the world a forest;

Five hundred fops, With shrugs and hops, And leers, and smiles, and smirkings, Most willing she Would leave for me, Oh what a Peggy Perkins.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

'TWAS Saturday night the twinkling stars Shone on the rippling sea, No duty call'd the jovial tars, The helm was lash'd a-lee; The ample can adorn'd the board: Prepar'd to see it out, Each gave the lass that he ador'd, And push'd the grog about.

Cried honest Tom, my Peg I'll toast, A frigate neat and trim, All j••lly Portsmouth's favourite boast: I'd venture life and limb. Sail seven long years, and ne'er see land, With dauntless heart and stout, So tight a vessel to command— Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried little Jack, my Poll, Sailing in comely state, Top gan't sails set, she is so tall, She looks like a first rate: Ah! would she take her Jack in tow, A voyage for life throughout, No better birth I'd wish to know, Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried I, my charming Nan, Trim, handsome, neat, and tight,

What joy so fine as ship to man, She is my heart's delight! So well she bears the storms of life, I'd sail the world throughout, Brave every toil for such a wife, Then push the grog about.

Thus to describe Poll, Peg, or Nan, Each his best manner tried; Till, summon'd by the empty can, They to their hummocks hied:

Yet still did they their vigils keep, Though the huge can was out, For, in soft visions gentle sleep Still push'd the grog about.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

THAN marriage and music can ought be more like? Both are bound and cemented by strong chords; Hymen's chains, tho' they gall, yet with ecstasy strike, Exactly like discords and concords:

Like hooting of owls and of bats on the wing, Strife all wedding happines•• garb••es, But when hearts born for p••easure in unison sing, 'Tis the mellow-ton'd nightingale warbles.

When the wife or the husband a note sounds too sharp, In alt both immediately soar; On family discords they mutually harp, Nor will either come down a note lower. Thus like hooting, &c.

All harmony's powers in wedlock we trace, Dutch harmony, nor Italiano; She thunders the counter, he grumbles the bass, And the children squall out the soprano. Thus like, &c.

RONDEAU—IN THE ODDITIES.

ALAS where shall I comfort find? My peace is gone, distressed my mind,

My heart beats high, I know not why, Poor heart! ah me, ah me! So tender, artless, and so young, I listen'd to his flatt'ring tongue, Nor did I e'er Suspect a snare From one who went to sea.

For sailors kind and honest are, They injured virtue make their care, One, only one, did e'er depart From that prov'd rule, and he, Ah me! Was born to break my simple heart. Alas, &c.

When absent from my longing arms, Each hour was fraught with new alarms, Each rising morn beheld my tears, The softest breeze, in my fond fears, Did the horizon straight deform, And zephyr grew into a storm: Yet to be cheated of my bliss, And was I then so kind for this? Alas, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

HOW much I love thee girl would'st kn••w, Better than rosin loves the bow, Than treble shrill the growling bass Or spruce guitars a tawdry case. No more then let us solo play, To Hymen's temple jig away, There when we get, In a duet, Of pleasure will we take our swing. Joy's fiddle shall play, Love's bells shall ring: And while we celebrate the day, We'll frisk away, And laugh and play, And dance and sing, And frisk away like any 〈◊〉〈◊〉▪

I love thee more, I really think, Than dancers jigs, or fiddlers drink; Than dancing-masters love a kit, Or jolly sailors sal dral tit. No more then, &c.

I love thee Griddy Oh much more Than singers love a loud encore, Than curates crowdies love to scratch, Or roaring drunkards love a catch. No more then, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

THE wind was hush'd, the fleecy wave Scarcely the vessel's sides could lave, When in the mizen top his stand Tom C••ueline taking, spied the land. Oh what reward for all his toil! Once more he views his native soil, Once more he thanks indulgent fate, That brings him to his bonny Kate.

Soft as the ••••ghs of Z••phyr flow, Tender and plaintive as her woe, S••rene was the attentive eve, That heard Tom's bonny Kitty grieve. 'Oh what avails▪' cried ••he, 'my pain? 'He's swa••low'd in the greedy main: 'Ah never shall I welcome home, 'With tender joy, my honest Tom.'

Now high upon the faithful shroud, The land awhile that seem'd a cloud, While objects from the mist arise, A feast present Tom's longing eyes. A riband near his heart which lay, Now see him on his hat display, The given sign to shew that fate Had brought him safe to bonny Kate.

Near to a cliff, whose heights command A prospect of the shelly strand, While Kitty fate and fortune blam'd, Sudden, with rapture, she exclaim'd,

'But see, oh heaven! a ship in view, 'My Tom appears among the crew, 'The pledge he swore to bring safe home, 'Streams on his hat—'tis honest Tom.'

What now remains were easy told, Tom comes, his pockets lin'd with gold, Now rich enough do more to roam, To serve his king, he stays at home. Recounts each toil, and shews each scar, While Kitty and her constant tar With rev'rence teach to bless their fates Young honest Toms and bonny Kates.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

WHY I be squire Ned of Gobble-hall, I be come to London town with father, And they that ••••••tle I a goose goes to call, Should call me a fox much rather. I be silent and sly, And cunning, and dry, And with a kawk's-eye To watch what's said and done am ready; So they that goes to hope To hang me for a fool, Will find in the rope A knave, that he wool: So you never must To faces trust, For I be sly, And queer, and dry And they that thinks to make a fool of ••, Are all deceiv'd in little Neddy.

When the comely captain on his knees I find, Who to mother has vow'd, and kiss'd her Why 'tis nothing more than kind after kind, For the dancing master kisses sister: So they thinks me to chouse, While I goes about the house, As tame as a mouse, By the nick name of simple Teddy;

But 'tis all one to me If, in day time, d'ye see, They meets their spark, I kiss maids in the dark, So you never must To faces trust, &c.

If father be in love with a bouncing dame, Thinking I be a lout, and no better, He spells me out good madam's name, And gives me a guinea and a letter, What does I do, d'ye think? To myself while I wink, I pockets the chink, Burns the letter, and makes love to the lady: Thus, while down to the ground, I tricks them all round, Pretty sister and mamma, And my reverend pappa: So you never must To faces trust, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

BEN Backstay lov'd the gentle Anna, Constant as purity was she, Her honey words, like succ'ring manna, Cheer'd him each voyage he made to sea. One fatal morning saw them parting, While each the other's sorrow dried, They, by the tear that then was starting, Vow'd to be constant till they died. At distance from his Anna's beauty, While howling winds the sky deform, Ben sighs, and well performs his duty, And braves for love the frightful storm: Alas in vain—the vessel batter'd, On a rock splitting, open'd wide, While lacerated, torn, and shatter'd, Ben thought of Anna, sigh'd, and died.

The semblance of each charming feature, That Ben had worn around his neck, Where art stood substitute for nature, A tar, his friend, sav'd from the wreck.

In fervent hope while Anna, burning, Blush'd as she wish'd to be a bride, The portrait came, joy turn'd to mourning, She saw, grew pa••e, sunk down, and died!

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

ABERGAVNEY is fine, Aberistwith also, And the lasses it is fine when to market they go; The birds and the pretty finches sing fine in the grove, But the finest bird of all is that little rogue luff. Luff me I pray you now, luff me as your life, And Taffy and Griddy shall soon be man and wife. The mountains are high, and the fallies are low, And from Radnor to Glamorgan's a long fay to co; But I'd co, and I'd run, and I'd fly, and I••d rove, If when I came there I should meet with my luff. Luff me, &c.

Toil and labour is hard, and the time's very long, From the lark's pretty chant to the nightingale's song. But I'd toil and I'd labour throughout the whole year, And think it a day, were I blest with my dear. Luff me, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

RESPLENDENT gleam'd the ample moon, Reflected on the glitt'ring lee, The bell proclaim'd night's awful noon, And scarce a ripple shook the sea, When thus, for sailors, nature's care, What education has denied, Are of strong sense, a bounteous share By observation well supplied:

While thus, in bold and honest guise, For wisdom mov'd his tongue, Drawing from reason comfort's drop In truth and fair reflection wise, Right cheerfully sung Little Ben that kept his watch on the main top,

Why should the hardy tar complain? 'Tis certain true he weathers more From dangers on the roaring main Than lazy lubbers do ashore. Ne'er let the noble mind despair, Though roaring seas run mountains high, All things are built with equal care, First rate or wherry, man or fly: If there's a power that never errs, And certainly 'tis so— For honest hearts what comfort's drop— As well as kings and emperors, Why not take in tow Little Ben that keeps his watch in the main top?

What though to distant climes I roam, Far from my darling Nancy's charms, The sweeter is my welcome home, To blissful moorings in her arms. Perhaps she on that sober moon A lover's observation takes, And longs that little Ben may soon Relieve that heart which sorely achs. Ne'er fear, that power that never errs, That guards all things below— For honest hearts what comfort's drop— As well as kings and emperors, Will surely take in tow Little Ben, that keeps his watch in the main top.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

CROWN me Bacchus, mighty god, The victory it thine, Cupid's bow yields to thy rod, And love submits to wine:

Love, the dream of idle boys, That makes the sage an ass, Love cannot vie with those sweet joys That crown the sparkling glass.

To plunge in care let lovers whine, Such fools who will be may,

Good fellows glass in hand combine To drive pale care away: With grief of heart, how many a boy Goes mad to please some lass; We too go mad, but 'tis with joy, Fir'd by the sparkling glass.

How many dangle on a tree Who buckle to love's tether, True to our honest purpose we Hang too, but 'tis together: The lover numbers, by his sighs, The moments as they pass, We count them in a way more wise. By putting round the glass.

See in his cage the husband sing, Wife, children, squall sonorous, We make the air and glasses ring, While singing freedom's chorus: No never shall presumptuous love The joys of wine surpass, Worn out by bickerings, even Jove Seeks Bacchus and his glass.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

OF the ancients is't speaking my soul you'd be after, That they never got how came you so? Would you seriously make the good folks die with laughter? To be sure their dogs tricks we don't know. Wid your smalliliow nonsense, and all your queer bodderns, Since whisky's a liquor divine, To be sure the old ancients, as well as the moderns, Did not love a sly sup of good wine.

Apicius and Aesop, as authors assure us, Would swig till as drunk as a beast, Den what do you tink of that rogue Epicurus? Was not he a tight hand at a feast! Wid your smalliliow, &c.

Alexander the Great, at his banquets who drank hard, When he no more worlds could subdue, Shed tears to be ••••re, but 'twas tears of the tankard,

To refresh him—and pray would not you? Wid your smalliliow, &c.

Den dat tother old fellow they call'd Aristotle, Such a devil of a tipler was he, That one night, having taken too much of his bottle, The taef stagger'd into the sea. Wid your smalliliow, &c.

Den they made what they call of their wine a libation, Which, as all authority quotes, They threw on the ground, musha what boderation, To be sure 'twas not thrown down their troats. Wid your smalliliow, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

I sail'd from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib how she smack'd through the breeze, She's a vessel as tight to my fancy As ever sail'd on the salt seas. So adieu to the white clifts of Briton, Our girls, and our dear native shore, For if some hard rock we should split on, We shall never see them any more. But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow high, blow low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers, And where the gale drives we must go.

When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar, I verily thought she'd have sunk, For the wind so began for to altar, She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk. The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, Helm a weather the hoarse boatswain cries, Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers, As through the rough tempest she flies. But sailors, &c.

The storm came on thicker and faster, As black just as pitch was the sky, When truly a do••••ful disaster Befel three poor sailors and I.

Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, By a blast that came furious and hard, Just while we were furling the mainsail, Were ev'ry soul swept from the yard. But sailors, &c.

Poor, Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi, As for I, at the risk of my neck, While they sunk down in peace to old Davy, Caught a rope, and so landed on deck. Well what would you have, we were stranded, And out of a fine jolly crew Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed But I and I think twenty-two. But sailors, &c.

After thus we at sea had miscarried, Another guess way sat the wind, For to England I came, and got married To a lass that was comely and kind! Bu•• whether for joy or vexation We know not for what we were born, Perhaps I may find a kind station, Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn. For sailors, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

SURE 'ent the world a masquerade, Wid shrugs and queer grimaces, Where all mankind a roaring trade Drive underneath bare faces? Pray don't the lover, let me ask, Hid by a fascine battery, Steal hearts away? and what's his mask? To be sure it is not flattery. Then join the general masquerade, That men and manners traces, To be sure the best masks dat are made For cheating 'ent bare faces.

Weigh yonder lawyer—I'll be bail, So able are his talents, The devil himself, in t'other scale, Would quickly kick the balance.

See that friar to a novice preach, To holiness to win her, Their masks dropt off, what are they each? He a taef and she a sinner. To be sure they 'ent, &c.

For her husband see you widow cry, She'll never have another; By my soul she weeps wid but one eye, For she's leering with the tother. You courtier see, who, in a ••ra••k, Will promise fifty places, By my soul his friends scarce turn their back But he laughs before their faces. To be sure he don't, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

DEAR Yanko say, and true he say, All mankind, one and t'other, Negro, mulatto, and malay, Through all the world be broder. In black, in yellow, what disgrace, That scandal so he use 'em? For d••re no virtue in de face, De virtue in the bosom. Dear Yanko say, &c.

What harm dere in a shape or make? What harm in ugly feature? Whatever colour, form, he take, The heart make human creature, Then black and copper both be friend, No colour he bring beauty, For beauty Yanko say attend On him who do him duty. Dear Yanko say, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

I'M jolly Dick the lamplighter, They say the sun's my dad,

And truly I believe it, sir, For I'm a pretty lad. Father and I the world delight, And make it look so gay, The difference is I lights by night, And father lights by day.

But father's not the likes of I For knowing life and sun, For I queer tricks and fancies spy Folks never shew the sun: Rogues, owls, and bats can't bear the light, I've heard your wise ones say, And so d'ye mind I sees at night Things never sees by day.

At night men lay aside all art, As quite a useless task, And many a face and many a heart Will then pull off the mask: Each formal prud•• and holy wight Will throw disguise away, And sin it openly all night Who fainted it all day.

His darling hoard the miser views, Misses from friends decamp, And many a statesman mischief brews To his country o'er his lamp: So father and I, d'ye take me right, Are just on the same lay, I bare-fac'd sinners light by night, And he false saints by day.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

SWEET is the dew-drop on the thorn, That, like a prism, reflects the morn; Sweet is the cheering solar ray, That compasses the ample day; Sweet is the balmy evening's close, That shuts the soliage of the rose: These to creation joys impart Like those which warm the grateful heart,

The little songsters on the spray Spontaneous chant their grateful lay, Or, to the pebbly rivulet driven, They sip, and lift their heads to heaven; Or, for the worm or insect sly, To seed their craving progeny: Feelings a lesson that impart To stimulate the grateful heart.

Mark vegetation, wond'rous sight! See how the germ breaks into light! The fruitful shower the tree receives, And fresher green adorns its leaves: Man cultivates the grateful soil, And flowers and fruit reward his toil: Plants, birds, all nature thus impart Joys such as warm the grateful heart.

SONG—IN THE ODDITIES.

FIRST chuse a pretty melody, To take in all the flats: Then change your drift, And suddenly Prepare to shift The key; Then growl Like dogs, and mio••l Like cats: Then chatter like monkies—now low, and now high, Then whine and then sigh, And all through the nose, And then swim and die, And then come to a close.

Among the flats and sharps now a tedious journey travel, Then lose yourself in knots of chords, And then those knots unravel: Then sigh, and die, And faint in bliss extatic, And then the half tones try, For a touch of the chromatic. Then where you set out come again, And now—you're welcome home again.

Then once more the melody, To take in all the flats: Then change your drift, And suddenly Prepare to shift The key; Then growl Like dogs, and miowl Like cats, Then chatter like monkies—now low, and now high, And all through the nose; And then swim and die, And then come to a close.

Yet not shabbily, But with a fine contabile, In which go high and low boy, Still follow'd by the hautboy, And all through the nose, And then swim and die, And then come to a close.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

I AM the world's epitome, Look round it, and then say, Nature and m••n may sit to me, Their likeness to pourtray:

As nature, in her motley round, Oft shifts from day to night, So sickle man is varying found, Still changing wrong and right.

The application's prompt and ripe, I of all nature am the type, So turn me round, I shall be found, From right to left, and left to right, Look how you will, To vary still, From white to black, and black to white.

Do but that learned counsel see, Who proves that wrong is right,

And presently augment his fee, His argument takes flight:

And now, unswearing what he swore, The burden of his song Reverses what he said before, And proves that right is wrong.

The application's prompt and ripe, I of that lawyer am the type: For turn me round, &c.

Behold you lordly statesman frown, At mention of a bribe, As if disgrace it had brought down On him and all his tribe:

But left behind, he'll instant seize Upon the well-fill'd sack, Nor could the strength of Hercules Have power to get it back.

The application's prompt and ripe, I of that statesman am the type: For turn me round, &c.

When basking in prosperity, Each friend to serve you burns, And boasting his sincerity, The smiling white side turns:

But let uncertain fortune frown, And take her blessings back, Instant the friendly white is flown, And every man looks black.

The application's prompt and ripe, I of all nature am the type: For turn me round, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

WHAT a plague cried young Colin would Chloe be at? •• ne'er will be caught in a noose: Odds wounds I'm resolv'd, and who'd wager 'gainst that, Were it even a guinea, he'd lose: I told the young baggage, says I, to her face, Toy as much as you will, but no priest shall say grace.

Cry'd young Thyrsis, pray Colin this blustering hold, What you've utter'd is only through fear; In the absence of danger all cowards feel bold, But you'd soon change your tone were she near: She has honour and truth, and I say't to your face, With her you'll ne'er toy till the priest shall say grace.

Away then cried Colin a soldier I'll go, In each quarter to find out a wife; I'll roar and I'll rant, rake a little, or so, But no one shall snap me for life; For in spite of their fancies, I'll say't to their face, Toy as much as you will, but no priest shall say grace.

As he utter'd those words, charming Chloe came by, Unaffected and lovely as May; Adieu then poor Colin cried she, with a sigh, While the sun shines begone and make hay. Cried Thyrsis, d'ye hear, you may well hide your face! With such beauty would'st toy till the priest should say grace.

Odd rot it, cried Colin, woot let me alone, With vexation my heart how it boils; Why for her peace of mind I would forfeit my now— Woot forgive me sweet Chloe?—She smiles! See, see glad consent lightens up in her face! Then let us to church, where the priest shall say grace.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

WHAT th••f I be a country clown, For all the f••ss that you make, One need not to be born in town To know what two and two make: S••uire sop th••re thinks his empty ••ate Worth all ours put together. But how can that have any weight That's only made of 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Then duont ye be so proud, d'ye see, It 'ent a thing that's suiting; C••n one than tother better be, When both are on a footing?

Now here's a man who seas and land Has dreamt that he can cross over,

That all the world's at his command, For he's a great philosopher: That to each secret he no bars E'er finds but can unlock it, And conjure down the moon and stars, And put them in his pocket: But when you've caught him where's the prize So mighty to the getter? For sartin he can make us wise, But can he make us better?

My lady there, because she's dress'd In lappets, frils, and flounces, See how with pride her flutt'ring breast Throbs, heaves, and jumps, and bounces. And then 'tis said they makes a face, New spick and span each feature, As if they thought that a disgrace That's ready made by nature. The money for a head so high, Such scollops and such carving, Would keep an honest family A month or more from starving.

As for the doctors and their pill, Odds waunds I can't endure them, For sartin they their patients kill More oftener than they cure them. And as for master poet here, Who writes for fame and glory, I th••nks as he's a little que••r Poor soul in the upper story. I've yet another wipe to spare, For wounds I'll give no quarter, Next time you'd find a fool, take care You do not catch a taratr.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

TO look upon dres, upon shew, upon birth, As the noblest distinction of life, On riches as all that give pleasure on earth, And t••at only cure sorrow and strife;

And though to these maxims one might say quoi bon, Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.

Stale virtue and vice to erase from their list, Those of life make a pitiful part, Things certainly in people's mouths that exist, But have nothing to do with the heart: To maxims like these one may well say quoi bon, Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.

Upon prudence as vulgar, and honesty low, On each man of merit a brute, As an angel an ape, or, 'tis all one, a beau, Dreft out in an elegant suit; To maxims like these one may well say quoi bon. Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.

To be short—in a church as the best place to make Appointments, or charms to display. And the time most commode of all others to take On Sunday for cheating at play: These maxims 'tis certain ne sont pas trop bon, Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

I WAS, d'ye see, a waterman, As tight and spruce as any, 'Twixt Richmond town And Horsley down I earn'd an honest penny: None could of fortune's favours brag More than could lucky I, My cot was snug, well fill'd my cag, My grunter in the sly: With wherry tight And bosom light I cheerfully did row, And, to complete this princely life, Sure never man had friend and wife Like my Poll and my partner Joe.

I roll'd in joys like these awhile, Folks far and near carress'd me, Till, woe is me, So lubberly The press-gang came and press'd me:

How could I a•• these pleasures leave? How with my wherry part? I never so took on to grieve, It wrung my very heart. But when on board They gave the word, To foreign parts to go, I ru'd the moment I was born, That ever I should thus be torn From my Poll and my partner Joe.

I did my duty manfully While on the billows rolling, And, night or day, Could find my way Blindfold to the main-top ••owling: Thus all the dangers of the main, Quicksands and gales of wind, I brav'd, in hopes to taste again The joy•• I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 behind: In climes afar, The hotest war, Pour'd broadsides on the foe, In hopes these perils to relate, As by my side attentive fate, My Poll and my partner Joe.

At last it pleas'd his majesty To give peace to the nation, And honest hearts From foreign parts, Came home for consolation: Like lightning—for I felt new life, Now safe from all alarms— I rush'd, and found my friend and wife, Lo••k'd in each other's arms! Yet fancy not I bore my lot Tame like a lubber:—No; For seeing I was finely trick'd. Plump to the devil I fairly kick'd My Poll and my par••ner Joe.

BALLAD.

COTCHELIN sat all alone, Devil a soul beside her, While from Taddy, who was gone, Oceans did divide her; His pipes, which she'd been used to hear, Careless left behind him, She thought she'd try; her woes to cheer, Till once again she'd find him. 'Twill not do, you loodle▪ Arrah now be aesy, Tad was born with grief to make Cotchelin run crazy.

She takes them up, and lays them down, And now her bosom's panting, And now she'd sigh, and now she'd frown, Caze why? dore's something wanting: And now she plays the pipes again, The pipes of her dear Taddy, And makes them tune his favourite strain, Arrah be aesy Paddy. Ah 'twill not do, you loodle loo, Arrah now be aesy, Tad was born with grief to make Cotchelin run crazy.

Taddy from behind a bush, Where he'd long been listening, Now like lightening forth did rush, His eyes with with pleasure glistening, Snatching up his pipes, he p••ay'd, Pouring out his pleasure, While half delighted, half afraid, P••t the time did measure: Ah well will do this loodle loo, Arrah now be aesy, Tad was born with joy to make Cotchelin run crazy.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

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 too: 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 had doff'd; For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

THE storm had ceas'd, the vessel, striving, Lay on the frightful breakers, torn, When the drown'd crew scarcely surviving, Jack pin'd his destiny forlorn▪ Where are those friends whom late I cherish'd, That manly, noble, honest band, Ah do I live, my messmates perish'd, To wail them in a foreign land.

Where is my love, my charming Kitty, Alas unmindful of my grief, To others woes she gives her pity, Nor thinks her Jack most wants relief. But see what numbers curious thronging, To view our mis'ry, crowd the strand! Hard fate's perhaps my life prolonging, For murder in a foreign land.

But do my flatt'ring eyes deceive me, Or, if they do, what out-stretch'd arms Are these thus tender'd to relieve me? Tis she, 'tis she, in all her charms. My faith and truth, to so much beauty. Fate to reward with partial hand, This pattern sends of love and duty, To save me in a foreign land.

BALLAD—IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

I vow I thought you, at first sight, A moppet, a baboon, a fright, Or some hobgoblin of the night, That guilty creatures waken: With nose and chin like ram's horns curl'd, And brows in furrowed wrinkles furl'd, Well, 'tis amazing in this world, How one may be mistaken.

For now I see, with half an eye, You are not old, nor made awry, Nor do your sh••mbling trotters ply, As if by palsy shaken: You're young as G••nemede and fair, Narcissus had not such an air, Well, 'tis amazing I declare, How one may be mistaken.

BALLAD.

ONCE on a time to mighty Jove, Complaints came from afar, From men of unsuccessful love, Miscarriages in war: In law the want of equity, Of mirth at city feasts, Of pathos in their poetry, And of good works in priests.

So loud and clam'rous were these clods, That Jove, ne'er left at rest,

Conven'd a synod of the gods, And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 'mongst the rest: He, merry wag, knew what on earth Thus caused them to repine, And instant sent them genuine mirth, Cask'd up in tons of wine.

The lover drank and eas'd his care, Heroes grew high in fame, A comely paunch mark'd each Lord M••yor, And lawyers just became. B••rds sung divine priests put up prayers, ••••r such a blessing given, And Bacchus to this day declares, There's no such drink in heaven.

BALLAD.

WHEN last in the Dreadful your honour set sail, On Newfoundland banks, there came on a hard g••••e. There was thunder, red lightening, and co••d whist••ing ha••••, Enough the old gemman to scare; One who threaten'd your life, dash'd below by a wave, Your own hand I saw snatch'd from a watery grave; And you said 'twas well done, for that still with the brav•• The noblest of g••ory's to spare.

When yard arm and yard arm long side of a foe, When the blood from the scuppers rain'd on ••s below, When crippled enough to be taken in tow, To strike we saw M••unseeur prepare: If a broad side below, or a volley above, The men were ready to give her for love, How oft has your honour cry'd not a hand move, A hero's true glory's to spare.

SONG.

FAR from strife and loves alarms, With joyous heart, and mind at ease. Time was when resistless charms, Bacchus knew the way to please.

When while the merry glee went round, Gaily I saw each minute pass, Nor ever had I heard a sound Like the sweet tink••ing of the glass. My flask now broke, and spilt my wine, For Cupid Bacchus' joys I quit, The myr••le ki••s the b••••ghted vine, And love, turn'd Fate, cries out submit.

BALLAD.

I WENT to sea with heavy heart, Of her I lov'd the scorn, Yet from my thoughts did ne'er depart Her image, night or morn: Storms lour'd, waves roll'd, and lightning slew, Yet did I wish to live, St••ll willing, for my poor heart was true, To forget and to forgive.

The first word, when on English ground, I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was her false name, And soon upon enquiry sound —For scandal flies—her shame: She lov'd a youth before the wind, Who cut and let her drive; A ••••st, cried I, 'twere now too kind, To forget and to forgive.

W••i••e of these thoughts my mind was full, While adverse hopes and ••••ars, Li•••• winds did this and that way pull, She came to me in tears: ••••wn went my colours, and I swore For her a••••ne I'd live, Kiss'd her, and promis'd o'er and o'er, To forget and to forgive.

BALLAD.

THE boatswain calls, the wind is fair, The anchor heaving,

Our sweethearts leaving, We to duty must repair, Where our stations well we know: Cast off halliards from the cleets, Stand by well, clear all the sheets; Come my boys, Your handspi••es poise, And give one general huzza: Yet sighing as you pull away, For the tears ashore that flow, To the windlass let us go, With yo heave ho!

The anchor coming now apeak, Left the s••ip, striving, Be on it driving, That we the tap••ring yards must seek, And back the ••oretop-sail well we know: A pleasing duty! from aloft We 〈◊〉〈◊〉 see those charms were oft, When returning. With passion burning, We f••ndly gaze, those eyes that seem In parting with big tears to stream; But come, lest ours as safe should flow, To the windlass once more go, With yo heave ho!

N••w the ship is under weigh, T••e breeze so willing, T••e 〈◊〉〈◊〉 filling, T••e pr••st triangle cracks the stay, So taugh•• to haul the sheet we know: And now 〈◊〉〈◊〉 we gaily sail, The ••••assy beam receive•• the gale, While ••reed from duty To 〈◊〉〈◊〉 b••auty, L••••t on the ••••s••'ning shore 〈◊〉〈◊〉, A 〈…〉〈…〉 every ••ar, 〈…〉〈…〉 at ••low, 〈…〉〈…〉 love he should go, With yo heave ho!

BALLAD—IN THE LONG ODDS.

AND did you hear what sad disaster, Poor Peg of Mapledown betel, For love that stoutest hearts can master, Alas! that those who love so well, In sorrow's train Should mourn in vain: Her story does such grief impel, That woe is me the whi••e I tell.

She lov'd a youth of honest kindred; At church behold the happy pair; And ask what 'twas their bliss that hinder'd, For he was young, and she was fair: Accurs'd be wars, And party jars, Why must the handsome danger share: Alas it fills me with despair.

Onward to his liege lord's dwelling A rebel rout had cut their way; What shrieks ensued! and what a yelling! For he a true man must away; He swore the fight Would end ere night, And he'd return with garlands gay, Sweet trophies for his wedding day.

Night came, and saw the youth returning? A••••urs'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wa••'s destr••ctive kn••••e; She ran t•• ••l••sp, with passion burning, Her wedded lord—depriv••d of life! Oh cruel spight, What! not one night, Is not her tale with misery ri••e? At once a maiden and a wife.

BALLAD—IN THE LONG ODDS.

A Sailor, and an honest heart, Lake s••ip and helm, are ne'er apart For, Low should one st••m win•• and tide

If tother should refuse to guide? With that she freely cuts the waves. And so the tar, When clashing waves around him jar, Consults his heart and dangers braves Where duty calls; nor asks for more Than grog aboard, and girl ashore.

'Tis not a thousand leagues from home More horrid than the billows foam? 'Tis not that gentler is the breeze In channel than in distant seas; Danger surrounds him far and near: But honest tar, Though winds and water round him jar, Consults his heart and scorns to fear, The risks he runs endears him more To grog aboard, and girl ashore.

'Tis not that in the hottest fight The murd'rous ball will sooner light On that than any other spot, To face the cannon is his lot; He must of danger have his share: But honest tar, Though fire, and winds, and water jar, Consults his heart, and shakes off care: And when the battle's heat is o'er, In grog aboard, drinks girl ashore.

BALLAD—IN HARVEST HOME.

WOUNDS, here's such a coil! I am none of your poor Petty varlets, who flatter, and cringe, and procure; I'm a freeman, a nabob, a king on his throne, For I've chattles, and goods, and strong beer of my own: Besides, 'tis a rule that good fellows ne'er fail To let any thing wait but the generous ale.

My interest I love; thee I love too, good wife, But still I love better a jovial life: And for thee, or my lady, with duty devout I'••l run to Old Nick, when the dobbin's drank out.

But 'tis always a rule that good fellows ne'er fail To ••et any thing wait, but the generous ale.

SONG—IN HARVEST HOME.

AWAY, pale fear and ghastly terror! Fly, at a parent's voice away! Correcting every youthful error, ••he deigns to bid, and I obey: And Oh, my heart! thou murmur'st treason, Perturb'd and frighten'd thus, to move; This ••••••rifice I make to reason, L••e still, poor ••••utt'rer, and approve!

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

TRULY friend Gil thou choosest well, Taking a helpmate homely, For often times sad tales they ••••ll, Of wives who are too comely: But cheer thee Perez, and be ••••y, From furnish'd brows 〈◊〉〈◊〉, For how can she e'er go astray Who n••••er will be tempted.

For thieves do never rob the poor, A pebble's not a jewel, Fruits do not blossom on a moor, Fire burns not without fuel: Up with thy heart then Gil, be gay, From furnished brows exempted, Thy wife can never go astray, For she will ne'er be tempted.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

AH let not an instant of life pass in vain, The moments escape us, and age brings on pain,

Life's too precious, to fugitive joy, The flowers which yesterday zephyr disclosed, Droop'd their heads on their stalks before Phoebus repos'd, Thus one single day serves to form and destroy.

Then think not of ought but the moment that flies, To learn to be happy's to learn to be wise, Seize pleasure whi••e pleasure's our own, Fear nothing, thou'rt mine, 'tis al••o••ted above, Chance but obeyed Fate, and blest with thy love, I envy no king on his throne.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

THIS life's a days journey, we rise in the morn, The sun, trees, and flowers our prospect adorn, When, perhaps, we have scarce••y been set out an hour, But slap we're o'ertaken and soused in a shower: To shelter then quickly, and see now 'tis o'er, And in pretty good spirit we set out once more, Now up hill, now down, now even, and now We are cover'd with dust, and now popp'd in a slough.

Thus we jog on till dinner, now wet and now dry, And now we've a low'ring, and now a clear sky, With the fire, the good landlord, the wine, and the cheer, Now refresh'd we set forward to end our career: But the roads are uneven, we trip, are bemired, And jolted, and jostled, and tumbled, and tired, Yet we keep a good heart, and our spirits are light, In hopes we shall meet with a good inn at night.

BALLAD.

FORGIVE me if thus I presuming Come hither your heart to surprise, Smile, smile, and my hopes re-illumine: But my pardon I read in your eyes: No impostor the passion I own is, And heaven what delight could I be

As truly to you an Adonis, As you are a Venus to me.

The gods who so often delighted In borrow'd forms, some fair nymph to pursue, Might confess they were never excited By an object so charming as you. No impostor, &c.

BALLAD.

OUR Jupiter has near his throne, Two vessels which he fills, The one with benefits alone, The other crams with ills: From the good vessel, health, content, Plenty and bliss he gives, While from the evil sorth are sent Gout, stone, and scolding wives.

Thus to mankind with heedful care, In just proportion weigh'd, The lot to each, each best can bear, By Jove's decree convey'd: Unless his patience when to rub, Juno the devil drives, Then headlong from the left hand tub, Go troops o•• ••olding wives.

O••t his complaint on me like air, From men still passed away, Till that same type of Juno there Let loose her tongue to-day: But now entreating Jove I'll go, To chequer not their lives With any other spot of woe, Who're plagu'd with scolding wives.

BALLAD—IN THE ODDITIES.

CELIA's an angel, by her face The rose and lily's shamed,

The tresses of love's queen, for grace, With her's can ne'er be named: The gods, cried one, that face with care Formed in their best of humours, What pity 'tis both face and hair Were bought at the perfumer's.

Celia has sworn to love till death; For words so full of bliss. I could have long'd, but for her breath, To steal an ardent kiss: Rapture itself is poor and cold, To joy that she discovers, What pity she the same has told To fifty other lovers.

Celia is young, behold her mien, Alert from top to toe, My aunt, says she, was just fifteen Some thirty years ago: Thus youth and beauty's best delights Sweet Celia are adorning, For she a Venus is at nights, A sybil in the morning.

BALLAD.

THE wind blew hard, the sea ra•• high, The dingy scud drove cross the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, All was safe lashed, the bowl was slung When careless thus Ned Haulyard sung: A sailor's life's the life for me, He takes his duty merrily, If winds can whistle, he can sing; Still faithful to his friend and king, He gets belov'd by all the ship, And toasts his girl, and drinks his flip.

Down topsails boys, the gale comes on, To strike top-gallant yards they run, And now to hand the sail prepar'd, Ned cheerful sings upo•• the yard: A sailor's life, &c.

A leak, a leak!—come lads be bold, There's five foot water in the hold, Eager on deck see Haulyard jump, And hark whi••e working at the pump: A sai••or's life, &c.

And see! the vessel nought can save, She strikes and finds a wat'ry grave! Yet Ned preserved, with a few more, Sings as he tre••ds a foreign shore: A sailor's life, &c.

And now—unnumbered perils past, On land as well as sea—at last In tatters to his Poll and home See honest Haulyard singing come: A sailor's life, &c.

Yet for poor Haulyard what disgrace, Poll swears she never saw his face; He d••mns her for a faithless she, And singing goes again to sea: A sailor's life, &c.

WELCH BALLAD.

I PRAY you when your sweetheart pouts, And fleers, and flouts, And glours, and glouts, Ne'er mind the pursing of her prow, But pout again I pray you now: Is it not true that females sex, Plague, and perplex The other sex, With whimsies in their heads that grow, And fantisies I pray you now?

Rack poor men's powels, prains, and hearts, Do not their arts, And whims, and starts, Plue ••iffles in their heads that crow, And jealousies I pray you now? Then mind not nonsense of the fair, But change your air, And shake off care

Nor to their tricks and fancies pow, But let them ko I pray you now.

BALLAD.

IF, my hearty, you'd not like a lubber appear, You must very well know how to hand, reef, and steer, Yet a better manoeuvre 'mongst seamen is found, 'Tis the tight little maxim to know how to sound: Which a sailor can tell from a bay to a shoal, But the best sort of sounding is sounding the bowl.

I've sounded at land, and I've sounded at sea, I've sounded a weather, and sounded a lee, I've sounded my quine, at the randivoo house, And I've sounded my purse without finding a souse: What then, we've a brother in each honest soul, And sailors can ne'er want for sounding the bowl.

All men try for soundings wherever they s••eer, Your nabobs for soundings strive hard in Cape Clear, And there is not a soul from the Devil to the Pope, That could live but for the sounding the Cape of Good Hope: No fear then nor danger our hearts shall controul, Though at sea, we're in soundings while sounding the blow.

BALLAD.

IN which of all thy various joys, The tongue of fame that so employs, Didst thou best taste, say mighty Jove, The pure, unmix'd delights of love? Not with Europa:—there recourse Thou boldly had'st to brutal force; Her wishes took with thee no part, She gave her person, not her heart.

Not with the beauteous Theban dame, When thou assumedest her husband's name; For, though ingenious was the whim, She knew not thee, but thought of him:

Not then when in a glitt'ring sh••wer Thou visit'st Danae in the tower: The gold prevail'd 'tis true, and she Yielded to interest, not to thee.

Nor Semele, whom to obey Thou cam'st in terrible array, She, proud one, yielded not to love, But to ambition, and to Jove: No; 'twas Menosyne, sweet fair, Thy joys, indeed, were perfect there, Joys hadst thou not, no bard had sung, For thence the immortal sisters sprung.

BALLAD.

LIKE a very gallant will I compliment all: I must leer and ogle the pretty. Tell the short ones they're neat, and majestic the tall, And call all the homely on••s witty. Thus agreeable falsehood still passing for truth, I shall tickle their vanity snugly, Talk of prudence to age, and of pleasure to youth, And console with a fortune the ugly.

To the pale I'll on delicate lillies begin, To the florid I'll hold forth on roses, Call squinting a leer, find a smile in a grin, And proportion where chins kiss with noses: Thus agreeable falsehood still passing for truth, I'll their vanity tickle so snugly, That I'll please tall and short, far and lean, age and youth, And reconcile even the ugly.

BALLAD.

IF tars of their money are lavish, I say brother take this wipe from me, 'Tis because we're not muck worms, nor slavish, Like lubbers who ne'er go to sea.

What's cunning, and such quivication, And them sly manoeuvres to we, To be rougish is no valuation To hearties who plough the salt sea.

As for cheating—light weights, and short measures, And corruption, and bribery d'ye see, These never embitter the pleasures, Of good fellows who plough the salt sea: You've ashore actions, writs, cesseraries, And a regiment of counsel to see, Jack knows not of such like vagaries— We never trust lawyers at sea.

'Tis said that with grog and our lasses, Because jolly sailors are free, That money we squander like asses, Which like horses we earn'd when at sea: But let them say this, that, or tother, In one thing they're forc'd to agree, Honest hearts find a friend and a brother In each worthy that ploughs the salt sea.

GLEE.

WOULD ye know where freedom dwells, Where jovial hearts carouse and sing. Haunt these grots, explor•• these ce••ls, Here every subject is a king! Sprightly mirth inhabits here, And joy that knows no listless pause; For how should we dull sorrow fear, Who square our lives by pleasure's laws? What's fortune!—is it chance or worth? Peasant and prince their race must run— Nor is there that poor spot on earth But's cherish'd by the genial sun.

BALLAD—IN THE ISLANDERS.

AN infant defence'ess, of succour berest, On this rude barren wild was I thrown,

My sole ray of comfort I had not been left, To brood o'er my sorrow's alone: To see cataracts falling, and hear lions roar, Or the awful loud war in the deep, Is the fate poor Flametta was born to deplore. Which she oft would wish kinder, and weep.

To all this assemblage of horrors enured, What yet greater ills could one prove, Could one think for a heart which had so much en|dured, Fate should store up a torment like love. 'Tis too much, I've decided, and who shall relate When her and her miseries sleep, The ta••e of Flametta, will sure wish her fate, Poor wretch, had been kinder, and weep.

BALLAD.

DEVOTED to Celia, and blest in her arms, How I thrill'd with delights as I ran o'er her charms, When methought on each grace at I gaz'd with surprize, For pre eminence pleaded her mouth and her eyes: Like counsel this open'd, and t'other replied, Appealing to me as the judge to decide.

Her mouth opening sweetly, thus said with a smile, ''Tis I who the torments of lovers beguile; 'I can speak, I can sing, I can vent the fond sigh, 'And vain may eyes promise, if I should de••y: 'Then while rows of pearls vermeil lips sweetly hide, 'On our different charms 'twere not hard to decide.'

With ineffable sweetness, while looking me through, Her eyes careless cried—'Why I can speak too; 'And in such charming language▪ so made to controul, 'That of sensible lovers it goes to the soul: 'Mouths may fib, but while eyes to the heart are the guide, 'Twere no difficult task on our charms to decide.'

Transported with rapture, I cried with an oath, 'Charming eyes, charming mouth, I'm in love with you 'both: 'To express your sweet influence no language has terms, 'One makes me a promise which t'other confirms:

'Your words and your looks are my joy and my pride, 'Oh your different claims then now can I decide?'

BALLAD.

TO a slight common wound it is some diminution, Diverting its throbbing, to smile at the smart, But where's the firm mind can boast such resolution, On the face to wear smiles when the wound is in the heart? The wand'rings and errors of folly are treason, And should be condemn'd as disloyal to love: But reverence is due to the errors of reason, Which, though they're a weakness, we're forc'd to ap|prove.

Then pray cease to jest: were my griefs superficial, Unconcern'd, like yourself Sir, I merry might be, But such cruel jes••s can but prove prejudicial, And though pastime to you, may be mortal to me: Yet let me not wrong you by any rude mention, Or word that the fairness of candour might blot, But gratefully just, may alone the intention In my memory be cherish'd, the action forgot.

BALLAD.

CURS'D be the sordid wretch of yore, Who from the bowels of the earth, First drew crude heaps of shining ore, Stamp'd the rude mass, and gave it worth Ere yet distinctions and degrees In lovers wishes bore a part, Truly to love was then to please, And heart was made the price of heart.

Henceforth ye lovers nothing hope, Your fire is dead, your ardour cold: Love has no influence, pow'r or scope, But that which it derives from gold:

Long you may languish, long expect, Vows lavish, wi••hes, sighs employ, A brittle temp••e to cree••, Which go••d can in an hour destroy.

BALLAD.

PROPITIOUS gods that rule our fate, Whose ears are tir'd with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 prayers To banish 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that men create, And chase imaginary cares: And first they ask, in rank and pow'r, A fate from every care exempt? Vain hope!—ambition lasts its hour, Then dwindles into just contempt.

Next reputation in the field, Renown, and to be great in story, In all such horrid honours yield, No brother's b••ood shall by my glory. A sumptuous pace, georgeous board, A train of followers next they crave: Poor ••o••l! his guests retir'd, the lord Is but a solitary slave.

Next to their memories they'd erect, A statue, lasting fame to give:— I ask but reason, and expect My little pleasures while I live. Happy in honours, power, wealth, I•• you but grant my fond desire, A blameless heart, unshaken health, My friends, my bottle, and my ••yre.

BALLAD.

SUCH love as holy hermits bear, The shrine where they put up their prayer, As love the feather'd race the air, Or sportive fish the sea: Such as in breasts of Seraphs spring, When on the expa••se of heav'n they wing

To greet that power by whom they sing, Such love I bear to thee.

Such thankful love at warm must glow In those who sunk in night and snow, When welcome beams first faintly shew The long-lost sun they see. As pleasure youth comfort the old, Virtue the good, or fame the bold, As health the sick, or misers gold, Such love I bear to thee.

BALLAD.

GIVE round the word dismount, dismount, While echoed by the sprightly horn, The toils and pleasures we recount Of this sweet health-inspiring morn. 'Twas glorious sport, none e'er did lag, Nor drew amiss, nor made a stand, But all as firmly kept their pace, As had Acteo•• been the s••ag, And we had hunted by command Of the goddess of the chace.

The hounds were out and snuffed the air, And scarce had reach'd th' appointed spot, But pleas'd they heard a layer, a layer, And presently drew on the slot. 'Twas glorious sport, &c.

And now o'er yonder plain he fleets, The deep-mouth'd hounds begin to bawl: And echo note for note rep••••ts, While sprightly horns resound a call. 'Twas glorious sport, &c.

And now the stag has lost his pace, And while war-haunch the ••untsman cries, His bosom swells, tear•• wet his face, He pants, he struggles, and he dies, 'Twas glorious sport, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

WOULD you hear a sad story of woe, That tears from a stone might provoke, 'Tis concerning a tar you must know, As honest as e'er biscuit broke: His name was Ben Block, of all men The most true, the most kind, the most brave, But harsh treated by fortune, for Ben In his prime sound a watery grave.

His place no one ever knew more: His heart was all kindness and love: Though on duty an eagle he'd soar, His nature had most of the dove: He lov'd a fair maiden named Kate, His father to interest a slave, Sent him far from his love where hard fate Plunged him deep in a watery grave.

A curse on all slanderous tongues, A false friend his mild nature abused, And sweet Kate of the vilest of wrongs, To poison Ben's pleasure abused: That she never had truly been kind, That false were the tokens she gave, That she scorn'd him, and wish'd he might find, In the ocean a watery grave.

Too sure from this cankerous elf, The venom accomplish'd its end; Ben, all truth and honour himself, Suspected no fraud in his friend: On the yard, while suspended in air, A loose to his sorrows he gave, Take thy wish, he cried, ••alse cruel fair; And plung'd in a watery grave.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

TO ask would you come for to go How a true-hearted tar you'd discern,

He's as honest a fellow I'd have you to know As e'er stept between stem and stern: Let furious winds the vessel waft, In his station amidships, or fore, or aft, He can pull away, Cast o••••, belay, Aloft, alow, Avast, yo ho! And hand, reef, and steer, Know each halliard and jeer, And of duty every rig; But his joy and delight Is, on Saturday night, A drop of the creature to swig.

The first voyage I made to sea, One day as I hove the lead, The main top gallant mast went by the lee, For it blew off the Devil's Head; Tumble up there, bear a hand, turn to, While I, the foremost of the crew, Soon could pull away, Cast off, belay, Aloft, alow, Avast, yo ho! And hand, reef and steer, Know each halliard and jeer, And of duty every rig; But my joy and delight; Was, on Saturday night, A drop of the creature to swig.

There was Kit with a cast in his eye, And Tom with the timber toe, And shambling Will, for he hobbled awry, All wounded a fighting the foe: Three lads though crazy grown and crank, As true as ever bumbo drank, For they'd pull away, Cast off, belay, Aloft, alow, Avast, yo ho! And hand, reef, and steer, Know each halliard and jeer, And of duty every rig; And their joy and delight

Was, on Saturday night, A drop of the creature to swig.

Then over life's fortune I'll jog, Let the storm or the Spaniards come on, So but sea room I get, and a skin full of grog, I fear neither devil nor don: For I'm the man that's spract and daft, In my station amidships, or fore, or aft, I can pull away, Cast off, belay, Aloft, alow, Avast, yo ho! And hand, reef, and steer, Know each halliard and jeer, And of duty every rig, But my joy and delight Is, on Saturday night, A drop of the creature to swig.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay, Alas are the children of sorrow; And though brisk and merry to-day, We all may be wretched to-morrow: For sunshine's succeeded by rain, Then fearful of life's stormy weather, Lest pleasure should only bring pain, Let us all be, happy together.

I grant the best blessings we know Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure, And yet, lest your friend prove a foe, Oh haste not the dangerous pleasure: Thus friendship's a ••limsey affair, Thus riches and health are a bubble, Thus there's nothing delightful but care, Nor any thing pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal would point out that life Which on earth cou'd be nearest to heaven, Let him, thanking his stars, chuse a wife To whom truth and honour are given:

But honour and truth are so rare, And horns, when they're cutting, so tingle, That, with all my respect to the fair I'd advise him to sigh and live single. It appears from these premises plain That wisdom is nothing but folly, That pleasure's a term that means pain, And that joy is your true melancholy: That all those who laugh ought to cry, That 't••s fine frisk and fun to be grieving, And that since we must a••l of us die, We should taste no enjoyment while living

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

ADIEU, adieu, my only life, My honour calls me from thee, Remember thou'rt a soldier's wife, Those tears but ill become thee: What though by duty I am called, Where thund'ring cautions rattle, Where valour's self might stand appalled, Wh••n on the wings of thy dear love To heaven above Thy fervent orisons are flown, The tender prayer Thou put'st up there Shall ca••l a guardian angel down, To watch me in the battle.

My safety thy fair truth shall be, As sword and buckler serving, My life shall be more dear to me, Because of thy preserving:

Let peri•• come, let horror threa••, Let thundering cannons rattle, I'll fear••ess seek the conflicts heat, Assured when on the wings of love To heaven above, &c.

Enough, with that benignant smile So••••e kindred god inspir'd thee,

Who knew thy bosom void of guile, Who wondered and admired thee:

I go assured, my life adieu, Though thundering cannons rattle, Though murdering carnage stalk in view, When on the wings of thy true love To heaven above, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

I BE one of they sailors who thinks 'tis no lie, That for every wherefore of life there's a why, That be fortune's strange weather, a calm or a squall, Our births, good or bad, are chalk'd out for us all:

That the stays and the braces of life will be sound To be some of 'em rotten and some of 'em sound, That the good we should cherish, the bad never seek, For death will too soon bring each anchor a-peak.

When astride on the yard, they top-lists they let go, And ••••com'd, like a shot, plump among 'em below, Why I c••t••h'd at a halliard, and jump'd upon deck, And so broke my fall, to save breaking my neck:

Just like your philosophers, for all their jaw, Who l••ss than a rope, gladly catch at a straw; Thus the good we should cherish, the bad never seek, For death will too soon bring each anchor a-peak.

Why now that there cruise that we made off the banks, Where I pepper'd the soe, and got shot for my thanks, What then she soon struck, and though crippled on shore, And laid up to resit, I had shiners galore:

At length live and looking, I tried the false main, And to get more prize money, got shot at again: Thus the good we should cherish, the bad never seek, For death will too soon bring each anchor a-peak.

Then just as it comes, take the bad with the good, One man's spoon's made of silver, another's of wood, What's poison for one man's another man's balm, Some are safe in a storm, and some lost in a calm:

Some are rolling in riches, some not worth a souse, To-day we eat beef, and to-morrow lobs-souse:

Thus the good we should cherish, the bad never seek, For death will too soon bring each anchor a-peak.

BALLAD— IN THE WAGS.

The sun's descending in the wave, I go, I go, my fate to brave: Ghosts of dead yncas now appear, Shriek as ye come Cold from the tomb, And see if Moniaco knows to fear, Oh sun my sire! Lend me all thy noble fire: Illia Moniaco to thy tomb, Oh Atabalipa soon shall come; Cover me with scars, Nought can controul The dauntless soul, That shall live among its kindred stars.

What it's to die? to leave this clay, And breathe in everlasting day, For robes celestial shake off dust, Among the blest From care to rest, And emulate the virtues of the just: Then sun, my sire, Lend me all thy noble fire, Illia Moniaco, &c.

Adieu ye friends, vain world adieu, Bliss is for me, but woe for you: While I, new born, shall go to find The upper heaven You shall be driven, Like scattered chaff, before false fortune's wind, Now sun, my sire, I feel, I feel thy noble fire! Illia Moniaco, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

I WAS the pride of all the Thames, My name was natty Jerry,

The best of smarts and flashy dames I've carried in my wherry: For then no mortal soul like me So merrily did jog it, I lov'd my wife and friend, d'ye see, And won the prize of Dogget: In coat and badge, so neat and spruce, I row'd all blithe and merry, And every waterman did use To call me happy Jerry.

But times soon changed, I went to sea, My wife and friend betray'd me, And in my absence treacherously Some pretty fro••ics play'd me: Return'd, I used them like a man, But still 'twas so provoking, I could not enjoy my very can, Nor even fancy smoaking: In tarnish'd badge, and coat so queer, No longer blithe and merry. Old friends now passed me with a sneer, And called me dismal Jerry.

At sea as with a dangerous wound, I lay under the surgeons, Two friends each help I wanted found In every emergence: Soon after my sweet friend and wife Into this mess had brought me, These two kind friends who sav'd my life In my misfortunes sought me: We're come cried they, that once again In coat and badge so merry, Your kind old friends, the watermen, May ha••l you happy Jerry.

I'm Peggy, once your soul's desire, To whom you prov'd a rover, Who since that time in man's attire Have sought you the world over: And I cried t'other, am that Jack When boys you used so bad••y, Though now the best friend to your back Then prithee look not sadly:

Few words are best, I seiz'd their hands, My greatful heart grew merry, And now in love and friendship's bands, I'm once more happy Jerry.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

BOLD Jack the sailor here I come, Pray how d'ye like my nib, My trowsers wide, my trampers rum, My nab, and flowing jib: I sails the seas from end to end, And leads a joyous life. In every mess I find a friend, In every port a wife.

I've heard them talk of constancy, Of grief, and such like fun, I've constant been to ten, cried I, But never grieved for one: The flowing sails we tars unbend, To lead a jovial life, In every mess to find a friend, In every port a wife.

I've a spanking wife at Portsmouth gates, A pigmy at Gorce, An orange tawny up the Straits, A black at St. Lucia: Thus whatsomedever course I bend, I leads a jovial life, In every mess I find a friend, In every port a wife.

Will Gast, by Death, was ta'en aback, I came to brink the news, Poll whimper'd sore, but what did Jack? Why, stood in William's shoes: She cut, I chased, but in the end She lov'd me as her life, And so she got an honest friend, And I a loving wife.

Thus be we sailors all the go, On fortune's sea we rub,

We works, and loves, and fights the foe, And drinks the generous bub: Storms that the mast to splinters rend, Can't shake our jovial life, In every mess we find a friend, In every po••t a wife.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

HARK the din of distant war, How noble is the clangor, Pale death ascend his ebon car, Clad in terrific anger: A doubtful fate the soldier tries, Who joins the gallant quarrel: Perhaps on the cold ground he lies, No wife, no friend, to close his eyes, Though nobly mourn'd, Perhaps return'd, He's crown'd with victory's laurel.

How many who, disdaining fear, Rush on the desperate duty, Shall claim the tribute of the tear That dims the eye of beauty? A doubtful fate, &c.

What nobler fate can fortune give? Renown shall tell our story, If we should fall, but if we live, We live our country's glory. 'Tis true a doubtful fate, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

THE wind was hush'd, the storm was over, Unfurl'd was every slowing sail, From toil released, when Dick of Dover, Went with his messmates to regale:

All danger's o'er, cried he, my neat hearts, Drown care then in the smiling can, Come bear a hand, let's toast our sweethearts, And first I'll give you buxom Nan.

She's none of those that's always gigging, And stem and st••rn 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 the r••n: 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 all off of the hinges His Poll was quite unknown to Jack: Tant masted all, to see who's tallest, Breastworks, top gant-sails, and a fan, Messmate, cried I, more sail than ballast, Ah still give me my buxom Nan.

None in 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 then, and there's an end: Of all the wenches whatsomedever, I say then find me out who can One half so tight, so kind so clever, Sweet, trim, and neat as buxom Nan.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

LOVELY woman, pride of nature, Good, and sweet, and kind, and fair Than man a higher stile of creature, Perfect as ce••estials are: S••e Myra come, like stately Juno, Ever fair, and ever young, Completely like, as I and you know, For Myra, like Juno, has a tongue.

Young Celia's charms that beam so sweetly, To paint ah what can words avail, She's Venus' self, and so completely, That Celia is, like Venus, frail: To woo the charming Gloriana, A••d••city would stand afraid; She chaste and icy as Diana, And, like Diana, an old maid.

Thus women boast a near relation, 'Tis plain to the celestial race, Thus we of their divine creation A family resemblance trace: If then some ••aults of this complexion, Like spots upon that sun, their fame, Rust this ••ame model of perfection, The stars, not women, are to blame.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

Two real tars, whom duty call'd To watch in the foretop, Thus one another overhaul'd And took a cheering drop: I say, Will Hatchway, cried Tom Tow, Of conduct what's your sort, At through 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 bow••r, the sheet, and the best bower Shall bring you up in port.

Why then you're out, and there's an end, Tom cried out blunt and rough, Be good, be honest, serve a friend, Be maxims well enough: Who swabs his bows at other's w••••, That tar's for me your sort, His vessel right a-head shall go To find a joyful port.

Let storms of life upon me press, Misfortunes makes me reel, Why, dam'me, what's my own distress? For others let me feel: Ay, ay, if b••und with a fresh gale To heaven this is your sort,

A handkerchief's the best wet sail To bring you safe to port.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

I'M dashing Dick the dustman, None my calling can degrade, For I am not the first man Who has driv'n a dirty trade: Dust ho! dust ho! I rings my bell and cries, My tricks, if you would find 'em, Pretty early you must rise, For watch me still, Howe'er you will, I bears off many a prize, And when I wants to blind 'em, I throws dust in their eyes.

Why what's your man of honour? And what's your madam fame? A ji••t when he has wo•• her, That proves a dirty name: Victory! victory! each draws his sword and cries, In the midst of slaug••ter find him, See where the savage flies, He spares no life, No friend, nor wife, Where'er he finds a prize, Till death, at last, to blind him, Throws dust in his eyes.

The lawyer, the physician, And e'en the learn'd divine, Each drives, in his condition, As black a trade as mine: Fees ho! fees ho! each draws his purse and cries, Their conscience can't bind 'em, The wretched patient dies, All prayers fail, While in a jail, The ruin'd client lies, Unless you throw to blind 'em Gold dust in their eyes.

And so, d'ye see, men bustle, To see who's dirty first, And one another hostle. And all to raise the dust: Dust ho! dust ho! each draws his purse and cries, And he, Old Nick, behind him, Will take, to mount up tries. All scrambling go, Both friend and foe, To bear a way some prize, And each throws dust to blind him Plump in his neighbours eyes.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

IF bold and brave thou can'st not bear, Thyself from all thou lov'st to tear, If, while winds war, and billows roll, A spark of fear invade thy soul, If thou'rt appall'd, when cannons roar, I pri••hee messmate stay ashore: There, like a lubber, Whine and blubber, Still for thy ease and safety busy, Nor dare to come, Where honest Tom, And Ned, and Nick, And Ben, and Phil, And Jack, and Dick, And Bob, and Bill, All weathers sing, and drink the swizzy.

If, should'st thou lose a limb in fight, She who made up thy heart's delight, Poor recompence that thou art kind, Shall prove inconstant as the wind, If such hard fortune thou'st deplore, I prithee messmate stay ashore, There like a lubber, &c.

If pris'ner in a foreign land, No friend, no money at command, That man thou trusted hadst alone, All knowledge of th••e should disown;

If this should vex thee to the core, I prithee messmate stay ashore. There like a lubber, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

WHY don't you know me by my scars? I'm soldier Dick come from the wars; Where many a head without a hat Crowds honour's bed—but what of that? Beat drums, play fifes, 'tis glory calls, What argu••••es who stands or falls; Lord what should one be sorry for? Life's but the fortune of the war: Then rich or poor, or well, or sick, Still laugh and sing shall soldier Dick.

I used to look two ways at once, A bullet hit me on the sco••••e. And dowsh'd my eye, d'ye think I'd wince? Why lord I've never squinted since. Beat drums, &c.

Some distant keep from war's alarms, For fear of wooden legs and arms, While others die safe in their beds Who all their lives had wooden heads. Beat drums, &c.

Thus gout or fever, sword or shot, Or something sends us all to pot: That we're to die then do not grieve, But let's be merry while we live. Beat drums, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

AVERT you omen, gracious heaven, T••e ugly scud, By rising winds resistless driven, Kisses the flood.

How hard the ••ot for sailor's cast, That they should roam For years, to perish thus at last In sight of home!

For if the coming gale we mourn, A tempest grows, Our vessel's shatter'd so and torn, That down she goes! The tempest comes, while meteors red Portentous fly; And now we touch old ocean's bed, Now reach the sky!

On sable wings, in gloomy flight, Fiends seem to wait, To snatch us in this dreadful night, Dark as our fate: Unless some kind, some pitying pow'r Should interpose, She labours so within this hour Down she goes.

But see, on rosy pinions borne, O'er the mad deep, Reluctant beams the sorr'wing morn, With us to weep: Deceitful sorrow, cheerless light, Dreadfu•• to think, The morn is ris'n, in endless night, Our hopes to sink! She splits! she parts!—through sluices driven, The water flows; Adieu ye friends, have mercy heaven! For down she goes!

RONDEAU—IN THE WAGS.

ONE negro, wi my banjer, Me from Jenny come, Wid cunning yiei Me savez spy De buckra world one hum, As troo a street a stranger Me my banjer strum:

My missy for one black dog about the house me kick, Him say, my nassy tawny fa••e enough to make him sick; But when my massa he go out, she then no longer rail, For first me let the captain in, and then me tell no tale:

So aunt Quashy say, Do tabby, brown, or black, or white, You see um in one night, Every sort of cat be gray. One Negro, &c.

To fetch a lily money back, you go to law they call, The court and all the tie-wig soon strip you shirt and all; The courtier call him friend and foe, And fifty story tell, To day say yes, to morrow no, And lie like any hell: And so though negro black for true, He black in buckra country too. One negro, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

BARDS call themselves a heav'nly race, Topers find heaven in wine, We truly boast who love the chase, An origin divine. The deities all hunters are: Great Jove, who spends his life In hunting of the willing fair, Is hunted by his wife.

Then come and wake the drowsy morn, While the swift game we follow: The feather'd throng and tuneful horn Shall join the hunter's hollow.

Gay Bacchus, on his tun, that hack, Toasts for view hollows gives, While Mercury, with his Bow-street pack, Scours heav'n to hunt for thieves: Bold Mars, a blood hound, hunts for same, Nor till its latest breath, Will he e'er leave the panting game, But comes in at the death. Then come, &c.

Diana in her sacred grove Saw rash Acteon near, And though she seem'd to scorn his love, See took him for her deer:

Yet vex'd to think this hint so sly On the fool she could not pass, From his own hands she made him fly, And kill'd him for an ass. Then come, &c.

Great Juno, wretched, restless fair, On jealous fury bent, Still in full cry is hunting care, And still on a wrong s••••nt. Indeed the fair olt mount their nag, By the hunting mania struck, And if Acteon was a stag, Poor Vulcan was a buck. Then come, &c.

RONDEAU—IN THE WAGS.

WHILE whim, and glee, and jest, and song, Display their charming treasure, Mingling in gay laughter's throng, Come to the camp of pleasure.

All human beings have their cares, Life's made of joy and sorrow; To balance life then our affairs Should of our pleasures borrow: Youth's joy's season, so is age, Each temper, sex, complexion, In mirth may harmlessly engage, As well as in reflection. Whi••e whim, &c.

You who proudly roll in wealth, You whose means are slender, You whose lungs proclaim your health, You whose frames are tender: You who wear grave wisdom's wigs, You who deal in folly, You who merry are as grigs, You who are melancholy:— While whim, &c.

Where's amongst them all the cynic elf, Of joy the open scorner,

But doff'd the sage, and to himself Took pleasure in a corner? In short who sets up to despise Those joys the mirth awaken, I will not rudely say he lies, But surely he's mistaken. While whim, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

THE tar's a jolly tar that can hand, reef, and steer, That can nimbly cast off and belay, Who in darkest of nights finds each halliard and jees, And dead reck'ning knows well and lee way: But the tar to please me, More jolly must be, He must laugh at the waves as they roar; He must rattle, And in battle Brave danger and dying, Though bullets are flying, And fifty things more: Singing, quaffing, Dancing laughing, Take it cherrily, And merrily, And all for the sake of his girl ashore.

The tar's a jolly tar who his rhino will spend, Who up for a messmate will bring, For we sailors all think he that's true to his friend Will never be false to his king. But the tar to please me, More jolly must be, He must venture for money galore; Acting duly, Kind and truly, And nobly inherit A generous spirit, A prudent one more; Singing, laughing, Dancing, quaffing, Take it cherrily,

And merily, And save up his cash for his girl ashore.

The tar's a jolly tar who loves a beauty bright, And at sea often thinks of her charms, Who toasts her with g••ee on a Saturday night, And wishes her moor'd in his arms: But the tar to please me More jolly must be, Though teaz'd at each port by a score, He must, sneering At their leering, Never study to delight 'em, But scorn 'em, a••d slight 'em, Still true to the core; Singing, laughing, Dancing, quaffing, Take it cherrily, And merrily. And constant return to his girl ashore.

BALLAD— IN THE WAGS.

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

Perhaps, now se••l'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 crowd in flocks, Or else quacks, perhaps, the stocks, Or posts for signs, or barb••r'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 great Lord Chief, The throne, the cobler's stall:

Thou pamper'st life in every stage, Mak'st folly's whims, pride's equipage, For children toys, crutches for age, And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford, These chairs, and this convivial 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.

VAUXHALL BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

TIME was, for oh there was a time, Sweet Phoebe by my side, The softest verse I sung in rhime, Where falling pools do glide: But, Phoebe hence, I'm left alone, Nor verse nor rhime can please, And pools stand still to see me moan, In whispers through the trees.

The pride of laughing nature stood In fertile heaths confess'd, When birds, in yon impervious wood, With Phoebe saw me blest. But laughing nature's now in tears, The heaths begin to mourn, Birds hoot in my melodious ••ars, For Phoebe's glad return.

To shun fierce sol's meridian heat, Upon yon verdant green, How oft, at close of eve, I'd meet, Sweet Phoebe, beauty's queen: But lost the sun shine of her charms, The verdant green's all brown, And I, with nothing in my arms, Lie hard on beds of down.

Then come sweet fair, and leave behind All sorrow, pain, and woe,

The birds shall smile, and the north wind Like Boreas gently blow: So shall the daisy-mantling green, The cowslip-studded brook, In sable robes all crimson seen, Reflect each azure look.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

SO sweet I'll dress my Zootka fair, Such pretty toys her charms shall deck, The nails of foes shall grace her hair, Their eyes and teeth adorn her neck: A hut I'll build her of catalps, And sweetly hang it round with scalps, And as we frantic skip and sing, And join to form the mystic ring, And symbals twang, And tymbals bang, And jump and prance, And f••isk in wedlock's devious dance, We'll drink and yam, And make the banjer cry giam, giam.

The rose let Europe's beauties boast, Asia the saffron's sickly die, Let Ebon wives grace Afric's coast:— Can these with lovely Zootka vie? Her olive cheek the gloss outshines, That decorates the copper mines— Com••••hen and frantic, &c.

Some shave their eyebrows for the ••••ir, Others for love pull out their teeth, Some by the roots tear up their hair, To form a pretty marriage wreath: My loving fist at Zootka's nose Shall aim a hundred tender blows, And as they frantic, &c.

RONDEAU—IN THE WAGS.

IN peace, when sprightly drum and fife Quick marches sweetly play,

Then charming is the soldier's life, To lounge it all the day:

How different the trade is From war's destructive call, He ogles all the ladies, And dances at the ball.

The sash so sweet a zone is, So powerful are its charm••, That Mars becomes Adonis, Reclines in Venus' arms.

No more upon the dangerous plain, Death grimly stalks abroad, No more The gasping and unpitied slain, Weltering in gore, For unavailing help implore:

Their spirits issue with a groan, Their eyes are closed in endless night, Beholders are with horror aw'd, And dread a sate, sad fate of woe, That soon may be their own.

No time for pity now!—the fight Grows hot, The trumpet sounds a charge, Soldiers and steeds with ardour glow, Stern carnage takes the field, And traverses his boundaries long and large: The word is die or yield, And mercy is forgot:—

Such is the dreadful ardour of the war; Yet different far When all these horrors cease, And soldiers taste the joys of smiling peace Sweet peace, &c.

The well pack'd column, like a rock, While they the war sustain Greatly receive an army's shock, The glorious terror of the plain: Advancing near, The foe is struck aghast, The panic spreads, Pale scar Gains on 'em ••all;

To order's post confusion now succeeds, And now the front becomes the rear; All re••••••ution's gone, While•• wan d••spair,

Turn'd gen'ral, to destruction leads 'em on: They fly, Follow the victors cry, War's dreadful tempest comes, Trumpets and drums, Shouts, groans, and thund'ring cannons rend the sky!

The banners flutt'ring late in air, Now from the beaters grasp are torn, And on the spear Of victory borne:—

The stroke's decisive!—glutted war, Descending from his sanguine car, Tired soldiers from their post release, To taste the joys of ••••••ling peace. Sweet peace, &c.

RONDEAU—IN THE WAGS.

JACK dances and sings, and is always content, In his vows to his lass he'll ne'er fail her, His anchor's a-trip when his money's all spent— And this is the life of a sailor. Alert in his duty, he readily flies Where winds the tir'd vessel are ••••inging, Though sunk to the sea gods, or toss'd to the skies. Stil•• Jack is found working and singing: 〈…〉〈…〉 side of an enemy, boldly and brave, He'll with broadside on broadside regale her, Yet he'••l sigh to the soul o'er that enemy's grave, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 noble's the mind of a sailor. 〈…〉〈…〉 loud, bursts their side•• let the bombs, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the winds a dread hurricane rattle, The r••ugh and the pleasant he takes as it comes, And laughs at the storm and the battle: In a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 power while Jack puts his trust, As 〈◊〉〈◊〉 comes, smilling he'll hail her, Resign'd, still and manly, since what must be must, And this is the mind of a sailor.

Though careless and headlong, if danger should press, And rank'd 'mongst the free list of rovers, Yet he'll melt into tears at a tale of distress, And prove the most constant of lovers: To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave, Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer, He's gentle as mercy, as ••ortitude brave And this is a true hearted sailor.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

BLEST Friendship hail! thy gifts possessing, That happy mortal's rich indeed: Thou willing giv'st each earthly blessing To all but those who stand in need: Thy words are sweet as Hybla's honey, In accents kind, and mild, and civil, Flows thy advice:—thou giv'st not money, For money is the very devil: And rather than the foul temptation Should into scrapes thy friend betray, Disint'rested consideration, Thou kindly tak'st it all away.

Are his affairs at rack and manger, Lest a bad world thy friend should chouse, No time for thee to play the stranger, Thou deign'st to manage all his house: To make him thy good pleasure tarry, To kiss thy feet, to leap o'er sticks, To run, to hop, to fetch, to carry, And play a thousand monkey tricks. Nay, if thy liquorish chops should water, To ease him of domestic strife, Thou rid'st him of a flirting daughter, Or, kinder still, thou steal'st his wife.

Come then, my friend, prevent my pleasure, And out of doors politeness kick, With me and mine pray keep no measure, Drench me with bumpers, make me sick: My ce••lar bleed, devour my mutton, Upon my vitals dine and sup:

Come on thou kind, thou friendly glutton, Kill, barbecue, and eat me up. Then, to the last a friend, desert me, That wise by dear experience grown, And having no kind friend to hurt me, I may, at last, become my own.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

WHAT song shall I chant? while I sing Venus sparrows, Her ces••us, her dove, Shall I hold forth on love? Source of so many blessings and ills, On which so many Cupids have blunted their arrows, And so many poets their quills! All its pains and its pleasures, its mischiefs and joys, Have been sung o'er and o'er, by fond girls and vain boys, Not a single new thought the Pierian spring On love can inspire:—nor of love will I sing.

While I celebrate uproar, and bottles and glasses, That fools think divine, Shall my song be on wine? Source of so many surfeits and feasts. Where so many topers have toasted their la••ses, And so many men become beasts! Let those describe wine who can drink till they r••el, 'Twere folly to write on a theme I can't feel; How can I, who ne'er drink but what flows from health's spring, Find words the delight of a drunkard to sing?

While I ce••ebrate men who all comfort and pleasure Leave at home for a name, Shall I descant on fame? Source of so many murders and wo••••, Where so many heroes have plunder'd fo•• t••easure, And so many friends become foes! A stranger to battles, and all their delight, Fond of peace and its joys, I can't shudder and write: The best plume that e'er hero bore off from Fame's wing Should not tempt me a scene of such horror to sing.

What shall be my song? Shall I celebrate riches? Whose grasp can combine Love, glory, and wine! Source of each mortal man's rise and fa••l:

That thing youth and age, high and low, that bewitches! A nothing that comprehends all! Be the theme of these of others, they cannot be mine:— Till love's led by prudence, by temperance wine, Till war shall sweet peace, and gold charity bring, Reason smiles, and torbids me such folly to sing.

BALLAD—IN THE WAGS.

BUT, perhaps, while thus boldly exposing each elf, A d••pe to passion, or folly, or pelf, I the critic severest become of myself, Presuming to hope for your favours— What is it to me who sings great, or sings small, Or whether knave first every knave likes to call, Or who's roguish, or honest—Lord nothing at all, But to eke out the crotchets and quavers.

Advice from a lawyer, a smile from his grace, From a hypocrit treachery with a s••ooth face, From a bishop a blessing, a g••••e••ter ames ace, The public receive for their favours: Thus in their vocation all earn••••tly join, For what should a man circulate but his own coin? Let us humbly entreat then you'll not refuse mine, Though compos'd but of crotchets ana quavers.

Every piece is full weight, nor debas'd by vile art, Ster••ing gratitude still will be found in each part, The lively impression was made on my heart, For what less can purchase your favours? Thus I fearless submit to pass through, your 〈◊〉〈◊〉, When assay'd, should you find there's no counter••eit in't, The stamp of your kind approbation imprin••, To pass current my crotchets and quavers.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

TIGHT lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so fightly, As ••one••t Bill Bobi••ay, so kind and so true: He'd sing like a mermaid, and soot it so lightly, The forecastle's pride, and delight of the crew?

But poor as a beggar, and often in tatters He went, though h•••• ••ortune was kind without end; For money, cried Bill, and them there sort of matters, What's the good on't d'ye see, but to succour a friend.

There's Nipcheese the purser, by grinding and squeezing, First plund ring, then leaving, the ship like a rat, The eddy of fortune stands on a stiff breeze in, And mou••ts, fierce as fire, a dog-vane in his hat. My bark, through hard storms on life's ocean should rock her, Though she roll in misfortune, and pitch end for end, No, never shall Bill keep a shot in the locker, When by handing it out, he can succour a friend,

Let them throw out their wipes, and cry, 'Spight of their 'crosses, 'And forgetful of toil that so hardly they bore, 'That sailors, at sea, earn their money like horses, 'To squander it idly like asses ashore.' Such lubbers their jaw would coil up, could they measure, By their feelings, the gen'rous delight without end, That gives birth in us tars to that truest of pleasure, The handing our rhino to succour a friend.

Why what's all this nonsense they talks of, and pother, About rights of man? What a plague are they at? If they mean that each man to his messmate's a brother, Why the lubberly swabs, ev'ry fool can tell that. The rights of us Britons we knows to be loyal, In our country's defence our last moments to spend, To fight up to the ears to protect the blood royal, To be true to our wives, and to succour a friend.

RONDEAU—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

BEAUTY I sell, who'll buy? Who'll buy? Roses and lilies girls, here am I: Neither black, brown, nor fair, shall have cause for com|plaint, They shall look like angels, and all without paint: Who'll buy? Who'll buy? Here am I. Come maids and be beautiful, easy's the task, Use the rouge newly taken from modesty's mask; As it blooms shall fair truth shew your heart in the flush, And duty's enamel shall polish the blush,

For duty gives charms that shall last all your lives: None but dutiful daughters make beautiful wives. Beauty I sell, &c.

Now's your time, all ye wives, would ye beautiful grow, Draw some drops from content's lucid fount as they flow; Take the mildness of love, throw away all the art, Mix these in endearment's alembic, the heart, Let the fire of attention the whole gently boil, Then add nature's best gloss, a perpetual smile, Beauty I sell, &c.

Come round me, I've waves for maid, widow, and wife: This essence of truth to the eyes gives a life, This tincture of sweetness shall lilies disclose, And from this, virtue's balm, shall spring beauty's best rose; Then whi••e art's in fashion, how can you refuse, That which nature and re••ason permit you to use? Beauty I sell, &c.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

TO the plain, to the plain, hark! hark we are summon'd away; The birds with new notes thrill the heart through the ear; Trees and flow'rs fresh liv'ry have put on to-day, And the sun with new glory begins his career! Some splendid occasion Arcadia invites To the court of its lov'd, its illustrious lord, Where, while pleasures and sports blend their various de|lights, Plenty empties her well-loaded horn on the board.

What, what can it mean? For our hearts' king and queen May just fate thus each day so••e new pleasures prepare▪ The sports now begun! 'Tis the nuptials propitious of Fred'rick their son, And the song, and the dance, and the clarion so loud, And those acclamations we hear from the crowd, 'All hail the royal pair.'

Now louder it grows! 'tis the bridegroom and bride; What loyalty rent the glad air as it rung, H••••a Mars in his ca••, Venus she, by his side; He a hero, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from a hero's race sprung.

Venus here finds her court; three sweet Graces are seen, Than Cytherea more lovely, more mild than her dove, The fair stranger to hail, in their hearts to reign queen, Each a sister in beauty, a sister in love: And see the glad throng, For the dance and the song With eager respectful affection prepare! The sports are begun, George sanctions the nuptials of Frederick his son, While the song, &c.

Again a loud burst! What new shouts rent the air! A fond brother a bride to a fond brother gives! While a father, a mother, a progeny rare, Each alike imparts transport, and transport receives. Long, long may their joys in a tide of love flow, Pure, unmix'd from the conjugal fount whence they spring: The first title of human perfection we know Is the parent whose virtues illustrate the king. And see the glad throng, For the dance and the song With eager respectful attention prepare! The sports are begun, George sanctions the nuptials of Frederick his son: While the song, &c.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

I THAT once was a ploughman, a sailor am now, No lark that aloft in the sky, Ever flutter'd his wings to give speed to the plough Was so gay or so careless 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 t••••ngs, As if sailors were kings, And so teizing did keep, That I left my poor plough to go ploughing the deep: No longer the horn Call 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 tars, I liked bumbo and slip, But I did not like rocking about: By and by comes 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? Where 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, whom 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, Gis a shake by the fist, all your cares at an end, Dad's alive, and your wife 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 plo••••••hing 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.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

THE peasant in his humble cot, The Ethiope on the sandy Nile,

The mole-like Laplander, whose grot Boasts little genial nature's smile: These, blest with virtue, are not poor; Her cheering voice such thrilling comfort brings, It throws around the thatch obscure A joy that shames the palaces of kings.

Oh virtue, sorrowing man's relief, In pity by kind heaven sent, That tear'st away the thorn of grief, And plant'st instead the rose content!— Thy smallest spark such lustre owns, With it such truth and dignity it brings, It throws obscurity on thrones, And beams to dim the diadem of kings!

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

SWEET sung the lark, high pois'd in air, When on as sweet a morn, In Hymen's fane, one fate to share, Anna and I were sworn. Sweetly the thrush, in varied song, The vacant joy encreas'd, When kindly came the village throng To join the marriage feast. But sweeter sang the nightingale, Love's herald of the grove, When Cynthia, through the silver vale, Led to the bow'r of love!

The lark's sweet morning song of joy Is known by that content, A lovely girl and blooming boy, Are given us to ••••ment: The thrush still merrily at noon, In varied cadence sings, When smiling fortune oft some boon, To cheer our labour, brings:

Nor, time far distant, shall we grieve, Though blessing now and blest, When Philomel, at nature's eve, Shall lull us into rest.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

DEAR John prithee tell me, cried Ruth; To Gubbins, her husband, one day, Dost not think, in good sooth, I should swear but the truth Did I swear what I am going to say?

That wedlocks's a state, In good humour, that fate Contriv'd to bless woman and man, And that Giles here's an ass, Who such fortune lets pass? All should marry as soon as they can.

Why Goody, cried Gubbins, you know My thoughts of the things 'fore to day, Nor, as I shall shew, Need one many miles go To prove what I am going to say.

Did wives ever scold, Were they ugly, or old, A spouse were a miserable man: But smooth is their tongue, They're all comely and young! Giles get married as soon as you can.

If one's children one wish'd in their grave, Still plaguing one day after day, The girls fashion's slaves, Thy boys puppies and knaves, One then might have something to say;

But brats are no evil, They ne'er play the devil, Nor have wives from their duty e'er ran, Then since, my friend Giles, Wedlock greets you with smiles, Get married as soon as you can

Cried Ruth, will you let your tongue ru•• Here you scurvy old villain I rule! Rogues there are, said the son, But, old Quiz, am I one? Cried the daughter, my father's a fool

Don't you see, Gubbins cried, I've the tenderest bride, And best children that ever blest man! Giles would you be driven, To bedlam or heaven, Get married an soon as you can!

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LET sons of sloth dream time away, Regardless what may follow, And rail at us who wake the day With horn, and hound, and hollow: We their pursuits should find the same, To their secrets were we privy, Each man to hunt some favourite game Through life goes on tantivy.

The book-worm hunts the ancient schools, And walks with Aristotle, Black-legs and ladies hunt for fools, The toper hunts his bottle. Thus should we find, whate'er the name, To their secrets were we privy, Mankind to hunt, &c.

When doctors come in at the death, For true bred hunters these are, The patient cries, with his last breath, "Et tu Brute! then fall Caesar." Thus we with safety might proclaim, To their secrets were we privy, Mankind to hunt, &c.

The misanthrope hunts out for woes, Muck-worm•• are for gold pursuing, While neck and nothing, as he goes, The spend thrift hunts his ruin.

Bold tars for honour hunt the wind, Outrageous saints hunt sinners, While with round belly, capon-lin'd, Fat aldermen hunt dinners. Thus should we find men's views the same, To their secrets were we privy, All, to hunt, &c.

Fame courtiers hunt from place to place, Rakes hunts new sets of features, While generous hearts urge on the chase, To relieve their fellow creatures: Let us, while to our action's aim, Regardless who are privy, In chase of pleasure, as fair game, Through life go on tantivy.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

POOR Peggy lov'd a soldier lad, More, far more, than tongue can tell ye, Yet was her tender bosom sad Whene'er she heard the loud reveliez: The fi••es were screetch owls to her e ars, The drums like thunder seem'd to rattle, Ah too prophetic were her fears, They call'd him from her arms to battle! There wonders he against the foe Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd, Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her soul all truth, That none her fears or flight discover, Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth, Follow'd to the field her lover. Directed by the fife and drum, To where the work of death was doing, Where of brave hearts the time was come, Who, seeking honour, grasp at ruin. Her very soul was chill'd with woe, New horror came in every sound, And whisper'd death had laid him low On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood, While her woman's fears confound her With terror all her soul subdu'd, A mourning train came thronging round her: The plaintive fife and muffl'd drum The martial obsequies discover, His name she heard, and cried I come, Faithful to meet my murder'd lover!

Then heart-rent by a figh of woe, Fell, to the grief of all around, Where death had laid her lover low On the cold ground!

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

MANKIND all get drunk, ay and womankind too, As by proof I shall presently shew you:— See that upstart, to power who unworthily grew, With good fortune so drunk he don't know you. Then round with the bowl, the tree's known by its trunk, 'Tis not liquor our natures can vary; And pow'r as completely can make a man drunk As claret, or sack, or canary.

Why reels that poor wretch? Why his eyes does he roll! Why mutter and storm in that fashion? What wine has he drank? How oft emptied the bowl! Not at all sir, the man's in a passion! Then round with the bowl, the tree's known by its trunk! 'Tis not liquor our natures can vary, And passion as easy can make mortals drunk As claret, or sack, or canary.

See that whimsical creature, now cry, and now laugh, Now rave, and now storm, and now sidge••! He's not drunk sir, for all he's so like a great calf, 'Tis jealousy makes him an idiot! Then round with the bowl, the trees known by its trunk, 'Tis not liquor our natures can vary, And love as completely can make a man drunk As claret, or sack, or canary.

See those beautiful creatures like angels come on, Form'd us fellows to keep to our tether, Say, 'ent it a pity they are all half gone! Not with wine, but a cap and a feather! Then round with the bowl, the tree's known by its trunk, 'Tis not liquor our natures can vary, And fashion as easy can make ladies drunk As claret, or sack, or canary.

Thus passion, or power, or whim, or caprice, Poor mortals can make non se ipse;

We swill like a spunge, or a mayor at a feast, The men drunk, and the l••••ies all tipsey! Then round with the bowl, the tree's known by its trunk, 'Tis not liquor our natures can vary, And solly as easy can make mortals drunk As claret, or sack, or canary.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

DAPPER Ted Tattoo is my natty name, For a roll or a trevally, Among the girls loud sounds my fame, When I their quarters rally. For with fife and drum I smirking come, Leer, cock my hat, Swear and all that, Nor never dread A broken head Where the cause of strife's a doxy: But as for wars, And wounds, and scars. And fighting foes, And thumps, and blows, I'd rather fight by proxy.

When chiefs and privates mingled lie, And gasp without assistance, In baggage waggon, perch'd up, I Stand umpire at a distance:

And with fife and drum I smirking come, 'Mongst soldier's wives, Who lead merry lives, Nor ever dread A broken head Where the cause of strife's a doxy: Let their husbands go, And, 'gainst the foe Gain glory's scars In honour's wars: I'd rather fight by proxy.

Yet think ye I am not renown'd In foreign wars and civil,

Why, sir, when safe at home and sound, Zounds I could fight the devil? And with fife and drum, Can smirking come, And cock my hat, Leer and all that, Nor never dread A broken head, When the cause of strife's a doxy: Let others go, And, 'gainst the foe, Gain glory's scars In honour's wars: I'd rather fight by proxy.

Thus through the world I make a noise Where'er I'am a sojourner, The mighty wonder and surprise Of every chimney corner! Where with fife and drum I smirking come, And rap out zounds, And talk of wounds, Nor ever dread A broken head Where the cause of strife's a doxy: They're fools who go, And, 'gainst the foe, In glory's wars Gain honour's scars: I'm wise, and fight by proxy.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LADIES and gentlemen I'm a beau, A beau I have been all my life, And yet may the devil fetch me if I know How I, whose whole trade is To tickle up the ladies, Have never yet got me a wife. I started in life 'bout the year sixty two, My small clothes were scarlet, my stockings were blue, My shoes were half-boots, pudding fleeves too I wore, My hat in the true pistol cock, and the more

O'er the fair to prevail, I sported a fine ramilie for a cue, For what's a beau or a monkey without a tail?

Fashion thus yields to fashion, as night yields to day, The huge hat that was cock'd with an air Soon was kick'd out of doors, of the smart Nivernois The charm'd world sung the praises, The belles put on jaxies, And the beaux sported now their own hair. By that time it came to the year seventy-two, The fashions of mixture of old were and new; Your hair like a bushel might look or a wig, Or nine hairs of a side, with the tail of a pig, For me o'er the fair to prevail, I had seven yards of ribbon to make me a queue, For what's a beau or a monkey without a tail?

Again with the varying modes did I jump, Of fashion I gave the grand pas; My coat hung to my heels, or was tuck'd to my rump, In all circles shoving, A beau, or a sloven, With a slouch, or a chapeau de bras: Thus I sported my figure about eighty-two, Drove a two-story gig, that four pony rats drew, Wore a coat with seven capes, thirteen waistcoats in one, And, that I might ne'er be in folly outdone, With the fair to prevail, A large porter's knot would have scarce held my queue, For what's a beau or a monkey without a tail?

Thus in all sorts of modish assembles the first, Have my purse, health, and spirits been hack'd, But the polish worn off, nothing left but the rust, I of fashion's strange stages, Like Shakespeare's Seven Ages, Play the farce, though I'm in at the last act. Arrived to year of Our Lord ninety-two, I dress, and I coax, and I flirt, but won't do; At a hundred and one I should still be a fop, But done up, and nick named by the world the grey crop, Can I hope to prevail, To play gallantry's part I have now lost my cue, For what's a beau or a monkey without a tail.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

ALAS! the battle's lost and won, Dick Flint's borne off the field By death, from whom the stoutest run, Who makes whole armies yield! Dick well in honour's footstep trod, Brav'd war and its alarms, Now death beneath the humble sod Has grounded his arms!

Dick's march'd before us, on a rout. Where ev'ry soldier's sent, His fire is dead, his courage out, His ammunition spen•• His form so active's now a clod, His grace no longer charms, For death beneath the humble sod Has grounded his arms!

Come fire a volly o'er his grave, Dead marches let us beat; War's honours well become the brave, Who sound their last retreat. All must obey Fate's awful nod, Whom life this moment warms, Death soon or late, beneath the sod Will ground the soldier's arms!

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

ADIEU my gallant sailor, obey thy duty's call, Though false the sea, there's truth ashore; Till nature is found changing, thou'rt sure of constant Poll: And yet, as now we fever, Ah much I fear that never Shall I alas behold thee more.

Jack kiss'd her, hitch'd his trowsers, and hied him to begone, Weigh'd anchor, and lost sight of shore, Next day a brisk south wester a heavy gale brought on,

Adieu cried Jack for ever, For much I fear that never Shall I, sweet Poll, behold you more. Poll heard that to the bottom was sunk her honest tar, And for a while lamented sore; At length cried she, I'll marry; what should I tarry for? I may lead apes for ever, Jack's gone, and never, never Shall I alas, behold him more!

Jack safe and sound returning, sought out his faithful Poll, Think you, cried she, that false I swore, I'm constant still as ever, 'tis nature's chang'd, that's all; And thus we par•• for ever, For never, sailor, never Shall I behold you more!

If, as you say▪ that nature like winds can shift and veer, About ship for a kinder shore, I hear'd the trick you play'd me, and so, d'ye see, my dear, To a kind heart for ever I've spliced myself, so never Shall I false Poll, behold you more.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

SPANKING Jack was so comely, so pleasant so jolly, Though wind•• blew great guns, still he'd whistle and sing, Jack lov'd his friend, and was true to his Molly, And, if honour gives greatness, was great as a king:

One night, as we drove with two reess in the main sail, And the scud came on low'ring upon a lee shore, Jack went up aloft, for to hand the top gantsail, 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 on sea boy, we've pleasures 'shore.

Whiffling Tom still of mischief, or sun 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:

Long side of a Don, in the Terrible frigate, As yard arm and yard arm we lay off the shore,

In and out whiffling Tom did so caper and jig it, That 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 honest, good natured 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 davit to weigh the cadge anchor, Ben went in the boat on a bold craggy shore, He over board tipt, 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 down hearted Because that mayhap we now take our 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 scarce finds a brother Fond as pitch, honest, hearty, and true to the core, But by battle, or storm, or some damn'd thing or other, He's popp'd off the hooks, and we ne'er see him more But grieving's a folly, &c.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

ARRAH if 'tis no lie in this world we are living, And it en't, for it's seen every day, That the truest of joys honest hearts are receiving Are those they are giving away.

Sure men are all sisters, and cousins, and brothers, And 'tis clear to the stupidest elf That the best kind of comfort a man gives to others, Is that which he takes to himself: Thus this bodder and game, this same meum and tuum, Means the devil a meaning but suum.

For your friend's peace of mind should you let your mouth water, And be getting the wish you obtain, In possessing his purse, or his wife or his daughter, What delight would the joy be but pain. Then let knav'ry alone, the vain work's useless labour,

Be't for love, or for pow'r or for pelf, For ev'ry wrong that a man does his neighbour, Sure is he not doing himself? Thus this bodder, &c.

If I'm rich, and should chuse to do good to another, Arrah fait for the selfish design Devil tank me, for if you allow I'm his brother, Fait and conscience sure is not he mine? But, says musty Morality, chuse objects fitting; Just your sermons lay by on the shelf; Why you stupid old big wig, arrah sure 'ent I getting For one joy of his ten for myself. Thus this bodder, &c.

Then from such bothoration in pity release us, Fortune all you bestow will repay, And though poor as Job. you'll all be as rich as Craesus For you'll keep what you've given away: The ••ine generous maxim then while you're pursuing Spend your all to hoard mountains of pelf, Soar high while you're sinking, be prosperous in ruin, And give joy to enjoy it yourself. And thus have I proved, &c.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

BLEAK was the morn when William left his Nancy The fleecy snow frown'd on the whiten'd shore, Cold as the f••ars that chill'd her dreary fancy, While she her sailor from her bosom tore: To his fill'd heart a little Nancy pressing, While a young tar the ample trowsers ey'd, In ••eed of firm••ess, in this state distressing, Will check'd the rising sigh, and fondly cried, Ne'er fear the perils of the fickle ocean, Sorrow's a ••otion, Grief all in vain; Sweet love take heart, For we must part In joy to meet again.

Loud blew the wind, when leaning on that willow Where the dear name of William stood,

When Nancy saw, toss'd by a faithless billow, A ship dash'd 'gainst a rock that topp'd the flood: Her tender heart with frantic sorrow thrilling, Wild at the storm that howl'd along the shore, No longer could resist a stroke so killing, 'Tis he, she cried, nor shall I see him more! Why did he ever trust the fickle ocean, Sorrow's my portion, Misery and pain! Break my poor heart. For now we part, Never to meet again.

Mild was the eve, all nature was smiling, Four tedious years had Nancy pass'd in grief, When, with her children the sad hours beguiling, She saw her William fly to her relief? Sunk in his arms with bliss he quickly found her, But soon return'd to life, to love, and joy, While her grown young ones anxiously surround her, And now Will clasps his girl and now his boy: Did I not say, though 'tis a fickle ocean, Sorrow's all a notion, Grief all in vain? My joy how sweet, For now we meet, Never to part again!

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LIFE'S a jest, says the poet, arrah sure 'tis a pun— Men call black for white through some quibbling pre|tence, And expressions still use where the sound is all one, Though as distant as London from Dublin the sense Then let 'em now just go their gig and their fun, This life by my soul's nothing more than a pun, Where men play on our passions to turn us all fools, And make puns and quibbles, that we may make bulls

That he's o'er head and ears the fond lover declares, And must marry or hang—the dear creature beset, Consents, little dreaming he puns while he swears, For the taef does not mean he's in love, but in debt.

Then let them now just go their gig and their fun, This life by my soul's nothing more than a pun, Where fine dashing lovers fond widows turn fools, And make puns and quibbles, that they may make bulls.

That sweet babe, says old Bolus, I'll quickly restore To that mother from whom the dear creature had birth; Punning rogue, by and by sir the child is no more, So he lies and speaks truth, for he meant mother earth! Then let them now just go their gig and their fun, This life by my soul's nothing more than a pun, And thus learned physicians their patients turn fools, And make puns and quibbles, that they may make bulls.

Says the courtier, my friend, you shall have a snug place, A douceur or two more and your suit cannot fail! The dear punning courtier gets into disgrace, And you get sure enough a snug place in a jail! Then let 'em now just go their gig and their fun, This life by my soul's nothing more than a pun, And thus courtiers turn their dependants and fools, And make puns and quibbles that they may make bulls.

Thus one thing they say, and another express, Thus feathers cut throats, thus are sycophants civil, Don't bishops and ladies say no, and mean yes? Don't we call women angels for playing the devil? Then let them now just go their gig and their fun, This life by my soul's nothing more than a pun. Thus men laugh in their sleeves, while they turn their friends fools, And make puns and quibbles, that they may mak•• bulls

RONDEAU—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

WHO calls?—Who calls? Who Wisdom cal••s by Momus' name? Who needs a sample of my quality? Momus and wisdom are the same, Wisdom's gods the god of jollity. Let the dark sage who low'rs and scowls, And broods o'er melancholy, Seek creeping snakes and hooting owls, And call all pleasure folly:

If this be truth, truth speaks in lies, This axiom nought can vary, If to be merry's to be wise, To be wise is to be merry. Who calls? &c.

Be mortals motives what they may, Pow'r, love, ambition, treasure, In spight of all wise fools can say, The end propos'd is pleasure. That truth which contradicts me, lies; This axiom ought can vary, If to be merry's to be wise, To be wise is to be merry Who calls? &c.

See laughter at my beck appears, And holds up men and manners, Haste joy's recruit's, Whim's volunteers, List under Momus' banners: I Folly dress in Wisdom's guise, Nor can my maxims vary: If to be merry's to be wise, To be wise is to be merry. Who calls? &c.

RONDEAU—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

A MIGHTY sultan once for fun Indulged an inclination, 'Tis odds by them my story's done You'll make its application. A wag he sent for to his court, Who, each way you can mention, To furnish whim, and fun, and sport, Still tortured his invention. To please this sultan, &c.

'Mongst Folly's sons and daughters too With Satire did he wander, And still attempting something new, Relying on the candour Of this mighty sultan, &c. At length his frolics at an end, Cried one, I do not bam you,

B••t as you merit, my good friend, He'll either save or dam you, Wi••l this mighty sultan, &c.

But, for your comfort, he is just, An I easily contented, Nor to him e'er did any trust Who afterwards repented.

You are the sultan who for fun Indulge an inclination, I am the wag—my story's done— Now make its application.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

IN the motley feather'd race Mankind you may distinctly trace, Evermore on pleasure's wing Idly roving, Fighting, loving, They chatter, croak, and hoot, and sing.

Nor is my simile unfair, Among the people of the air Are birds of night and birds of day, Birds that on each other prey, Birds that whistle, birds that croak, Birds that are a standing joke, Birds that decoy, and mock and call, So like to birds are mortals all:

That in the motley feather'd race, Mankind you may distinctly trace, Evermore on pleasure•• wing, Idly roving, Fighting, loving, They charter, croak, and hoot, and sing.

Thou hast seen upon the prowl, Grave as any judge, an owl, On birds and mice at ••a••dom seize, For wren, or linnet, Watch the minute, And make a snatch by way of fees

Lawyers, who deal in froth and words,

What are they all but humming-birds? Geese art those wh•• go to law, A hoarding miser's a jackdaw, Pond doves, like lovers, kiss and toy, A bulsinch is an Irish joy, Neglected worth's the humble wren, While corm'rants are all aldermen! Thus in the mot••ey f••ather'd race, &c.

Vain peacocks thou hast seen, who hide Their ugly feet, though puff'd with pride; Thus, while they bask in sunshine's hour, Spacious wonders, Hide the blunders

Of gaudy peacocks, plum'd with power: ••ools so love knaves one can't desery The dove-house from the rookery: The meerest dolt can tell you who Are like the wagtail and cuckoo: And all know those who swear and lie Are like the noisy chatt'ring pie: A hen's a flirt, with frizzl'd top, And what's the duck-tail'd-jay?—A crop! Thus in the motley feather'd race, &c.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

WHEN I comet to town with a load of hay, Mean and lowly though I seem, I knows pretty well how they figures away, While I whistles and drives my team: Your natty sparks, and flashy dames How do I love to queer, I runs my rigs, And patters, and giggs, And plays a hundred comical games, To all that comes near: Then in a pet To hear 'em fret, A mobbing away they go— ("The scoundrel deserves to be horse whipt!" 'Who, me ma'am?') Wo Ball, wo!

So to mind them I ne'er seem, But whistles and drives my team!

So as I seems thinking of nothing at all, And driving as fast as I can, I pins a queer thing against the wall, Half a monkey, and half a man! The mob came round him to put up his blood, While he's trembling from top to toe, My whip it goes spank, I tips Ball on the flank, Ball plunges, and paints him all over with mud, Queers his stockings, and spoils the beau! Then then the sweet pretty dear Ah could you but hear, ("Odds curse you, I'll make you know, "You infernal villain!" 'Lord bless your baby face, I would not hurt your 'spindle shanks for the world!') Wo Ball, wo! So to mind 'em I ne'er seem, But whistles and drives my team.

And so gets the finest fun And frisk that ever you saw, Of all I meets I can queer ev'ry one But you gemmen of the law: Though they can scarcely put me down, Says I, to their courts when I'm led, Where their tails of a pig They hide with a wig, How many ways in London town They dresses a calf's head. Then ev'ry dunce To hear open at once, Like mill-clacks their clappers go, ("Oh that's the fellow I saw grinning through the horse "collar in the county," 'I fancy you're the fellow I saw grinning through the 'pillory in London!') Wo Ball, wo! So to mind 'em I ne'er seem, But whistles and drives my team.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

I SING of that life of delight beyond measure That tars calmly lead on the boisterous main, Where toil is enjoyment, where trouble's all pleasure, And where men lose their lives, a sure fortune to gain Where you fear no diseases but sickness and scurvy, Where the water stinks sweetly, by way of a zest. Where you walk on your legs, when you're not topsy turvy, And where, though you sleep soundly, you're never at rest! Then push round the can, oh you have not a notion Of sailors, their grog, and their sweethearts, and wives, Ah give me, my soul, the tight lads of the ocean, Who though they're so wretched, lead such happy lives.

Then you're always of billows and winds in the middle, That so dash, and so whistle, and bodder your ears, And play a duet with the tar's song and fiddle, So sweetly that sounds, and nobody hears: Then to see the tight lads, how they laugh at a stranger, Who fears billows can drown, and nine pounders can kill For you're safe sure enough, were you not in such danger, And might loll at your ease, if you could but sit still. Then push round the can, &c.

What of perils that, always the same, are so various, And through shot holes and leaks leave wide open Death's doors, Devil a risk's in a battle, wer't not so precarious, Storms were all gig, and fun, but for breakers and shores: In short, a tar's life, you may say dat I told it, Who leaves quiet and peace, foreign countries to roam, Is, of all other lives, I'll be bound to uphold it, The best life in the world, next to staying at home. Then push round the can, &c.

BALLAD—IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

THIS here's what I does—I, d'ye see, forms a notion That our troubles, our sorrows and strife, Are the winds and the billows that foment the ocean, As we work through the passage of life:

And for fear on life's sea lest the vessel should sounder, To lament, and to weep, and to wail, Is a pop gun that tries to out roar a ninepounder, All the same as a whiff in a gale. Why now I, though hard fortune has pretty near starv'd me, And my togs are all ragged and queer, Ne'er yet gave the bag to the friend that had serv'd me, Or caus'd ruin'd beauty a tear,

Now there tother day, when my messmate deceiv'd me, Stole my rhino, my chest, and our Poll; Do you think in revenge, while their treachery griev'd me, I a court martial call'd?—Not at all, This here on the matter was my way of arg'ing, 'Tis true they han't left me a ••ros••, A vile wife and false friend though are gone by the bargain, So the gain d'ye see's more than the loss. For though fortune's a jilt, and has, &c.

The heart's all—when that's built as it should, sound and clever, We go 'fore the wind like a sly,

But, if rotten and crank, you may luff up for ever, You'll always sail in the wind's eye: With palaver and nonsense I'm net to be paid off, I'm a drift, let it blow then great guns, A gale, a fresh breeze, or the old gemmen's head off, I take's life rough and smooth as it runs: Content, through hard fortune, &c.

FINALE—IN THE COALITION.

LAWYERS pay you with words, and fine ladies with va|pours, Your parsons with preaching, and dancers with capers, Soldiers pay you with courage, and some with their lives, Some men with their fortunes, and some with their wives: Some with fame, some with conscience, and many throw both in, Physicians with latin, and great men with nothing; I, not to be singu••••r in such a throng, For your kindness pay you with he end of a song.

But pleading, engrossing, declaring, and vap'ring, And fighting, and hectoring, and dancing, and capering,

And preaching, and swearing, and bu••lying—prescribing, And coaxing, and wheed••ing, and seeing, and bribing, And every professional art of hum-drumming Is clearly in some sort of species of humming; Humming!—nay, take me with you, the term's very strong, But I only meant humming the end of a song,

For all who this evening have paid me attention I would I had language of some new invention My thanks to return, for where's the expression Can describe of your kindness the grateful impression? May every desire of your hearts be propitious, Be lasting success the result of your wishes, Unimpair'd be your joys, your lives happy and long! And now I am come to the end of my song.

BALLAD—IN SHE IS MAD FOR A HUSBAND.

OH money, thou master of all things below, Of each chain thour'•• the principal link: What can purchase a friend, or can buy off a foe, Or make black appear, like the chink?

Your lawyers physicians, in short ev'ry tribe, Who to eat dip the pen in their ink, Would they write, or advise, or consult, or prescribe, Were it not for the sake of the chink?

Of men and of women, high, low, great and small, 'Tis the life, 'tis victuals, the drink; 'Tis a good universal acknowledg'd—all, all Revive at the sound of the chink.

No more talk of Cupid, for thine far above, His power to nothing ca•• sink; I doat to distraction, could have her I love, Alas! if I had but the chink.

BALLAD—IN SHE IS MAD FOR A HUSBAND.

ALAS! where is my lover gone? In all the world I have but one,

Near to my heart his image sits, And 'twas for him I lost my wits.

Where art thou fled, my ••••ly dear? To find thee they have sent me here; Thou'lt cure, they say, these love-sick fits, And give me back again my wits.

Haste then, to pleasure shew the way, For now in doubt and fear I stray, My brain with dubious torments splits; Haste, haste, and give me back my wits.

BALLAD—IN SHE IS MAD FOR A HUSBAND.

To be mad for a husband is not a thing new: The widow who swore to her first to be true, And the moment he's dead at a route goes to cards, And a week after marries Dick Trim of the guards; Because truly Dick was a lusty young lad: What a plague do you call such a woman but mad?

The young lady, brimful of the last new romance, Who ogles the footman, as if 'twere by chance; Who gets out of her room by a ladder of ropes, And at last, with her John, who to Scotland elopes, Leaving, sore in affliction, her worthy old dad; What a plague do you call such a woman but mad?

She, because he is rich, and because she is poor, Who weds with a batter'd old rake of fourscore: She at seventy-seven who marries a boy; For title and rank, she who barters all joy; Those who marry for motives like these or as bad, What a p••ague do you call all these women but mad?

BALLAD—IN SHE IS MAD FOR A HUSBAND.

HE ran to the farm-yard, and there bit a hog That, in less than ten minutes, bark'd just like a dog; The hog bit a horse that was just come from hunting, And presently after the horse fell a grunting; Such grunting, and barking, and barking, and grunting

And grunting, and barking, and barking, and grunting, The village will never have done with the talk on't, Tho' the wisest man there cannot make hog or dog on't.

A fine brindled cow, near a hay-stack was straying, Which, bit by the horse, was soon after heard neighing; The cow bit a man, who was driving the plough, When he walk'd on four legs, and low••d just like the cow. Such lowing, and neighing, and barking, and grunting, And grunting, and barking, and neighing, and lowing, The villiage will never have done with the talk on't, Tho' the wisest man there cannot make hog or dog on't.

The man bit a Jack-ass, that soon after ran Half a mile on two legs, and talk'd just like the man; The Jack-ass encountered a sheep in his way, And 'tis not to be mention'd how loud he did bray. Such braying, and talking, and talking, and braying And barking, and grunting, and lowing, and neighing, The village will never have done with the talk on't, Tho' the wisest man there cannot make hog or dog on't.

The sheep bit a wolf, which was soon heard to bleat, The wolf more dumb things than I've time to repeat; But the worst that was bit, was, alas! my poor wench! Heav'n keep us, I say, from mad dogs and the French! Such bleating, and talking, and barking and braying, And grunting, and bleating, and lowing, and neighing, The village will never have done with the talk on't, Tho' the wisest man there cannot make hog or dog on't.

BALLAD—IN SHE IS MAD FOR A HUSBAND.

YOUNG Doll a comely village girl Was courted by a huge rich squire, Who offer'd diamonds, gold, and pearl, Or gossip fame's a wounded liar: But to honest Doll Virtue was all, So he could ne'er get nothing by her; And for all his jeer, With a flea in his ear, She packing sent this huge rich 'squire.

One day as he had hunting been, Come cross the fields this huge rich 'squire,

On the finest horse that e'er was seen, And spying Doll, wai all on fire. Doll, in a fright, Saw him alight, And run o'er bramble and o'er briar; But, in the nick, What a cunning trick, The gipsy play'd this huge rich 'squire.

Finding herself quite overtook, She cried out to this huge rich 'squire, I fear my father sees us—look 'Over the hedge a little higher. While he upon This work was gone, Doll mounts his horse, and in the mire, Of hope bereft, She fairly left, To curse his stars, this huge rich 'squire.

BALLAD—IN ENGLAND AGAINST ITALY.

WHY is the devil in you, Or are you such a ninny To believe of you she'll ever think, persuade her all you can No, no, whate'er believe you, Your hopes will all deceive you, For a girl of sense will yield to—not a monkey but a man.

Zounds can that hat and feather, Or the coxcomb altogether, A 'squire of silk, and mandrake—a mere flash in the pan His pretty self admiring, Be ought but hate inspiring, When a woman always yields to—not a monkey, but a man.

Then give this folly over, Nor longer play the lover, For I plainly tell you 'tis a mighty silly plan; Or, spight of all your vapouring, I'll so finely spoil yonr capering, You shall own this arm belongs to—not a monkey, but a man.

SONG—IN ENGLAND AGAINST ITALY.

ON Crochetini loves attend, Each day some beauty to discover; In prudent age to find a friend, And make of ev'ry youth a lover. The ravished birds in throngs appear, Where, with her notes, the woods are ringing, And nightingales with pleasure hear, To borrow sweetness from her singing.

BALLAD—IN THE FORTUNE HUNTER.

THE willing soul well pleas'd delights To heal the stranger's grief; Nor will its hospitable rights From worth withhold relief: But still we should—deceitful lest The tear we wish to dry— Distinguish 'twixt the gen'rous guest, And the insidious spy.

Our passions each should, station'd well, Have some good post apart, And, as a wary ••entinel, Prudence should guard the heart. Thus, like a camp, the human breast Might a surprise defy: Rewarding still the gen'rous guest, And punishing the spy.

BALLAD—IN THE FORTUNE HUNTER.

FOR wedlock's a voyage, where, should boisterous billows; Arise to disturb of our lives the calm sea, Peace, joy, and delight, would, deserting our pillows, Leave behind a strong wish once again to get free. Domestic disquiet, like quicksand or shallow, Would the vessel of Love shock in every part,

Rocks of Anger would, bruise her, or Hates ocean swallow, And the tempest of Marriage would shipwreck the heart.

But gayly her course through the sea of life bending, With a surface that kisses the generous gale, Each effort, each wish, each affection, still tending To steer by Love's compass, and hoist Reason's sail.

The senses, that crew of the mind, all in motion, To make the voyage prosp'rous exert ev'ry art, While the vessel tow'rs on the face of the ocean, 'Till in wedlock's kind haven rides safely the heart.

BALLAD—IN THE MISCHANCE.

FOR I am the girl that was made for my Joe, And Joe is the lad that was model'd for me, Our tempers agree; And all the world over with him would I go, And work late or early, nor think it a pain, For I ne'er lov'd my Joe for the lucre of gain.

If so be, by good chance, such a fortunate thing Was to happen, for me to be crowned a queen, 'Twould quickly be seen, If they did not consent to make Joey a king, That for Bet they might get who they would for to reign, For I ne'er lov'd my Joe for the lucre of gain.

O'Conner, he in the pea-aches that plies, Ap Skenkin, the Welchman, Mac Pherson the Scot, For his sake went to pot; Nay, (though many a girl would have thought him a prize), I refus'd a Jew broker, from Petticoat-lane, For I ne'er lov'd my Joe for the lucre of gain.

BALLAD—IN ALL'S NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.

I AM a chairman my name is Mc Gee, No flower in May was so blithe as me, Till that bastard Cupid, lodg'd in disguise In pretty Bridget's two good looking eyes.

Arrah is't you, the urchin cry'd, I've a strong bow I never try'd; Like a shelalah he then chose a dart, And what a whack it gave my heart.

And since that time I grunt and sigh, And sob, and moan, bec••se as why I strive to hate, but am ne'er the nigher, By her frosty looks I'm all on fire. Oh! Bridget, Bridget, ease my pain, Or give me back my heart again, Or else, in troth, do all I can, My partner'll soon be an odd man.

BALLAD—IN ALL'S NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.

A WORD in your ear if you please Mr. Fop, No more in this pickle be roaming; But pull off your fool's jacket, step home to your shop, And gentlemen's pig-tails be combing. Be advis'd by a fool, by my soul, and dat's me, Though we fancy it n••ver so greedy, 'Tis not for the likes of such people as we, To be aping my lord and my lady.

For you, Mrs. Bridget, if just in the room Of being dressed out like an actor, You were twirling your mop round, or handling your broom, 'Twould be more, I be'ieve, in character. Be advis'd by a fool, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE OLD WOMAN OF EIGHTY.

To ev'ry fav'rite village sport With joy thy steps I'll guide; Thy wishes always will I court, Nor e'er stir from thy side. But when the spright••y fife and drum, With all their dread alarms, Echo afar The cry of war,

When chiefs are heard to cry we come, And Honour calls—To arms.

Thy pain and pleasure will I share, For better and for worse, And if we have a prattling care, I'll be its tender nurse. But when, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE OLD WOMAN OF EIGHTY.

I'VE health, and I have spirits too, Of work I've had my share; And when you go, for love of you, I will your knapsack bear.

Nor this resolve e'er will I rue, We both alike will fare; And still content, for love of you, I will your knapsack bear.

Though thunders growl, and light'nings blue In flashes cleave the air, I'••l march content, for love of you And will your knapsack bear.

All dangers, hazardous and new, One smile shall make me dare; Rememb'ring 'tis for love of you, That I your knapsack bear.

BALLAD—IN ENGLAND AGAINST ITALY.

THE falcon, tow'ring high in air, D••scries afar the turtle dove, Watching his nest with anxious care, And waiting for his willing love.

Nor can the victim's harmless cries, His foe's insatiate vengeance stay, On rapid pinions down he flies, And pounces on his tender prey.

BALLAD—IN THE RAZOR GRINDER.

COME all you maids who fain would—marry, Learn, learn of me the way to—choose, Rather by ha••f till doomsday—tarry, Than beauty to an old man—lose. Ah tell me, how can wrinkles—charm you, What joys can age excite or—prove, Let, then, your dangerous state—alarm you, And choose a young man that can—love.

An old man always will be—weezing, No feeling, hearing, taste, or—sight; A young man always will be—pleasing, Sprightly all day, and kind at—night. Ah tell me how, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

THIS life is like a country dance, The world a spacious ball room, In which so many take a prance, They scarcely find for all room. Fidlers, and pipers, in a row, See how the ranks are closing, Each strives his neighbour's faults to shew, While he's his own exposing.

(Pray Ma'am what dance have you called? Matrimony Ma'am. The figure is extremely easy, you turn single, run away with your partner, lead up the middle, back to back, part, and change partners.)

Thus busied in the fond turmoil, They time by folly measure, Turn all their pleasures into toil, And fancy toil a pleasure.

Some in full dance with ardour burn, And swim, and glide, and wander; While others, waiting for their turn, Sn••er, smile, and deal out slander.

"And so the Count must run away!" "Why really I'm afraid so; "His flirt has ruin'd him at play:" "Poor man, I always said so."

"(Oh no doubt about it:—kept by a physician before she came to the count!—duel with a young apothecary!—sy|ringes loaded with analeptic pills!—'Tis your turn to begin Sir:—Sir I beg your pardon."

Thus busied in the fond turmoil, &c,

Away they prance it, small and big, Brown, ginger, fair, and grizzle, "Lord ma'am you disconcert my wig, "Twas you sir tous'd my frizzle!" "Right hand and left, the figure mind, "Lord what are you about ma'am? "My dear Miss Giggle you are blind, "My Lady Fuzz you're out ma'am?

("Lord ma'am you should consider that the dance is My Lord Mayor's Feast:—it begins with a set to, and finishes with a reel.)"

Thus busied in the fond turmoil, &c.

Thus dance succeeding after dance, As if old Nick had got 'em, They scandal vent, and flirt, and prance, And foot it to the bottom. Thus having made for others sport, In regular rotation, With swinging interest they retort On them the obligation.

"(Lord, did you ever see such a fright as that woman! rubbed it all off one side of her face! But look at that man, with his false calves turned before!—Come, come, ladies and gentlemen, a new dance.—Strike up none so Pretty)."

Thus busied, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

PRAY ladies think no•• I presume The art of love to teach you; Proficients long ago become, My counsel could no•• reach you:

A hint I offer, nothing more, For your determination, Love's mysteries would you explore, Observe the feather'd nation. ••s in a mirror, may you there, Of love, make your elections, As you choose ribbands at a fair, To suit with all complexions.

The cuckoo, that one fulsome tale, Vaunts over so, and over, May sooner than the dove prevail, With some, by way of lover: But I have heard the laughing loves, More truly aim their arrows, When Venus harnesses her doves, Than when she's drawn by sparrows: But if the smallest hint by you To this should be objected, With defference, so much your due, I soon shall stand corrected.

The peacock, with such stately pride, His haughty bosom throbbing, May scorn, while hopping by his side, The blest, though humble robin: But, sparingly true joy is lent, To envy, pride, and malice: 'Tis said a cottage, and content, Sometimes outweighs a palace: Yet may, against my playful verse, No fit of anger seize you: I would not, for the universe, Do ought that could displease you.

Jays, pies, and all the chattering crew, To folly giv'n, and pleasure, May turn to jest the chosen few, Who love by virtue measure: Not so the grateful nightingale, Who soon as evening closes, His orgies offers in the vale, To heav'n, ere he reposes. Of this you'll judge, as of the rest, Yet, while the smile's beginning, Ere you turn counsel to a jest, Take care that laughing's winning.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

WOULD ye see the world in little, Ye curious here repair, We'll suit you to a tittle, At this our rustic fair. We've glitt'ring baits to catch you, As tempting at a court; With whim for whim we'll match you, And give you sport for sport. From a sceptre to a rattle, We've every thing in toys, For infants that scarce prattle, To men who still are boys. Cock horses, and state coaches, In gingerbread are sold, Cakes, parliament, gilt watches, And horns all tipt with gold. Then if for fine parade you go, Come here and see our puppet shew.

Walk in here ladies and gentlemen; here you see the Queen of Sheba, and King Solomon in all his glory; you think that figure's alive, but he is no more alive than I am!

While the pipes and the tabors rend the air, Haste neighbours to the fair.

What's your sweepstakes, and your races, And all your fighting cocks, To our horse collar grimaces, And gi••ls that run for smocks? Our Hobs can swivle noses, At sing••e-stick who fight, As well as your Mendozas, Though not quite so polite: In their deceptions neater, Are your keen rooks al••ow'd, Than is yonder fire eater, Who queers the gaping croud? Then boast not tricks so noxious, That genteel life bespeaks, Our jugler's hixious doxious, Shall distance all the greeks.

Can Pharoah and his host be found, To match our mimble merry-go-round?

Put in here, put in, put in! every blank a prize! down with it and double it, twenty can play as well as one.

While the pipes, &c.

Hear you mountebank assure ye, Of diseases, by the score, A single dose shall cure ye: Can Warwick-lane do more? Wid vi••ligigs, tetotums, Yon jew's imposhing faish, Shall cheat you here in no times, All one as in Duke's place. Hark, yonder, making merry, Full many a happy clown! For champaign who drink perry, As good as that in town. Then for sights, we've apes, and monkies, Some on four legs, some on two; Tall women, dwarfs, cropt donkies, For all the world like you.

Then would ye Ranelagh find out, What think ye of our Roundabout!

Walk in ladies and gentlemen! the only booth in the fair; here ye may make the whole tower of the world; would ye ride in the caravan, the expedition, the land frigate, or the dilly! fourteen miles in fifteen hours, ladies and gentlemen!

While the pipes, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

YOUNG Mog, arrived at woman's growth, Felt something in her bosom move: 'Twas neither joy, nor pain, yet both, Young Ralph o'th woodland said 'twas love. Ralph lov'd young Moggy as his life, Was wealthy, warm, and well to do: But Moggy saw the soldiers come, Beheld the glitt'ring arms so gay, Was charm'd with the loud trumpets bray, Delighted with the sprightly fife, And deafened with the thund'ring drum:

While soldiers march'd to the loud tattoo, And though to honest Ralph still true, She listened to the loud tattoo, I've said that Mog was debonair, Nor was their admiration small: She was thought artless, young, and fair, By the regiment, pioneers, and all. Each would have ta'en her for his wife, A la militaire, as soldiers do; The smock-sac'd ensign nam'd his sum, The sergeant promis'd, swore, and pray'd, The trumpeter her praises bray'd, To charm her loudly squeak'd the fife, The drummer brac'd his thund'ring drum, To win her heart with a loud tattoo. Thus strove, to make young Mog untrue, Pike, trumpet, fife, and loud tattoo.

Mog soon found reason to condemn The nonsense of each blust'ring elf: And, looking with contempt on them, Some little shame took to herself. Determin'd now to be the wife Of honest Ralph, so kind and true, Cried she to the ensign, child go home To your mamma.—For you, old Bluff, Your trumpet's like yourself, a puff! I'll not be whistled after, fife, Nor, drummer, shall your hollow drum To me beat Wedlock's loud tattoo. True to my Ralph, to honour true, Hence trumpet, fife, and loud tattoo.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

WHAT art thou, facinating war, Thou throphied, painted pest, That thus men seek, and they abhor, Pursue, and yet detest? Are Honour and Remorse the same? Does Murder Laurels bring? Is Rapine Glory? Carnage Fame? Flies Crime on Vict'ry's wing? Their wrongs, who never shall return,

Their woes, that but survive to mourn E'en when the battle rages high, When to the charge the legions fly, And trumpets strike the ear, Shall from the bravest wrest the sigh, That starts soft Pity's tear.

Where will ambition's folly reach! Sure nature ne'er design'd Her noble gifts an art should teach, To man, to thin his kind! Well they deserve their county's care, In its defence who fight, Who bulwarks of their nation are, Its glory, its delight: Yet for their wrongs, who ne'er return; Their woes, who but survive to mourn, E'en when the battle rages high, When to the charge the legions fly, And trumpets cleave the ear, The truly brave shall heave a sigh, Shall vent kind Pity's tear.

Then do not, for an empty name A phantom thus pursue: Think, that if Glory mark thy fame, Murder shall mark it too. Reason, and Peace, and Love dwell here, And, if for others woe, We heave the sigh, and start the tear, From guilt they never flow. Ah stay, lest thou should'st ne'er return, Lest I should but survive to mourn, Lest when the battle rages high, When to the charge the legions fly, And trumpets cleave the ear, Thy fate demand the generous sigh, And mine the pitying tear.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

THE passing bell was heard to toll, John wail'd his loss with bitter cries, The parson prayed for Mary's soul,

The sexton hid her from all eyes. "And art thou gone," Cried wretched John, Oh dear 'twill kill me, I am dying: Cried Neighbour Sly, While standing by, "Lord how this world is giv'n to lying!"

The throng retired, John left alone, He meditated 'mongst the tombs, And spelt out on the mould'ring stones, What friends were gone to their long homes: "You're gone before," Cried John, no more— "I shall come soon, I'm almost dying:" Cried Neighbour Sly, While standing by, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

'Here lies the bones, heav'n's will be done, 'Of farmer Slug:—reader would'st know 'Who to his mem'ry raised this stone? 'Twas his disconsolate widow.' Cried John, 'Oh oh! "To her I'll go, "No doubt with grief the widow's dying:" Cried Neighbour Sly, Still standing by, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

Their mutual grief was short and sweet; Scarcely the passing bell had ceased, When they were sped;—the funeral meat Was warmed up for the marriage feast! They v••w'd, and swore, Now o'er and o'er. They ne'er would part till both were dying: Cried Neighbour Sly, Still standing by, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

Again to heat the passing bell, John now a sort of hank'ring feels; Again his help-mate brags how well She can trip up a husband's heels: Again to the tomb Each longs to come,

Again with tears, and sobs, and fighing, For Neighbour Sly, Again to cry, "Lord how this world is given to lying!"

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

RAIL on at joys that are not thine, That thus thou leer'st, with Envy's blink, 'Tis not because we drink good wine, But 'tis that thou hast none to drink What though two roads before us lie, We on no crooked path shall fall, For that we may not walk awry, We'll drink till we can't walk at all.

Thou say'st that wine's the cause of strife, That to the brain when it ascends, We quarrel, so do man and wife, And then, like them, we're better friends: But here thou shalt not have thy will, Nor coax good fellows to a brawl; Rather than of our friends think ill, We'll drink till we can't think at all.

Thou call'st the glass a foe to love, Why fool 'tis Cupid's dearest boast, What fair did celebrated prove, Till celebrated as a toast? But imperfections should there be, That sometimes to their lot may fall, Rather than faults in ladies see, We'll drink till we can't see at all.

Thou say'st that treason lurks beneath, And our convivial pleasure sours; Thou liest, that monster does not breathe, That dare•• profane a king like our's But our fi••m loyalty to prove, And choak thee with thy ran••'rous gall, Rather than in a faction move, We'll drink till we can't move at all.

Yet, after all, abuse our joy, Indulge this cynic spite of thine;

When thou hast said thy worst, old boy, Thou canst not say we drink bad wine. We envy no man's pleasures, we; Still ready at each generous call; Nay, rather than speak ill of thee, We'll drink till we can't speak at all.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

COME all hands ahoy to the anchor, From our friends and relations to go; Poll blubbers and cries, devil thank her, She'll soon take another in tow. This breeze, like the old one, will kick us, About on the boisterous main, And one day, if death should not trick us, Perhaps we may come back again. With a will ho then pull away jolly boys, At the mercy of fortune we go; We're in for't then damme what folly boys For to be downhearted, yo ho!

Our Boatswain takes care of the rigging, More spessiously when he gets drunk; The Bobstays supplies him with swigging, He the cable cuts up for old junk: The studding-sail serves for his hammoc, With the clue-lines he bought him his call, While Ensigns and Jacks in a mammoc He sold to buy trinkets for Poll. With a will ho, &c.

Of the Purser this here is the maxim, Slops, grog, and provision he sacks: How he'd look, if you was but to ax him, With the Captain's clerk who 'tis goes snacks: Oh he'd find it another guess story, That would bring his bare back to the cat, If his Majesty's honour and glory, Was only just told about that. With a will ho, &c.

Our Chaplain's both holy and godly, And sets us for heaven agog;

Yet to my mind he looks rather oddly, When he's swearing and drinking of grog: When he took on his knee Betty Bowser, And talk'd of her beauty and charms, Cried I which is the way to heaven now sir? Why you dog, cried the Chaplain, her arms. With a will ho, &c.

The Gunner's a devil of a bubber, The Carfindo can't fish a mast, The Surgeon's a lazy land lubber, The Master can't steer if he's ast, The Lieutenants conceit are all wrapt in, The Mates scarcely merit their flip, Nor is there a swab, but the Captain, Knows the stem from the stern of the ship. With a will ho, &c.

Now fore and ast having abused them, Just but for my fancy and gig, Could I find any one that ill used them, Damn me but I'd tickle his wig. Jack never was known for a railer, 'Twas fun ev'ry word that I spoke, And the sign of a true hearted sailor, Is to give and to take a good joke. With a will ho, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

THE surge hoarsely murm'ring, young Fanny's grief mocking, The spray rudely dashing as salt as her tears, The ships in the offing, perpetually rocking, Too faithful a type of her hopes and her sears. 'Twas here, she cried out, that Jack's vows were so many, Here I bitterly wept, and I bitterly weep: Here heart-whole he swore to return to his Fanny, Near the trembling pine that nods over the deep.

Ah mock not my troubles ye pitiless breakers, Ye winds do not thus melt my heart with alarms, He is your pride and mine, in my grief then partakers, My sailor in safety waft back to my arms.

They are deaf and ungrateful:—these woes are too many; Here here will I die, where I bitterly weep: Some true lover shall write the sad fate of poor Fanny, On the trembling pine that hangs over the deep.

Thus her heart sadly torn with its wild perturbation No friend but her sorrow, no hope but the grave; Led on by her grief to the last desperation, She ran to the cliff, and plung'd into the wave. A tar sav'd her life:—the fond tale shall please many; Who before wept her fate, now no longer shall weep: 'Twas her Jack, who, returning, bad sought out his Fanny, Near the trembling pine that hangs over the deep.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

As Wit and Beauty, for an hour, The other day were jarring, Which held o'er man superior pow'r, They almost came to sparring: Cried Reason, W••t you're grown a fool, You look quite ugly, Beauty: Come take me with you, both be cool, Sure mortals know their duty: To them submit, Whether 'tis Wit, They most admire, or Beauty.

So said, so done, out they both set, With Reason to protect 'em, Resolv'd that the first men they met, Should to the truth direct 'em. Instant they ask'd a midnight throng, Who, to Bacchus paid their duty, Wit, cried out they, teems in our song, But 'tis inspired by Beauty. Learn wisdom, Wit, Like us, submit To the sweet power of Beauty.

Cried Wit, no tricks on travellers here, I saw you smile, you gipsy; 'Twas brib'ry and corruption clear; Besides, the rogues were tipsy:

You bard the truth will quickly hit: Come, poet, do your duty: Do you not owe your fame to Wit; To Wit fool!—no, to Beauty. Adieu to Wit, When men submit To be the slaves of Beauty.

Quaint rogue, with his satiric page, The fellow is a lover: If I'm condemned by yonder sage, I'll give the matter over. Did'st not the world, say Hermit, quit, Imposing this hard duty, Better to contemplate on Wit? "No, to reflect on Beauty." Then, in fond fit, He turn'd from Wit, And squeez'd the hand of Beauty:

"Wit rules the mind, Beauty the heart, "Friend one, and wife the other; "Thus, cleaving to the better part, "Men leave friend, father, brother: "Hence, cried the sage—my presence quit: "Adieu friend, know thy duty:" Then, shutting rude the door on Wit, Was left alone with Beauty! Since when, poor Wit, Glad to submit, Has own'd the pow'r of Beauty.

RONDEAU—IN THE QUIZES.

OH the camp's delightful rigs, At which such crowds are peeping, Where chaises, dillies, cars, and gigs Serve both to ride and sleep in. Oh the joys that there abound, Where, lur'd by the line weather, Warriors of every rank are found, Who, higgledy piggledy, on the ground, Like gipsies pig together. The morning gun Begins the sun,

Reveilles next the drum beats, The sprightly fife, So full of life, And then the silver trumpets. And these, with all their might, Announce a fine sham fight; Marches, retreats, attacks, and routs, Proclaim'd by guns, and shrieks, and shouts, The air with various clangors fill; While ranks of foot, and troops of horse, Resistless in their headlong course, Bear down, while sidling, shifting, trimming, Beaux, bells, jew pedlars, and old women; Who, left in topsy turvy plight, Exhibit, O ye gods! a sight That beggars Greenwich hill! Now either army stilly stands, The neighing horses cease to prance, The trumpet, that erst cried advance, Now sounds retreat; Drums cease to beat; Foes, turn'd to friends, eager shake hands; On neither side the winner: No longer arm'd for a sham fight, They tooth and nail unite To exterminate—the dinner. Oh the camp's delightful rigs, &c. Oh for a muse of fire, to sing The conflict of the day! Upon a plain, in form a ring, The foe within entrenchments lay; A cover'd way Hid each division:—At the sight The heroes, eager for the fight, Arm, and the enemy invest. Each charge fresh vigour brings, They thin the ranks, Attacking flanks And wings: Legs, heads, and carcases around They in one shapeless heap confound, And, ris'n to such a savage heat, Not only kill, but all they kill they ••at! And see, to urge their furious course, Light troops the foe now reinforce;

On the instant, at they stand amazed, New works are raised, Like magic, to their wond'ring eyes, Bastions, redoubts, and rav'lins rise. Again the signal's given; Again with headlong fury driven; Comfits, now discomfited, Lie in promiscuous ruin spread; Trifles, blanc mange, and jellies quake, While, as with rage they teem, Whole islands they devour of cake, And drink whole seas of cream. Again the general cries, charge all! The word's the king! Forward they spring, And drink in savage joy the blood Drawn from the grape, in purple flood, And strew with mangled heaps the plain, And fight the battle o'er again, And slay the slain! And now, the foe all kill'd or fled, While those that can walk off to bed: The solemn trumpet's slowly sounded, Leave's given to carry off the wounded, And bury all the dead. Oh the camp's delightful rigs, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

WHILE woman, like soft Music's charms, So sweetly bliss dispenses, Some favourite pa••t each fair performs In the concert of the senses▪ Love, great first fiddle in the band, Each passion que••ls and raises, Exploring, with a master's hand, Nice Modulation's mazes; 'Till the rapt soul, supremely blest, Beams brightly in each feature, And lovely woman stands confessed The harmony of Nature.

Hark! with the pensive, in duet, The sprightly how it mingles!

The prude's the flute, and the coquette. The lively harp that tinkles. One boldly sweeps the yielding strings, While plaintive t'other prates it; Like Caesar, this to victory springs, Like Fabius, that awaits it. With various gifts, to make us blest, Love skills each charming creature: Thus lovely woman stands confessed The harmony of Nature.

Maids are of virginals the type, Widows the growling tymbal, Scolds are the shrill and piercing pipe, Flirts are the wiry cymbal. All wives piano fortes are, The bass how old maid thump it, The bugle-horn are archers fair, An amazon's a trumpet. Thus, with rare gifts, to make us blest, Love skills his favourite creature; And thus sweet woman stands confessed, The harmony of Nature.

BALLAD—IN THE QUIZES.

WHILE Fancy, as she rules the mind, Sits cock-horse on the brain, A thousand methods mortals find Elysium to obtain. 'Tis ••ound by soldiers in brave deeds, Tars trust it to the breeze, Wives hope to find it in their weeds, Physicians in their fees. Thus expectation in us plants Alternate hope and fear, I know of one whose bosom pants To find elysium here.

The toper fancies he pursues Elysium in the bowl, The hunks in pelf he dare not use, No, not to save his soul. The slanderer when he can revile, The churl when he can warn,

The lover in his mistress' smiles, The parson in his barn. Thus as they rule the mind by turns, Hope soars above the fear; I've half a mind to tell who burns To find elysium here.

I can't resist—hence prudence law's I'll finish the dispute; Of that elysium, your applause, I'm now in warm pursuit: But then, say you, to gain this heav'n, What rignt can you assert? Let it be by your goodness giv'n, It can't by my desert. So shall ye bid my labours live, So shall each following year, While you confer, and I receive, Both find elysium here.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

WHY am not I that fragrant flow'r, Near to heart Spinnetta plac'd; Which proudly living a sweet hour, Died on that bosom it had grac'd? Why am not I that gentle gale That plays around her coral lips, Her breath like violets to exhale, Which there eternal nectar sips?

Why am I not that crystal wave, At sultry noon with pride that heav'd: To which her heav'nly form she gave, Which thought 'twas Venus it receiv'd? Gods, had I been the limpid stream!— But whither do my senses ••ove? Sunk in a dear delicious dream, All things seem possible to love.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

LOVE'S a cheat; we over-rate it; A flatt••ring, false, deceitful joy;

A very nothing can create it, A very nothing can destroy. The light'ning's flash, which wondering leaves us, Obscur'd and darker than before; The glow-worm's tinsel, which deceives us, A painted light, and nothing more.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

PRAISE is a mirror, that flatters the mind, That tells us of goodness, and virtues, and graces; As that on our toilet instructs us to find The dimples and smiles which appear on our faces; To which our attention we cannot refrain, Though we draw off confus'd, yet but see its attraction, In spite of ourselves we return back again, Regard, are abus'd, and yet feel satisfaction.

I know I'm deceiv'd, and I say to my heart, You believe that sincere which is nought but profusion; Call pleasure what soon will severe make you smart, And hug that for a substance you'll find but delusion. Your praises are flatt'ry, I know it as plain As if you had said, "I am false and deceive you: But truth, reason, every thing, argues in vain; For such is my weakness, I blush and believe you.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

GO, proud lover, go! Take vour heart back again; For me 'tis too low, Too unworthy a chain. Be haughty, imperious, this gipsy despise; You rise but to fall, while I fall to rise.

True love, never erring, Has no selfish fears; That, the more 'tis conferring, The nobler appears: It has no sordid views, no vile ends for its guide, 'Tis ungovern'd by int'rest, uninfluenc'd by pride.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

YES, yes, thank heaven, I've broke my chain; And, while my liberty I gain, While I my heart redeem, Indifference succeeds at last, And my egregious follies past Appear an idle dream.

Thus from a false injurious snare, The linnet timid, unaware, Hardly escapes with pain; The feathers he has left behind. Are lessons to him to remind Not to be caught again.

The warrior bravely counts each scar, Describes the peril of the war, Well pleased his dangers o'er: The slave at last exempt from pain, With smiles behold that very chain Which held him to the oar.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

WHEN we promise an heir or a miser, This gold, that his father's free land, We pause and look grave, to seem wise••, And his fortune read in his hand.

If Miss at fifteen would discover When she'll like her mother be wife, To promise a handsome young lover Her fortune we read in her eyes.

But if husbands with jealousy quaking, Would know if they are—you know how, We consider—our heads gravely shaking— And their fortunes read on the brow.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

CONTENTMENT lost, each other treasure To ease the mind essays in vain, Riches and pomp take place of pleasure, And misery leads the splendid train.

Fortune possessing, not enjoying, Feasting the senses, not the mind, In vague pursuits our time employing, We grasp at all, and nothing find.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

COME here, ye fair; come here each lover, That lot Dame Fortune would conceal, But cross my hand, and I'll discover: I'm mistress of her and her wheel.

To trembling age we boldly promise, In spight of nature, years of health; Widows receive new husbands from us, And young men all their fathers' wealth.

We give the fair, Love's influence under, Young lovers, constant all ther lives; Nay, we e'en dare—a greater wonder— To promise husbands faithful wives.

BALLAD—IN THE WATERMAN.

IN vain, dear friends, each art you try; To neither lover's suit inclin'd, On outward charms I'll ne'er rely, But prize the graces of the mind. The empty coxcomb, which you chose, Just like the flower of a day, Shook by each wind that folly blows, Seems born to flutter and decay.

Your choice an honest aspect wears; To give him pain I oft have griev'd; But it proceeded from my fears; Than me much wiser are deceived: I thank you both, then, for your love, Wait for my choice a little while; And he who most shall worthy prove, My hand I'll offer with a smile.

BALLAD—IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.

CUPID, cried Vulcan, 'tis no jest, I'll forge thy darts no longer, boy! I cannot get a moment's rest, Thy folly gives me such employ. Not against Pallas, no, nor Mars, My worn-out patience so revolts, To furnish arms for all their wars— Nor e'en to forge Jove's thunderbolts.

Their conscience is in their demands But thou wouldst tire me out in sooth Had I Briareus' hundred hands— Cries Cupid—Dad, wilt hear the truth! The darts, thou makest, so blunt are found; Scarce do I draw my bow at men, But instantly heals up the wound, And all my work's to do again.

Vainly I lavish heaps of darts, And empty quiver after quiver; Which, while they guard their well arm'd hearts, These lovers into atoms shiver. Find out some surer temper, new— So shall, like Jove's resistless fiat, My power grow fix'd as fate—and you— Will henceforth live a little quiet.

Old Mulciber began the work— Forged dart the first—quoth Love, let's see! Then pois'd his bow, and, with a jerk, He made his co••p d'essai on me. The stroke had power each wav'ring trace Of folly from my mind to sever; And now I feel, one lovely face Has fix'd my willing heart for ever.

BALLAD—IN THE WATERMAN.

TOO yielding a carriage, Has oft before marriage, To ruin and misery pointed the way; You're shun'd if complying, But your lover once slying, How eager he'll follow and beg you to stay.

A coquette ne'er proclaim me, Ye maids, then, nor blame me, If I wish to be happy, whene'er I'm a wife; Each lover's denial, Was only a trial, Which is he that's most likely to love me for life.

BALLAD—IN HARVEST HOME.

BE others the ungracious task Of judging my too thoughtless sex, By envy dress'd in Candor's mask, That even Virtue's self suspects. Mine be the better, kinder part, While I examine well my own, To pity and forgive the heart, That has transgress'd from love alone.

Stern Justice with unshaken hand, Sprung from necessity and time, That laws he kept which rule mankind, May fix the forfeit price of crime. Judges of a softer kind, Frail error well has reason given: Pity—per••ection of the mind, And Mercy—fav'rite child of heaven.

BALLAD—IN THE COBLER.

SUCH usage as this is, what wise but myself Would put up with, and not sigh and sob;

No cross in her pocket, no food on the shelf, Or what husband would let her but Snob? And yet, let me hope, though for every crime, He had more than there's days in the year, That his heart is so good, I should still see the time, When a different man he'd appear.

But if I'm deceiv'd, while another guess wife, So treated, would scold and revile; Though poor, though confined in a prison for life, With him I'd endeavour to smile. I love him, and every way I'll pursue, That I can, his affections to keep: And if then he should slight me, I've nothing to do, But to wish he were kinder, and weep.

BALLAD—IN THE COBLER.

AH have you forgot then, unkind at you are, When housemaid I liv'd at the Squire's All the wine and good things that I crib'd with such care, Ev'ry morn when I lighted the fires? And have you forgot how I lean'd on my broom, And in rapture heard all that you said, Till scolded I got for not sweeping the room, And beat for not making the bed?

When you told me you'd have me, my brush and my mop Kept time while with pleasure I'd sing; And soon 'twas the talk at the chandler's shop, You had purchas'd the licence and ring. But when you had married, and carried me home How sweetly my time pass'd away: You swore that you lov'd, that no longer you'd roam, And I thought it would never be day.

BALLAD—IN NONE SO BLIND AS THOSE WHO WON'T SEE.

SHE who linked by her fate, To a four churlish mate, And to some smart young flatterer dares not be kind;

Who a look fears to steal, That her flame would reveal, What would that woman give, were her husband but blind.

She in youth's early bloom, By a too severe doom, To decrepid old age, whose hard parents have join'd How blest would she be, Till death set her free, Could she add to his gout, that her husband was blind.

In short, we all chuse, With our different views, And 'tis right each should pick out a mate to her mind; For me, let my dear, Since men see so clear, Be blest with a spanking large fortune—and blind.

BALLAD—IN THE LONG ODDS.

A SAYING 'twas, when I was young, That golden carts take hay in; And in my ears my mother rung, Oft times this self same saying. My dad, who, the main chance did think, Of human cares the dearest, Would cry, whene'er thou goest to drink, The deepest stream's the clearest.

I had an uncle, and his saw Was take and never render, And this he gave me as a law, While yet my years were tender. My aunt had her good adage too, Who also was my tutor: Says she, whoever comes to woo, A dower's a handsome suitor.

Let me good sir, add mine to theirs, Tell not your name for nothing, A rule I've found in all affairs, Meat, washing, drink, and cloathing. My girl, who has her parent's knack, For maxims adds a right one; No crows are found that are not black, Yet a rich crow's a white one.

SONG—IN THE SALOON.

ALAS! when once the book of life Draws towards the last page, What folly then to take a wife! Our days are on the close; And, as at one door comes in age, Love out at t'other goes. Is it not truth, That youth loves youth, Just as the zephyr loves the rose.

This law I own's severe, though just; But let us since submit we must, Submit with a good grace; Laughing at Love with all his train, And as reason takes its reign, The table and the chase, The jovial song, the sparkling wine, And a true friend, that gift divine! Shall well supply the place.

BALLAD—IN HARVEST HOME.

THERE'S something in women their lovers engage, Of whatever complexion, or stature, or age; And she who would frighten a mere stander by, Is a Venus herself in the fond lover's eye. If she's pale, never swan was a tenth part so fair; If tawny, like jet, are her eyes and her hair, If Xantippe herself, her scolding's thought wit; If me••k, all good wives to their husbands submit.

If a pigmy, how neat are her air and her mien! If a steeple, she's graceful, and walks like a queen; If a girl in her teens, all's handsome that's young; If ••ighty, her fortune says—World hold your tongue. In short to dear women 'tis given to please, And tho' the whim often should take them to teaze, To perplex, to torment, aud a thousand things more; They're the deities men were all born to adore.

GLEE.

BACCHUS come, thy vot'ry own me, 'Tis said that thou all cares can'st end: A perjured fair has basely flown me, Fled with a false perfidious friend. Let's drink!—'tis true my sorrows pass: New joys exhilerate my soul, I find a friend in every glass, And a kind mistress in the bowl.

BALLAD—IN THE GIPSIES.

WOULD'ST error leave, to follow truth, Would'st all thy cares should end, Turn here thy steps, misguided youth, And listen to a friend. Nor to Severity austere, Nor fond Indulgence, lean; But seek fair Moderation, here She holds the golden mean.

From that hand which profusely gives, Can any blessing fall? Or who a joy from that derives Which churl refuses all? Turn then, thy errors to atone, And steer a course between; Fair Moderation 'tis alone That holds the golden mean.

BALLAD—IN THE COBLER.

GAY Bacchus, and Mercury, and I, One evening a strange frolic took, And left the queer dons of the sky, To take at queer mortals a look:

But our visit ne'er alter'd the scene; The same folly, the same senseless mirth We still found, and 'tis this mortals mean When they tell us of heaven upon earth. We join'd a convivial crew, Who push'd round the claret with spunk; Bacchus swore it was nectar, and grew, Like a lord, or a tinker, soon drunk. To their concerts, that tortured my ears, Noise and Diseord so fairly give birth, That I thought 'twas a crash of the spheres, And thus music is heaven upon earth.

At Pharaoh we punted and cock'd, Till we such an example were made, That Mercury retired, quite shock'd, To be foil'd at his own proper trade, In love mortals all riot run, Beauty, honour, esteem, private worth, Politely give place to crim con: And thus love is heaven upon earth▪

As to me, my poor portion of wit In two minutes was knocked out of joint, By pun, jeux d'esprit, lucky hit, And quibble, conundrum, and point. Thus below they act o'er the same scene We play here, the same clamour and mirth, And this is the nonsense they mean When they tell us of heaven upon earth.

GLEE—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

SWEETLY, sweetly, let's enjoy The smiling moments made for love; And while we clasp the dimpled boy, The glass to you, to you shall move. And drinking, laughing, jesting neatly, The time shall pass on sweetly—sweetly. Love's arrows, dipp'd in rosy wine, To the charm'd heart like light'ning pass; And Mars feels transport more divine, When smiling Venus fills his glass.

GLEE—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

WITH mingled sound of drum and fife, We follow the recruiting life; And as we march through every fair, Make girls admire, and bumkins stare. With bumpers full we ply Sir Clown, Or else produce the well-tim'd crown; And listing first the sturdy elves, We gain their sweethearts for ourselves.

GLEE—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

TELL me, neighbour, tell me plain, Which is the best employ? Is it love, whose very pain They say is perfect joy? Is it war, whose thund'ring sound Is heard at such a distance round? Is it to have the miser's hoard? Is it to be with learning stor'd? Is it gay Pegasus to rein, Tell me, neighbour, tell me plain? No, no, will answer every honest soul, The best employ's to push about the bowl.

SONG—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

A WHILE in every nation War may b••aze around, Still spreading desolation, Yet there's hopes of peace. Awhile the billows raging, May sky and sea confound, Yet winds and waves assuaging, Storms at last will ceas••. But man by vice o'ertaken, A tempest in his mind,

His warring passions shaken, Are reeds as in the wind. Rare is the eloquence that has the charm, To rule that pestilence, or quell the storm.

BALLAD—IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

WHEN well one knows to love and please, What distresses can one prove, What can rob that heart of ease Possess'd of pleasure, rich in love?

Alas! without this sovereign good, Whose power no emperor can stay, Riches, rank, or noble blood, Honours, titles, what are they?

One tender look's to lovers worth More treasure than the Indies own; Smiles are the empire of the earth, The arms of those we love a throne.

SONG—IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.

IN the month of May, The morning grey, Firsts peeps a doubtful light; Three strikes the clock, The village cock Next crows with all his might. Each waking bird, Chirping is heard; Tinges of red the sky adorn; Bird, man, and beast, Regard the east, And, pleas'd, salute the rising morn. The shepherd now his flock unfolds; Night, like a thief, steals slow away;

His dingy hue, Ugly to view,

Is chang'd to a delightful blue; All nature's gay; And now the villager beholds, His mowers mow, his ploughers plough, Sheep bleat, birds sing, and oxen low: Each rural sound salutes his ears; He whistles to make one: And now, Usher'd by all this fine parade, In every splendid pomp array'd, Appears The radient sun. So, after abundance of toilet affairs, And Betty has nine times run up and down stairs, For lappets and ribbands, and one thing and t'other, And the house top and bottom's alarm'd with the pother. And a hundred things more are done equally risible, The lady, at last condescends to be visible.

SONG—IN THE ISLANDERS.

THIS strange emotion at my heart Oh how shall I explain? 'Tis joy, 'tis grief, 'tis ease, 'tis smart, 'Tis pleasure, and 'tis pain! The busy trembling flutterer plays, It knows not how or why? And throbs and beats a thousand ways— Ah quiet prithee lie! Cease, and sensations such as these With careful heed destroy: What good is in the same degrees Of mingled pain and joy?

BALLAD.

I MADE a promise to be wise, But 'twas a promise out of season; So much so, that I'm sure he lies Who says he always follows Reason.

I soon grew tir'd of Wisdom's dream, And turning from pale melancholy, Fell on the opposite extreme: But I at last grew tired of Folly.

Thus separate: what was next to do? Perhaps 'twould keep them to their tether If I could work upon these two To live in harmony together.

After, of course, a little strife, 'Twas settled, without farther ••other, One should be treated a•• a wife, And only as a mistress t'other.

Her portion of my joys and cares Now each, by my appointment, measures; Reason conducts all my affairs, And Folly manages my pleasures.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

OFT has the world been well defin'd, By sayers and by singers, I call't a belfrey, and mankind I call the jolly ringers. Through major bobs, and triple bobs, Each emulously ranges; And while each anxious bosom throbs, All try to ring the changes,

These college youths are sent to school, And afterwards to college. And thence return by square and rule, Well versed in worldly knowledge. As genius leads, to cram his maw, Each art's close lab'rynth ranges, And on religion, physic, law, Completely ring the changes.

The fortune hunter swears and lies, And courts the widows jointure; Then with a richer heiress flies, Nor minds to disappoint her. The widow too has her arch whim, Nor thinks his conduct strange is;

A titled heir, succceds to him, And thus she rings the changes.

The waiter pillages the greek, The greek the spendthrift fleeces, The spendthrift makes dad's fortune squeak, Dad rackrents and grants leases.

The tenants break gazette reports Each difference arranges, T••ll pro and con, through all the courts, The lawyers ring the changes.

Thus like the bells, each fear and hope, Hangs wav'ring and suspended; All tug away, while some a rope Get, more than they intended.

In merry cadence as their roll, We'll rove where reason ranges; Nor shall the bell of sadness toll, Till death shall ring the changes.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE breeze wan 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 vi••ws, Nancy the poet, 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 strewed with rigging all the deck, That tars for sharks had given a feast, And left the ship a hulk—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 spelt, for comfort, on the lid, "If you loves I as I loves you, "No pair so happy as we two"

The battle—that with horror grim, Had madly ravaged life and limb, Had scuppers drench'd with human gore, And widow'd many a wife—was o'er: When Jack, to his companions dear, First paid the tribute of a tear, Then, as his 'bacco-box he held, Restor'd his comfort, as he spell'd "If you loves I as I loves you, "No pair so happy as we two."

The voyage—that had been long and hard, But that had yielded full reward, That 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 cried, and seized the willing maid, "If you loves I as I loves you, "No pair so happy as we two."

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

IF ever a sailor was fond of good sport, 'Mongst the girls, why that sailor was I, Of all sizes and sorts, I'd a wife at each port, But, when that I saw'd Polly Ply, I hail'd her my lovely, and gov'd her a kiss, And swore to bring up once for all, And from that time black Barnaby splic'd us to this I've been constant and true to my Poll.

And yet now all sorts of temptations I've stood, For I afterwards sail'd round the word, And a queer set we saw of the devil's own brood, Wherever our sails were unfurled: Some with faces like charcoal, and others like chalk' All ready one's heart to o'erhaul, Don't you go to love me, my good girl,' said I 'walk I've sworn to be constant to Poll.'

I met with a squaw out at India, beyond, All in glass and tobacco pipes dress'd,

What a dear pretty monster! so kind, and so fond, That I ne'er was a moment at rest. With her bobs at her nose, and her quaw, quaw, quaw, All the world like a barthelmy doll, Says I, 'You Miss Copperkin, just hold your jaw, 'I've sworn to be constant to Poll'

Then one near Sumatra, just under the line, As fond as a witch in a play, 'I loves you,' says she. 'and just only be mine, 'Or, by poison, I'll take you away.' 'Curse your kindness,' says I, 'but you can't frighten 'me, 'You don't catch a gudgeon this haul, 'If I do take your ratsbane, why then, do you see, 'I shall die true and constant to Poll.'

But I 'scap'd from them all, tawny, lily, and black, And merrily weather'd each storm, And, my neighbours to please, full of wonders came back, But, what's better, I'm grown pretty warm. And so now to sea I shall venture no more, For you know, being rich, I've no call, So I'll bring up young tars, do my duty ashore, And live and die constant to Poll.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE martial pomp, the mournful train Bespeak some honoured hero slain; The obsequies demote him brave; Hark! the volley o'er his grave: The awful knell sounds low and lorn, Yet cease ye kindred brave to mourn. The plaintive fife, and muffled drum, The man may summon to his silent home; The soldier lives!—his deeds to trace, Behold the Seraph Glory place An ever-living laurel round his sacred tomb.

Nor deem it hard, ye thoughtless gay, Short's man's longest earthly stay; Our little hour of life we try, And then depart:—we're born to die.

Then lose no moment dear to fame, They longest live who live in name. The plaintive fife, &c.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

SINCE Zeph'rus first tasted the charms of coy Flora, Sure Nature ne'er beamed on so lovely a morn, Ten thousand sweet birds court the smile of Aurora, And the woods loudly echo the sound of the horn: Yet the morn's not so lovely, so brilliant, so gay, As our splendid appearance, in gallant array, When all ready mounted, we number our sorces, Enough the wild boar or the tiger to scare: Pity fifty stout beings, count dogs, men, and horses, Should encounter such peril—to kill one poor hare!

Little wretch, thy fate's hard!—thou wert gentle and blame|less; Yet, a type of the world in thy fortune we see; And Virtue, by monsters as cruel and shameless, Poor, defenceless, and timid, is hunted like thee. See! vainly each path how she doubles and tries: If she scape the hound Treachery, by Slander she dies! To o'ercome that meek fear for which men should respect her, Ev'ry art is employed, ev'ry subtle snare— Pity those who were born to defend and protect her, Should hunt to her ruin—so timid a hare!

Thus it fares with poor Merit, which mortals should cherish, As the heaven-gifted spark that illumines the mind; As Reason's best honour: lest with it should perish Ev'ry grace that Perfection can lend to mankind. Hark! Envy's pack opens; the grim lurcher, Fear, And the mongrel, Vexation, skulks sly in the rear: The rest all rush on, at their head the whelp Slander, The fell mastiff Malice, the greyhound Despair! Pity beings best known by bright Truth and fair Candour Should hunt down—shame to manhood—so harmless a hare.

Their sports at an end, harsh Reflection's begui••er To some thoughtless oblivion their souls they resign; The seducer takes pleasure, revenge the reviler, The hunter's oblivion, more harmless, is wine.

Thus, having destroyed every rational j••y That can dignify Reason, they Reason destroy: And yet not in vain, if this lesson inspirit Ought of rev'rence for Genius, respect for the Fair: So the tear of lost Virtue and poor ruined Merit The sad manes shall appease of the innocent hare.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE world's a good thing, ah how sweet and delicious The bliss and delight it contains; Dev'•• a pleasure but joy Fortune crams in our dishes, Except a few torments and pains. Then wine's a good thing, the dear drink's so inviting, Where each toper each care sweetly drowns, Where our friends we so cherish, so love and delight in, Except when we're cracking their crowns. Sing didderoo whack, take the good with the bad, So put round the claret and sherry; If the cares of this world did not make as so sad, 'Twould be easy enough to be merry.

Fait a wife's a good ting, sure to charm and content ye, To cherish and love you she's born; Show'ring joys on your brow, like the goddess of plenty, So sweet, just excepting the horn. Arrah sait the dear law a nice good ting to trust is, Just your all to its mercy devote; You'll be sure to get bed, board, and cl••athing from Justice, Except when she strips off your coat. Sing didderoo, &c.

En't a place a good ting? wh••re the loaves and the fishes, So neatly are handed about, Where you turn while your in, till you get all your wishes, Except when they're turning you out. Is not fame a good ting? ah her trump sound so glorious, And so sings forth the deeds of the brave! Nothing hinders their ••iving long, great, and notorious, Except that they're snug in the grave! Sing didderoo, &c.

Then a friend's a good ting, ah he soothes all your sorrow And softens each care of your life,

And nothing, kind soul, in return ever borrows, Except just your purse or your wife. By comparisons then since each good ting's a treasure, As the foil shews the diamond's true gla••e, Let us in this life, cherish only the pleasure, Except when we're tasting the care. Sing didderoo, &c.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

BE quiet that blackbird and thrush, So gallanting, And chanting, And whistling, And brist••ing, And warbling your song in the grove. That goldfinch and linnet pray hush; Poor Taffy is sighing, And also it crying And moreover dying For love. What a noise, only hark! Why you imprudent lark! The loud little devils to hear Gives her torture, and torment, and smart; For though honey their notes to her ear, They are bitter as gall to her heart, Her cannot for her sou•• be glad When Winifred's away; Yet it is wrong, and it is bad To chide their pretty lay; That love that makes poor Taffy sad, Makes all the grove so gay.

Pipe on, merry blackbird, and thrush, Sing your ditty, So pretty, And whiver it, And quiver it, Nature smiles, and the spring's in its prime: From each spray, and each tree, and each bush, Your madrigals pouring, Some hopping Some soaring,

Your song will be o'er in Good time. What a noise, only hark! Now's your time, Mr. Lark, When to-morrow sweet Win shall appear, You'll not make this noise, and this stir, Then a much sweeter ditty to hear, You'll leave singing, and listen, to her. Then Taffy be no longer sad, Though Winifred's away, But smile with nature, and be glad, And like the grove be gay, To-morrow pleasure's to be had, Then do not grieve to-day.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

COME away then at my call, High, low, rich, poor, fat, lean, short, tall; I undertake to furnish all A panacea to cure care. Would the old renew their youth, Would Falshood learn to charm like Truth, Would Honour in life's game be winner, Or modest Merit find a dinner, To Hope still turning black Despair, Come build castles in the air.

Here the cit, through clouds of smoke, In coffee-house who cracks his joke, Whom, at his desk, the cobwebs choke, Still imitates the spider's care: Of ton the very life and soul, Near some Hockley in the Hole, To all the guttling city beasts, Shall give such monst'rous sumptuous feasts, Genteel as any dancing bear, In his castle built of air.

Would spendthrift's ne'er put down their gigs, Would needy curat••s count tithe pigs, Would Gout dance rigadooos and jigs, Would Greeks play only on the square,

Would guilt a waking conscience blind, Would tabbies handsome husbands find, Would lawyers fight poor orphans' battles, Preserving them their goods and chattles, Would pigeons scape a well-laid snare, Come build castles in the air.

Would country hicks become polite, Would Avarice give, would Cowardice fight, Would Envy praise, would dunces write, Would Fraud fair Honour's vestments wear, Would misers know when they'd enough, Would gluttons root•• and water stuff, Would gambling cease to be alarming, Worth to be priz'd, or beauty charming, Would lovers cease to lie and swear, Come build castles in the air.

In short, all those who Nature force. Who put Life's cart before the horse, Turn Times and Seasons from their course, Build hopes by Folly's rule and square— For instance, now, did I appear, From conscious diffidence or fear, T'indulge one moment such a slander That any here were void of candour, My hopes ought all to be despair, And all my castles built in air.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

LORD what be all the rich and great, The pride of courts and cities? Their fuss, and rout, and pomp, and state, Lord how a body pities. The gouty squire, in coach and fix, My lady with her ph••hisic, His worship with the rheumatics, All sick from sloth and physic. How different we ploughmen be, Through bog, and briar, and thistle, Who work with health, and strength, and glee, And o'er the furrow whistle.

That thing, the young squire, my landlord's heir, You'd for a doll mistake it; Set on a shelf, like China ware, For fear the maids should break it: Then miss loves scandal, cheats at play, Gets tonish, bold, and spunky, Hates nasty man, then runs away, To prove it, with a monkey. How diff'rent from these imps, so spruce, With pride that swell and bristle, Are ours, formed ploughmen to produce. Who o'er the furrow whistle.

A nab••b, dress'd in stars, comes down, To our village, worth a million; His villa's here, his house in town, By the sea side his pavilion. Poor man, he'd thank his stars to seize, For his, my humble station; Why he's dy••ng of a new disease, They calls a complication. With sickness then what's high degree? What garter, bath, and thistle? Oh that the nabob could, like me, Blithe o'er the furrow whistle!

Thus honest Clump, severe, though kind, Did wit with pity season; Blest with that manly strength of mind, Taught by content and reason. In artless wit, unconscious sense, He pitied imperfection; Not ran••our, but be••••ficence, Inspiring each reflection. My wish 'gainst haughty pomp, cried he, At the poor who puss and bristle, Is—May they taste such joys as we, Who o'er the surrow whistle!

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE auctioneer mounts, and—first hawing and hemming— Addresses his audience with—Ladies and gemmen, Permit me to make on this sale a few s••rictures 'Tis compri••ed of some choice allegorical pictures.

Lot one is a portrait of Truth:—bid away! For Truth, la'es and gentlemen, what shall we say?

Suppose we say twenty thousand pounds for Truth: te•• thousand: five: one: five hundred: one hundred: twenty guineas: one guinea. Nobody put in Truth? No lover nor lawyer in company stands in need of a little truth? Any thing to begin with. 'Sixpence!' "And a half-pen|ny!!" Thank you Sir.

A going, a going, a going—come, spirit, bid on; Will nobody bid more? A going—gone. Set down Truth to the gentleman in the ragged cassoe.

Lot two is Frugality, modest and meek, Mild Content in her eye, the fresh rose on her cheek, The offspring of Prudence, the parent of Health, Who, in Nature's scant wishes, finds Craesus's wealth. What d'ye say for Frugality, ladies? O fle! What nobody bid! Nobody!!—John, put Frugality by.

Lot three: Dissipation. That's engaged: I could have sold them if I had had a thousand. Lot four: Crim Con. Oh Lord that is disposed of, by private contract. Lot five, Fashion. Come, ladies, what shall we say for Fashion? 'Twenty thousand pounds.'—Thank you Ma'am. "Twenty-five."—'Thirty.'—

A going, a going, a going—come, spirit, bid on— What nobody bid more?

'Mr. Smiler, to save trouble, you may send Fashion to my h••use upon your own terms.' Much obliged to your Ladyship.

—Going—gone. Set down Fashion to Lady Kitty Cockahoop.

Next lot is the Cardinal Virtues:—why John Some strange metamorphose they've all undergone: Why Fortitude trembles and looks like a sheep! While Temp'rance is tipsy! and Justice asleep! And as for Ma'am Prudence, she's quite in her airs! Here, John, kick the Cardinal Virtues dawn stairs.

Let me see, what have we else? Conscience. Oh Lord! Honour. Worse and worse! A parcel of antiquated stuff. What's this? Anarchy!! Why John what business has Anarchy here? I thought you knew that it was sold, long enough ago, for exportation.—And now you talk of ex|portation, you know this portrait of Popularity is to be sent, as a public gift to the Royal Br••••hers, upon the continent. Loyalty.

A hundred thousand pounds—two hundred

thousand—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—a mil|lion—two million—three million—

A going, a going, a going—come, courage, bid on: A going, a going—

Ten million in five hundred places! Oh I knew it was utterly impossible ever to find a single purchaser for Loyalty.

—Going, gone. Set down Loyalty to the whole nation. What remains there a little occasion to heed; Of Honour and Worth you have none of you need; Good Humour, and Fr••lic, and Laughter, so plump, I've sold you again and again, in a lump. The last lot's Content, of sweet Pleasure the twin. Come purchase Content, and I'll throw Pleasure in.

Come, ladies and gentlemen, what shall we say for Con|tent? It is your interest to buy Content. What beauty can smile, what alderman guttle, without Content? I had once an idea of buying it in, but my content receives all its va|lue from the reflection of yours. Come, I'll take nods and smiles for money. Much obliged to you, Sir:—particularly favoured, Ma'am:—highly honoured, Sir:—you flatter me exceedingly, Miss?

A going, a going, a going—come, courage, bid on: A going, a going—

Infinitely above the full value! I am overwhelmed with gratitude!

—A going—gone. Set down content to the present company.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

WHEN to man the distinguishing form And the nature of angels were given, His mind was imbu'd with a charm That mark'd him the fav'rite of heav'n. 'Twas smiling Benighity's grace, To the warm throbbing bosom so dear, That celestially beam'd in his face, As he shed Sensibility's tear.

Ye who Nature have learnt to subdue. Who your hearts 'gainst compassion can steel, Who know not the joys of the few,

Who are happy because they can feel, In luxury and ease as ye ro••l, Learn that bliss to the bosom so dear, 'Tis the luxury, supreme, of the soul, To indulge Sensibility's tear.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE village was jovial, the month was May, The birds were sweetly singing; Of Numps and Madge 'twas the wedding day, The bells were merrily ringing. The bridegroom came in his holiday cloaths, The bride with ribbands as red as a rose; Never did revelry so abound, The drums beat, and the joke went round: All manner of instruments loudly play'd, The hautboy squeak'd, and the bassoon bray'd. Then to see them all foot it, and jig it, and prance, Stump, figit, and reel, in the mazy dance; Thus, from when the lark rose till the stocking wa•• thrown, The fun, and the frisk, and pastime went on. Such whim and such frolic sure never was seen, Till wond'ring so long they had tarried, Young Ralph of the village and Sue of the green, Cry—what a rare thing to be married!

Now scarcely past the honey moon Still Numps and Madge are singing, But not exactly the same tune. For the bells her clapper's ringing. The Squire steps in, Numps smells a rat, Love and dear, are changed to dog and cat; Their loves turn'd hate, and grief their joys, Contentment's strife, and pleasure noise: Say a crooked word, and I'll kill you, cries he! Rams horns, if I die for't, cries out she! Night and day thus, at vic••uals, or up, or abed, He curries her hide, and she combs his head, In torment, vexation, and misery they dwell, Converting that heaven, called marriage, to hell.

The neighbours maliciously viewing the scene, While charmed that so long they had tarried, Young Ralph of the village, and Sue of the green, Cry—what a queer thing to be married!

At length to make sport of the bridegroom and bride, Whose jars in droll ditty they're singing, The wags of the village now skimmington ride, While backward the bells they are ringing. The ladles, the skimmers, the broomsticks they wield, The porringer helmet, the potlid shield, The ample ••am's horns that so grace the parade, And the petticoat rampant so gaily displayed, Denote jars domestic, and family strife, Where the dolt takes the distaff, the cudgel the wife. Thus hissing, and hooting, and grunting of hogs, And squalling of children, and barking of dogs, And shrill penny trumpets, salt boxes, and bells, And drums, and cow horns, and a hundred things else, Compose of confusions the drollest e'er seen, While charm'd that so long they had tarried, Young Ralph of the village, and Sue of the green, Cry—what a damn'd thing to be married.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

TOM Tackle was noble, was true to his word, If merit bought titles, Tom might be my lord; How gaily his bark through Life's ocean would sail, Truth furnished the rigging, and Honou•• the gale. Yet Tom had a failing, if ever man had; That good as he was, made him all that was bad, He was paltry and pitiful, scurvy and mean, And the snivlingest scoundre•• that ever was seen: For so said the girls, and the landlords long shore, Would you know what this fault was—Tom Tackle was poor!

'Twas once on a time when we took a galloon, And the crew touched the agent for cash to some tune, Tom a trip took to jail, an old messmate to free, And four thankful prat'lers soon sat on his knee. Then Tom was an angel, down right from heaven sent! While they'd hands he his goodness should never repent:

Return'd from next voyage, he bemoan'd his sad case, To find his dear friend shut the door in his face! Why d'ye wonder, cried one, you're served right to be sure. Once Tom Tackle was rich—now—Tom Tackle is poor?

I ben't you see versed in high maxims and sitch, But don't this same honour concern poor and rich? If it don't come from good hearts, I can't see where from, And dam'me if e'er tar had a good heart 'twas Tom. Yet, some how or nother, Tom never did right: None knew better the time when to spare, or to ••ight; He, by finding a leak, once preserved crew and ship, Saved the Commodore's life—then he made such rare flip! And yet, for all this, no one Tom could endure; I fancy's as how 'twas—because he was poor.

At last an old shipmate, that Tom night hail land, Who saw that his heart failed too fast for his hand, In the riding of Comfort a mooring to find, Reef'd the sails of Tom's fortune that shook in the wind: He gave him enough through life's ocean to steer, Be the breeze what it might, steady, thus, or no near; His pittance is daily, and yet Tom imparts What he can to his friends—and may all honest hearts, Like Tom Tackle have what keeps the wolf from the door, Just enough to be generous—too much to be poor.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

SAYS my father, says he, one day to I, Thou know'st by false friends we are undone, Should my lawsuit be lost, then thy good fortune try, Among our relations in London: Here's Sukey the poor orphan child of friend Grist, Who once kept thy father from starving, When thy fortune thou'st made, thou shalt take by the fist, For a wife, for she's good and deserving: But mind th••e in heart this one maxim, our Jack, As thou'st read thy good sate in a book, Make honour thy guide, or else never come back To Father, and Mother, and Suke.

So I buss'd Suke and mother, and great••y concern'd, Off I set, with my father's kind blessing,

To our cousin, the wine merchant, where I soon learn'd About mixing, and brewing, and pressing: But the sloe-juice, and ratsbane, and all that fine joke, Was soon in my stomach a rising, Why dom it, cried I, would you kill the poor folk? I thought you sold wine, and not poison: Your place, my dear cousin, won't do, for you lack, To Make your broth, another guess cook; Besides, without honour, I cannot go back To Father, and Mother, and Suke.

To my uncle, the doctor, I next went my ways, He teach'd me the mystery, quickly, Of those that were dying to shorten the days, And they in good health to make sickly. Oh the music of groans! cried my uncle dear boy, Vapours set all my spirits a flowing, A fit of the gout makes me dancing for joy, At an ague I'm all in a glowing! Why then my dear uncle, cries I, you're a quack, For another assistant go look, For you see without honour I munna go back To Father, and Mother, and Suke.

From my cousin, the parson, I soon com'd away, Without either waiting or warning, For he preach'd upon soberness three timet one day, And then com'd home drunk the next morning. My relation, the author, stole other folks' thoughts, My cousin, the bookseller, sold them, My pious old aunt found in innocence faults, And made Virtue blush as she told them! So the prospect around me quite dismal, and black, Scarcely knowing on which side to look, I just sav'd my honour, and then I com'd back, To Father, and Mother, and Suke.

I found them as great as a king on his throne, The law suit had banished all sorrow: I'm come said I father my honour's my own, Then thou shalt have Sukey to-morrow. But how about London? It won't do for a clown, There Vice rides with folly behind it, Not, you see, that I says there's no honour in town, I only says I could not find it. If you sent me to starve, you found out the right track, If to live, the wrong method you took,

For, I poor went to Londom, and poor I'm com'd back, To Father, and Mother, and Suke.

RONDEAU—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

AS dulcet found on aether floats, In soft, melodious measure, Smoothly glide the even notes That lull the soul to pleasure. Plung'd in Care, beset with Pain, Hunted by Misery's fell train, Still with each varying passion Sound shall following g••, Through all the wide vicissitudes of Joy and Woe. Shall laugh with Mirth, with Anger dare; Shall shriek with Fear; With Caution creep; With pitying Sympathy shall weep; Intrude where Melancholy pensive sits, Mock Jealousy, that loves and hates by fits, And into Madness urge despair! Then, while the extremes of Joy and Misery Clash madly, like an agitated sea, O'er the sooth'd senses shall she shed a balm, The storm of Passion lulling to a calm, Her mighty magic mark! Hark! As dulcet sound on aether float, &c. When Music's powerful charms excite, The poorest passion grows delight: Wine is not mirth, the lyre unstrung, Beauty's not beauty, if unsung. Mark! how the organ's solemn air Adds piety to prayer! Without the aid of willing sound, Joy is not pleasure, pomp not state, Love tender, nor ambition great: Without it what were heroes found, Who seek for glory, and meet fate? What consecrates their deeds and name But Music's trumpet, lent to Fame? Nor will the meanest her•• fight,

If Music lend not her delight. Let but the drum, and cheerful fife Assail his ear, He knows not fear, The sound inspires him with new life. Fired with the sprightly martial band, The foe he charges hand to hand: Rushes resistless through the ranks, With Glory fir'd! And takes those thanks Due to that valour Music had in spired. Sweet Music take me to thy eare, Breathe in my soul thy vital air; That when unruly thoughts transform My mind, with Passion's swelling storm, Conflict on conflict as they swell, And make my tortur'd mind a hell! As dulcet sound on aether floats, &c.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

A Watchman I am, and I knows all the round, The houskeepers, the strays, and the lodgers, Where low dev'••s, rich dons, and high rips, may be found, Odd dickies, queer kids, and rum codgers: Of money, and of property, I'm he that takes the care, And cries, when I see rogues go by, Hey! what are you doing there?

'Only a little business in that house:—You understand 'me?' "Understand you!—well, I believe you are an honest man. Do you hear, bring me an odd silver candle|stick —

Then to my box I creep, And then fall fast asleep. Saint Paul's strikes one, Thus after all the mischief's done, I goes and gives them warning, And loudly bawls. As strikes Saint Paul's Past one o'clock, and a cloudy morning.

Then round as the hour I merrily cries, Another fine mess I discover,

For a curious rope ladder I straightway espies, And Miss Forward expecting her lover. Then to each other's arms they fly, My life, my soul, ah ah! Fine work, Miss Hot-upon't, cries I, I'll knock up your Pappa.

'No, no, you won't.' "I shall; worthy old soul, to be treated in this manner." 'Here, here, take this.' "Oh you villain, want to bribe an honest watchman!—and with such a trifle too!" 'Well, well, here is more.' "More! You seem to be a spirited lad—now do make her a good husband—I am glad you tricked the old hunks— good night—I wish you safe at Gretna Green!—

Then to my box I creep, And then fall fast asleep. What's that? St. Paul's strike two, The lovers off, what does I do, But gives the father warning, And loudly bawls, &c.

Then towards the square, from my box as I looks, I hears such a ranting, and tearing; 'Tis Pharoah's whole host, and the pigeons, and rooks, Are laughing, and singing, and swearing. Then such a hubbub, and a din, How they blaspheme, and curse! That thief has stole my diamond pin, Watch, watch, I've lost my purse!

'Watch, here I charge you,' 'and I charges you,' "'Tis a marvellous thing that honest people can't go home with|out being robbed: Which is the thief?" 'That's the thief that trick'd me out of two hundred pounds this evening,' "Ah that you know is all in the way of busi|ness, but which is the thief that stole the gentleman's purse?" 'That's him.' "What Sam Snatch? Give it to me Sam. He has not got your purse—you are mis|taken in your man. Go home peaceably, and don't oblige me to take you to the watch-house.—

Then to my box I creep, And then fall fast asleep What's that? St. Paul's strikes three— Thus from all roguery I gets free, By giving people warning, And loudly bawls, &c.

BALLAD—IN THE RAZOR GRINDER.

TOM Turnwell is my name, my boys, I'll strike a stroke with any, The trade that all my time employs, To get an honest penny, As good, as just, as most you'll find. With rubbing stone, And strop, and hone, I whet the very sharpest steel; And cry the while I turn my wheel, Pen-knives, scissars, Cleavers, Razors, Chopping knives to grind.

I'm useful throughout all the town, The smooth and pampered glutton, When e'er to dinner he sits down, Can never carve his mutton, Unless his knife is to his mind. With rubbing stone, &c.

The pretty dame who sweet can smile, Who is for ever smirking, And who the minutes can beguile, With love as well as working, Would she her scissars sharpened find. With rubbing stone, &c.

My friend the barber o'er the way, Who daily lathers many, And picks up pretty well each day, By shaving for a penny; To me his razors are confign'd. With rubbing stone, &c.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

ALL endeavours fruitless prove Former pleasure to regain, Sunk in helpless, hopeless love— Can the slave escape his chain?

Leave, O leave me to endure, Probe not wounds that rend my heart; When the patient's part a cure, Med'cine but augments his smart.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

THE trifling maid, who, idly vain, Contemns a faithful lover's pain, His torment all her joy; Who, changeful as an April day, With captive hearts delight to play, As infants with a toy: Deserves of Cupid's bitter draught, To taste a drop, and from his shaft A stroke or two to feel; Then tremble, Nymph, for, taught by me, Strephon shall soon give wounds to thee, No vanity can heal.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

MY bosom is proof against transports and vows, The fawning of treacherous man, Who by artful grimaces, by cringing and bows, Ensnares ev'ry woman he can. His transport is false, and his vows are a cheat, His oaths and his cringing a lie, Each practic'd alone their desires to compleat, And gain what we ought to deny.

Poor Daphne too soon own'd the flame in her breast, Too easy, too quickly was won; Her swain from that moment a rover confess'd, Forsook her, a maiden undone: And knew, if young Str••phon had conquer'd my heart, To my wish were none p••easing as he, I sooner would die, than this secret impart, 'Till I prov'd he as truly lov'd me.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

YE flowers that bloom in yonder mead, Where flows the crystal tide, And nibling lambkins sportive feed Along the current's side, Ye oft have seen, and smil'd to see, My love to him, his love to me.

Witness ye flocks, ye herds, ye fawns, That o'er the pastures stray, Witness, ye mountains, groves, and lawns, Each painted child of May: The greatest bliss I ere can prove Is to return my shepherd's love.

DUETTO—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

Strephon.

TURN, O turn, relentless fair, Pity hapless Strephon's pain, Raise him from the last despair, Smile, and bid him live again.

Caelia.

Prythee lay aside your folly; How can I or take or give Sprightly mirth, or melancholy; But if that contents you—live.

Strephon.

Too well you know your art and pow'r, Ev'ry way my woes to calm, The wound will heal from that sweet hour Wherein you pour a friendly balm.

Caelia.

Truth I pity your condition, But if your poor heart must bleed 'Till I act your kind physician— Your case is desperate indeed.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

IN ev'ry fertile valley Where nature spreads the grass, Her silly conduct rally To ev'ry lad and lass; Where weary reapers labour, With Sylvia gay, be seen, O•• to the pipe and tabor, Light tripping o'er the green.

Where cowslips sweetly smiling, Bedeck the verdant shade, Appear the hours beguiling. Or head some gay parade. Pursue these methods boldly, Nor sink in hopeless grief; The fair once treated coldly, Will quickly grant relief.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

HAUGHTY Caelia, still disdaining, Ne'er shall triumph o'er my heart; Ne'er will I with mean complaining Sue for comfort to my smart; I'll appear the careless rover, Let her coquettish airs affect, Like a gay a happy lover, Treat contempt with cold neglect.

Ne'er, ye fair ones, damp the passion Where with honour love attends, Never cross with indignation Love that fairest truth commends. Constant minds alike disdaining Insincerity and fraud, Are their utmost wish obtaining, While their hope their hearts applaud.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

SINCE artful man so oft betrays, By subtle wiles, and hardy ways, Our weak unguarded sex; By oaths, dissembl'd sigh's and fears, To melt the heart, to charm our ears, And still our minds perplex: In revenge I'm determin'd to treat him with scorn, And shew him a nymph can perplex in her turn.

But Strephon's heart with purest fire, With kindest love, and fond desire, Has ever warmly glow'd: Yet his mny be like all the rest, A treach'rous bait to snare the breast, And so my fears forbode: Those fears then shall teach me to treat him with scorn And shew him a nymph can insnare in her turn.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

THE God of love will ever Heap blessing's on the pair, Where pleasing's the endeavour, Both of the swain and fair. Believe me kind good-nature, Of beauty stands in place, Gives bloom to ev'ry feature, To ev'ry action grace: Then never flight the lover, Or d••aw too tight his chain, Least in the end the rover Succeeds the dying swain.

AIR—IN THE SHEPHERD'S ARTIFICE.

A SHEPHERD long sigh'd for a beautiful fair, And in rapture discover'd his love;

Not doubting the nymph would dispel his fond care And his amorous transport approve: Tho' she to compassion insensible grown, No gl••mpse of delight would impart; When he sigh'd at her feet she reply'd with a frown, And rejoic'd at his suff'rings and smart.

He suffer'd long time this impertinent scorn, Nor thought of upbra••ding the fair, But secretly pin'd in the bower forlorn, Involv'd in the keenest despair; 'Till his friend who observ'd him heart-wounded with grief, Lamenting his fruitless desire, Resolv'd that the nymph should afford him relief, And in turn feel the force of love's fire.

Too artful, her passion she never had own'd, Tho' it triumph'd alone in her breast; But laugh'd while the shepherd in misery moan'd, And wander'd a stranger to rest: Advis'd then his bosom no longer to vex: But her haughtiness treat with disdain; He own'd a feign'd courtship, her breast to perplex, And convert to delight all his pain.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

THE Phoenix, we're told, has the Sun for his ••ire, That he lives to five cent'ries or more: That he then gathers gums and reeds in good store, With these makes a fire; In the midst of which fire being seated. His wings are the bellows Which kindle it up till 'tis properly heated; And farther they tell us, When no longer in flame this combustible flashes, A spick and span new one jumps out of the ashes.

Another wise tale to a dragon gave birth, Whole teeth, it is said, were but sown in the earth, When 'tis gravely attested, and let who will smile. That a regiment of soldiers appear'd rank and file. These stories, 'tis granted, are very absurd; No man ever saw such a dragon or bird

Yet folly and love to be met with asunder, I hold a phenomenon of such a kind, A rarity so much more worhty to brag on, That sooner than set out this wonder To find— I'd be bound to produce you both phoenix and dragon.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

I'M up to all your tricks, my dear, How the winds you make your letters bear, My care and vigilence to queer, But little are you winning: You know tis true my pretty youth, You send 'em East, West, North, and South, Don't laugh—lest t'other side your mouth, You should be after grinning. You Master! don't believe it, love; I'm Juno still, and you are Jove; Whom Fate has plac'd me far above, Nor her decrees could'st alter: Then yie••d with grace the sovereign rule, Not think to make me thus a tool, For those who hang me for a fool, Will find a knave in the halter.

RONDEAU—IN THE CESTUS.

THINK not here to drive your gig, Madam Juno; I'll make you know, Who's at home, or burn my wig, Why, I'll know the reason. You may grin, but I'll bet twenty, Her Lord and Master, I shall cast her; And as to witnesses, I've plenty, In 'good time and season. Think not, &c.

Shall I by her—my goods and chattels, Be led by the nose here, Nor dispose her As I list—Why, Sir, these battles, 'Gainst me are petty treason. Think not, &c.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

WITH that begirt, each dowdy girl Gets every charm, does she but ask it; Her teeth become a row of pearl, Enclos'd within a coral casket. Carnations bloom upon her cheeks, Roses take place of blotch and pimple; The air's perfum'd whene'er she speaks, And Cupids play in every dimple.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

WHO calls on her whose powerful art, Erects a throne in every heart; Whose love all court, whose anger fear— Venus yclept—behold her here. Sighs some fond youth his love unkind, Wou'd he some watchful Argus blind? Glows some fair virgin's modest cheek, With wishes that she dare not speak? Who calls, &c.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

FINE sport, indeed, for god and godlin, To see great Jove become Moll Codlin; And threat his wife with fist and horsewhip, Because she loves a little gossip, Yet he, forsooth, can trot and amble, And after scores of misses ramble;

Leave, gods, at Hercules your grinning, The master of the world's a spinning. Though while such worthy work is doing, Slap goes the universe to ruin; The trumpet sounds wars rude and civil, Convulse the earth, while to the devil They go their own way, and no wonder, His light'ning's out—asleep his thunder.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

HEAR the merry minstrel sound, On the ear it rings, While all the strings, Are one entire vibration, The tinkling pleasure spreads around. And as it plays, Sweetly conveys, From sense to sense, Soft eloquence, In thrilling circulation.

But stringless, broken, out of tune, Time••s thrown away; For did you play. Without the least cessation, And strum from January till june; You still may bang, At every twang, The dismal hum, The more you thrum. But speaks its mutilation. But hear, &c.

Just so let down its pegs, the heart In sadness sits, Nor once admits Of any c••nsolat••on; But screw it into tune, each smart, And anxious care, Dissolves to air, Alone its joys The mind ••mploys, And all is jubilatio••. So hear the, &c.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

HOW happy she, who ne'er can know The misery of the great; Who, far from reach of scepter'd woe, Finds in her low estate, Joy in her innocence—delight In scenes that still present; Pleasures that health and strength excite, And transport in content:

One brook, her mirror and her drink, The happy wanderer seeks; And as her lambs play round its brink, Good Nature paints her cheeks. Few are her wants, certain her joy; For reason's glad consent Points out her innocent employ, And guides her to content.

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

SPORTSMEN who are staunch and true, Ne'er the timid hare pursue; Quiv'ring, quaking; Shiv'ring, shaking; Trembling, tott••ring in her flight, She their pity wou••d excite. But who, a badger set at bay, Wishes not to make his prey? Where's the heart compassion shocks To ensnare the subtle fox? Come on, then, and partake the spoils, Cunning Reynard's in the toils. Sly and artful I'll prepare, For my madam such a snare, So close and cunning a wise gin, With her eyes open she'll run in.

'Ware haunches, Juno, for I'll follow Hard at your heels with a view hollow!

AIR—IN THE CESTUS.

MEEK I'll be as Venu's dove? Your presence court, your absence mourn; Love shall be the price of love, And kindness ask a kind return. Folly shall ne'er my mind defile, From prudence will I ne'er depart, My face shall wear a constant smile, And duty govern my heart.

AIR—IN GREAT NEWS.

COME buy my straw, and I'll give you a song, I dont say my song any satire contains, I do'nt say it touches on physic or law, The knave's cunning thrift, or the usurer's gains; I don't say it execrates cheating at play, Or points out to scorn every knave in life's throng; Or dispises the slanderer, the utmost I say, Is, buy my straw, and I'll give you a song.

I don't say the man, who disseminates strife, Through a land, the world's wonder rich prosperous and brave, That protection affords to his children, and wife, Is a good deal a fool, and a little a knave. I don't say the thief, who your purse steals away, Is more honest than the t'other who does you foul wrong, Under friendship's fair vizzard, the utmost I say Is, buy my straw, and I'll give you a song. I don't say young gentlemen, cause 'tis the rage To be render'd notorious by public eclat, While poor beauty, and youth, loose their power to engage, Are wrong to steal off, with some spruce grandmama. 'Gainst monkeys and apes, I don't mean to inveigh,

Nor do I assert that their feelings are wrong, Who wish worth at the devil: the utmost I say Is, buy my straw and I'll give you a song.

I don't say that honour, fair dealing, and truth, Are better than fraud, and chicanery and lies, That the mastiffs of age, and the puppies of youth, Howe're we may pity, we still must despise. Nay did one whip sol••y, even thou••h one should flay, Her own baek for materials to furnish the thong, Do I say she••d ••e callous, the utmost I say Is, buy my straw, and I'll give you a song.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

BESEECH you, would ye, gentle folks, Dame fortunes gifts reveal; I can at wil•• turn all the spokes, That guide her fickle wheel: Nor dregs of tea, nor coffee grounds, That mystic apparatus, Need I to shew life's ups and downs To ev'ry Fortunatus: The smiling road to human bliss, Wou'd you pursue, the myst'ry's this— He that's content hath fortune found, Cheerly with him her wheel goes round.

Gluttons blame fortune for that gout They from intemp'rance feel, While yonder iron muscled lout Enjoys his scanty meal: The indolent poor fortune curse To fill up life's hiatus, While the industrious find the purse, And cap of Fortunatus. The smiling road to human bliss, Thus court your steps, the myst'ry's this He that's content, &c.

Then customs ideots, do not say Fortune can blindly err, If to her fane you miss the way, 'Tis you are blind, not her.

The even path before us lies To where her gifts await us, And he contentment hath made wise, Is the true Fortunatus. The smiling road to human bliss, Come then and tread, the myst'ry's this, He that's content, &c.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

INSPIRED by so grateful a duty, In terms strongest art can devise, Bards have written those raptures on beauty, That lovers have wasted on sighs: I, to fill the sweet theme more completely, Sing the beauty of goodness the while, For every face is dress'd sweetly, Where beams a benevolent smile.

While the heart some beneficent action, Contemplates, with joy the eyes speak, On the lip quivers mute satisfaction, And a glow of delight paints the cheek. Bliss pervades every feature completely, Adding beauty to beauty the while, And the loveliest face looks more sweetly, Where beams a benevolent smile.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

SWEET is the ship that under sail, Spreads her white bosom to the gale, Sweet, oh! sweets the flowing can; Sweet to poise the labouring oar, That tugs us to our native shore, When the boatswain pipes the barge to man; Sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze; But oh! much sweeter than all these, Is Jack's delight his lovely Nan.

The needle faithful to the north, To shew of constancy the worth, A curious lesson teaches man: The needle time may rust, a squall Capsize the binacle and all, Let seamanship do all it can: My love in worth shall higher rise, Nor time shall rust, nor squall's capsize, My faith and truth to lovely Nan.

When in the bilboes I was penn'd, For serving of a worthless friend, And every creature from me ran; No ship performing quarentine, Was ever so deserted seen, None hail'd me woman, child, nor man; But though false friendship's sails were furl'd. Though cut a drift by all the world, I'd all the world in lovely Nan. I love my duty, love my friend, Love, truth, and merit to defend, To moan their loss who hazard ran; I love to take an honest part, Love beauty and a spotless heart, By manners love to shew the man; To sail through life, by honour's breeze— 'Twas all along of loving these First made me doat on lovely Nan.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

DON'T you see that as how I'm a sportsman in style, All so kickish, so slim, and so tall; Why I've search'd after game and that many's the mile, And seed no bit of nothing at all; My licence I pockets, my poney I strides, And I pelts through the wind and the rain, And, if likely to fall, sticks the spurs in the sides, Leaves the bridle and holds by the mane; To be sure dad at home kicks up no little strife, But dabby what's that, en't fashion and life?

At sporting I never was know'd for to ••ag, I was always in danger the first,

When at Epsom last Easter they turned out the s••ag, I'm the lad that was rolled in the dust; Then they call me a Nincom why, over the fields, There a little beyond Dulwich Common, I a chick and a goose, tumbled head over heels, And two mudlarks, besides an old woman: Then let miserly dad, kick up sorrow and strife, I'm the lad that's genteel, and knows fashion and life.

But don't go for to think I neglects number one, Often when my companions, with ardour, Are hunting about with the dog and the gun, I goes and I hunts in the larder: There I springs me a woodcock or flushes a quail, Or finds puss, as she sits under cover, Then so ho! to the barrel, to start me some ale, And when I have dined and fed rover, Pays my landlord his shot, as I ogles his wife, While the daughter cries out, lord what fashion and life.

Then I buys me some game, all as homeward we jog, And when the fo••ks a•• how I got 'em, Though I shooted but once, and then killed the poor dog, I swears and then stand's to't I shot 'em; So come round me ye sportsmen that's smart and what not, All stilish and cutting a flash, When your piece won't kill game, charged with powder and shot, To bring 'em down, down with your cash; And if with their jokes, and their jeers, folks are rife Why dabby says you, 'ent it fashion and life.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

SEE, see to join the revel rout, All hopping, skipping, prancing, With squeak and squall, and shriek and shout, A••l sorts and sizes prancing, As old as poles and big as tuns, Three graces lead the revels, Then devils tame as lambs, And Nuns as impudent as devils.

'Do you know me?'—"Oh! yes, excellent well—you are a fish monger:"—'No I en't; I am a methodist preacher.'— "Then I would you were so honest a man."

Thus leaving every care behind, The pack stale reason scorning, Chase pleasures of the night to find, The head ache of the morning.

See all conditions, sexes, years, Unite to keep the farce on, A swearing quaker next appears, And next a drunken parson; Beaux, chattering nonsense loud in peals, Bells, furnished well with clappers, Tumblers, and dancers without heels, And lawyers without nappers.

'Do you know me?'—"Oh! ye••, very well—you are Venus."—'Will you be my Mars?'—"With all my soul."— 'Come unmask, and let me behold the beauties of the Cy|prian Queen.'—"Let us unmask together."—'Agreed.'— "Oh! plague and misfortune, my husband!"—'Oh! hell and the devil, my wife!'

Thus leaving every care behind, The pack stale reason scorning, Chase pleasures of the night, to find The head ache of the morning.

At last to close their noisy mirth, At finis to this kick up, From the supper room they issue forth, And roar, and rant, ana hiccup; My angel—whan—zounds, pull his nose, Sir do you mean to bam me? I've lost my wig—he's spoilt my clothes, A ring, boo, scoundrel, da••me.

'An old cloaths man to call the grand Turk a scoundrel!— Satisfaction.' "A ring." 'Dabby, I never boxes.' "Kick him out." 'Yea I will.' "I was never see any thing so droll in my life." 'Ah! there'll be murder.' "Arrah fait that's right, exchange addresses.' I'll eat him up alive—I'll maul the villain." 'Hark forward—Oh! its a fine row, dabby I love a row.'

The pack thus leaving care behind, And musty reason scorning, Chase pleasures of the night, to find The head ache of the morning.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

SAY soldier which of glory's charms, That heroes' souls enflame, Gives brightest lustre to their arms, Or best ensures their fame? Is it her lion-mettled rage, Let loose from ardour's den, Legion with legion to engage, And make men slaughter men? Is it to a defenceless foe, Mild mercy to forbear, And glut the call of vengeance? No; The brave delight to spare: 'Tis clemency pale misery's friend, Foremost in glory's van, To dry the starting tear, and blend The hero with the man.

Then on the wretch fall double shame, Who, in foul slander lored, Knows war alone by murder's name, The soldier by the sword: 〈…〉〈…〉 out of evils come, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 once the conflict cease, The eagle brings the halcyon home, War courts the smiles of peace: Yet, he to higher merit vaults, Who glory's track hath trod, Great, generous merit that exalts, A mortal to a God: 'Tis clemency, pale misery's friend, Ever in glory's van, To dry the starting tear, and blend The hero with the man.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

ANACREON tells us that mortals mere clods, By the drink they love best are exalted to gods,

And fate there's no lie in the truth on't, don't wine, Though as beastly as devils, make topers divine? Three treads in a trice makes a god of poor snip, Tars are every one Neptunes when e'er they drink flip, To be Jove, or Apollo, or Mars, would ye chuse, Ah! you've nothing to do but get drunk with Rambooze.

Then a natural transition from heaven, if you go Down to hell, ah! you'll find them all drinking below, Each striving in Lethe to hurry his care; The seducer forgets when he ruined the fair, Greeks the pillory forget they so richly deserve, The usurer forgets when he let the man starve, The perjurer forgets that he died in his shoes, But let us all such rascals forget in Rambooze.

Our Shelah, cried out, one day, making her moan. From my arms, where I held him fast, Taddy is gone, And though in my presence he always will stay, For ever the wanton young rogue's fled away: I'm dead, and I'm kilt, and shall never recover, Heaven take me, or give me that heaven, my lover, Teach me how to be mad, or my senses to lose, My dear creature, cried I, just get drunk with Rambooze.

When hard at the whiskey an Irishman pulls, In search of Europas, he rides upon bulls, Of liquors large libations Italians scare swallow, But every squalini becomes an Apollo: Then each fair one's a goddess, don't every she, Like an angel, talk scandal, whene'er she drinks tea, You most Helicon sip, would you turn to a muse, And, if you'd be Bacchus, get drunk with Rambooze.

But did I not stop I should never have done, In me all the Deities centre in one; I'm as valiant as Mars, and as mighty as Jove, As cunning as Mercury, as am'rous as Love: I'm Apollo and Momus, together for wit, And I boast an Olympus my godship to fit, For what better heaven, upon earth, can I choose, Than good health, a kind wife, a true friend and Rambooze?

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

WHERE a learned physician who writes for all ills, 'Stead of taking a guinea obliged to take pills, Or compell'd to examine mortality's bills, For his own and his brethren's slaughter: Were an ideal widow her spouse given over, At the moment a promise she made to her lover, Advertised that her husband began to recover, Both these would be fish out of water: Odd fish, queer fish, strange fish, droll fish— In short they'd be fish out of water.

Did a methodist preacher, leave fleecing his flock, Did witlings let in common sense, should she knock, Did a toper reel homewards before three o'clock, Did puppies find taste when they sought her, Were a rook, by a pigeon, choused out of his booty, Did a wife, kind and handsome, and true to her duty, Meet a brute, unattracted by goodness or beauty, All these would be fish out of water, Odd fish, &c.

Should true limbs of the law, while extending their palms, From honour or conscience, be troubled with qualms, Should spendthrifts grow prudent, or misers give alms, Or honesty tempt a defaulter, Did a lover, in high expectation, when ready, At the place of appointment, sequestered and shady, Encounter a broomstick instead of a lady, All these would be fish out of water. Odd fish, &c.

Did a tar, or in private, or public strife, For his king, or his friend, fear to venture his life, Did a jolman, from Ireland, in search of a wife, Expect fortune, and meet with her daughter, In short from mankind, did one strip off the vizard, Without fear of, passing for witch, or for wizzard, One might see 'twould so cursedly stick in each gizzard, That they'd all appear fish out of water: Odd fish, &c.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

THE squirrel that jingles his bells in his cage, Is the type of that folly and strife, Call't the fashion, the ton, or the kick, or the rage, That makes up the bustle of life: On the wheel of dame fortune, now high, and, now low, As they amble, and gallop, and pace, While in search of that phantom called pleasure they go, Each strives to be first in the chase: So round, round, round goes scug in his cage, And jingles his bells with a fuss and a rage, Still turning about and about, And when tir'd with his journey remains in the place, Exactly where first he set out.

In search after knowledge, the book worm explores, Where nature's wide regions expand, But though fancy conducts him to numberless shores, He never once touches on land: His bark's tost in storms of opinions that rage, Nor truth's trackless path can he trace, Till error and doubt bring the night of old age, Fair certainty's day to deface. So round, &c.

The novice goes forward in search of a friend, To share both his heart and his pelf, Till humbled and tired with his toil without end, He at last makes a friend of himself: One who fairness professed, picked his pocket at play, One deceived him, and laughed in his face, One he shewed to his mistress, soon stole her away, One was mean and another was base. So round, &c.

Thus men miss the substance, and grasp at the name, Thus projectors find midnight at noon, Thus heroes chase bubbles, and fancy them fame, And thus children cry for the moon. Those are pleasures alone that lead reason's f••ir train, The rest bring but shame and disgrace, And though you may start them again and again, Vexed and tired you'll give over the chase. So round, &c.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

'TWAS one day at Wapping his dangers o'erhauling, Jack Junk cock'd his jemmy and broach'd a full can, While a possee of neighbours of each different calling, Cried only but hear what a marvellous man: Avast, cried out Jack, what's there marvellous in it? When his time's come the stoutest of hearts must comply.

Why now you master tallow chandler, by way of throwing a little light on the subject, don't you think 'tis better to be extinguished when one's fighting in defence of one's country, than to stay at home lingering and go out like the snuff of a candle?

Then like men do your duty, we have all our minute, And at sea or ashore we shall live till we die, Hurraw, hurraw, hurraw boys let's live till we die.

Why now you master Plumber, that marvels at billows, I shall founder at sea, and you'll die in your bed; What of that? some have sods, and some waves for their pillows, And 'its likely enough we may both die of lead: And as for the odds, all the difference that's in it, I shall pop off at once, and you'll lingering lie.

Why smite my crooked timbers, who knows but master Snip, there, may slip his cable and break his back with taking the ninth part of a fall off the shopboard into his own hell.

Then like men, &c.

As for you master Bricklayer to make out your calling, A little like mine e'n't a matter that's hard, Pray mayn't you from a ladder or scaffold be falling, As easy as I from a rattling or yard: Then for you its commission a tile may bring in it, As soon as a shot or a splinter for I.

As for master Doctor, the Undertaker, and Sexton, they don't want no wipe from me, they sends too many folks contented to their long home, not to know how to go there contentedly themselves.

Then like men, &c.

And when Captain Death comes the reckoning to settle, You may clear ship for action as much as you like,

And behave like a man, but he 'as such weight of metal, At the very first broadside the bravest must strike. And when you have said all you can what's there in it, Who to scud 'gainst a storm but a lubber would try.

For as to qualms of conscience, cheating customers, be|traying friends, and such like, being a set of honest trades|men, men, I dare say you are perfectly easy about these sort of things.

Then like men, &c.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

IN one thou'd'st find variety, Cried Dick, would'st thou on wedlock fix? I rather should expect, cry'd I, Variety in five or six; But never was thy counsel light, I'll do••t my friend—so said, so done. I'm noo••'d for life, and Dick was right, I find variety in one. Her tongue has more variety Than music's system can embrace; She modulates through every key, Squeaks treble, and growls double base; Divisions runs, and trills, and shakes, Enough the noisy spheres to stun; Thus, as harsh discord music makes, I find variety in one.

Her dress boasts such variety, Such ••orms, materials, fashions, hues, Each animal must plunder'd be, From Russian bears to cockatoos. Now 'tis a feather, now a zone, Now she's a gipsy, now a nun, To change like the camelon prone, En't this variety in one?

In wedlock's wide variety, Thought, word, and deed, we both concur, If she's a thunder storm to me, So I'm an April day to her: Devil, and Angel, black, and white, Thus as we Hymen's gauntlet run,

And kiss, and scold, and love, and fight, Each finds variety in one.

Then cherish love's variety, In spite of every sneering elf, We're nature's children, and en't she, In change, variety itself? Her clouds, and storms are willed by fate, More bright to show her radiant sun; Hail then blest wedlock in whose state, Men find variety in one.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

IF you'll only just promise you'll none of you laugh, I'••l be after explaining the French Telegraph; A machine that's endow'd with such wonderful pow'r, It writes, reads, and sends news fifty miles in an hour: Then there's watch words, a spy glass, an index or hand, And many things more none of us understand; But which, like the nose on your face, will be clear, When we have, as usual, improv'd on them here.

Oh! the dabblers in lotteries will grow rich as Jews, Steap of flyi••g of pigeons, to bring them the news, They'll a Te••egraph place, upon Old Ormond Quay, Put another 'board ship, in the midst of the sea: And so on to town each to tell through the rank, The first thousand pound prize was that morn drawn a blank, And thus if the air should but chance to be clear, In two hours will the news of Dear Dublin fly here.

When the Newmarket squad to the races go down, By confederates, and Telegraphs, stationed in town, They'll get news long before the mail coaches come in, Plates, matches, and sweepstakes, who lose, and who win: And how after a crossing, and joss••ing, dead heat, That Black Legs, and Rook were by Belzebub beat, Ah! just let them alone by my soul there's no fear, But the turf will improve on the Telegraph here.

Ah! then what a sure guide will the Telegraph prove, To promote their designs who are dying for love, If an old married lady shou'd court a young man,

Can't she make a spy glass with the sticks of her fan? Then suppose an appointment, the hour to be two, Can't the index point thus and the watch word be boo? Sure didn't I tell you I'd make it appear, 'Twill be mighty convenient improved upon here.

Adieu penny posts, mails, and coaches adieu, Your occupation is gone, 'tis all over wid you, In your place Telegraphs, on our houses we'll use, To tell time, conduct light'ning, dry shirts, and send news:

Thus while signals, and flags▪ stream on top of each street, The town, to a bir••, will appear a grant fleet, And since England's grand fleet, to the French convey fear, Sure shant we improve on their Telegraph here.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

WHEN I first went to school it was all my delight, To con something or other from morning to night; I would never conform, nor confess, nor consent, And however conjured, I never was content: But so well I'd confuse, and conceal and contrive, And cons••i••e, and concert, and controul, and connive, And confute and contest, and confound, and so on, No boy in the school was so pat at a con.

Scarcely did I emancipate, manners to know, But a strange predilection I cherished for pro; I proceeded with care, wou'd propose, and protest, And promoting but little, a great deal professed. Procured rich connections, old friends to provoke, With a titter provided, prolonged my lord's joke, And pronounced each man's friend, and producing no foe, I left little con, and stuck tightly to pro.

Thus well with the world, my next thought after this, Was to yield to the ton, and to keen a fine miss, But here I miscarried, was after misled, Mismatched, and mislaken, and every way sped: Miss's conduct misgave me, and full of mistrust, I set my miss down where I took her up first, Glad I'd met with no mishap, nor worse mischief than this, And resolved my next frolick shou••d not be amiss.

Still playing on words, and resolved to get rich, I learnt there were hows—but then how to find which, Fortunes were to be nabbed, I find out now and then, And knew something of where, but I cou'd not tell when: Scarce an if had formed hope, when a but produced fear, Then in searching out there, I soon lost myself here, 'Till betwixt and between, this and that, somehow, I, In search of the wherefore, lost sight of the why.

Thus ringing the changes on life's wordy war, I found its sheet anchor existed in for; And, by prudence forwarned, folly's joys to forbear, Soon did all nonsense forsake, and forswear; For the world, for society, destined to live, When by any one wronged I forget and forgive, Keep my fortune in petto for honourab••e ends, Just enough for myself, and the rest for my friends.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

TELL me not of men's follies, their whims and caprices, That the sum of their vices each moment encreases, That ••ike monsters of prey every friend his friend fleeces, Still striving to cheat, to cajo••e and trapan: If nature implanted the passions that rule us, If custom her shadow deludes us and fool us, Acquitted by candour where rigour would school us, Lay the blame on the manners and not on the man.

Should a beauty involved in the vortex of pleasure, Where of bliss flimsy fashion supplies the gay measure, Yield some villain accomplished her virtue's sole treasure, And in that abyss plunge that no ray of hope cheers: While you grieve that simplicity's charms were denied her, That of innocence little she e'er had to guide her, Though fal••'n ne'er to rise, do not scorn, nor deride her, But, forg••tting her errors, ah! pity her tears.

Should a youth, for an opulent station intended, On whom lavish parents large sums have expended, 'Stead of virtues and talents distinguished and splendid, Confirm vice at college imbibed when at school; Low his mind, with no firmness, no discrimination, From Pieria's fount stead of making libation,

Should he roll down the torrent of wild dissipation, In his loss to society pity the fool.

These, these, as I look through the world, are my feelings; For, deal with mankind on a par with their dealing From accused, and accuser, the eternal appealings, Soon justice would wreck on chicanery's shelf: Then hypocrites pity, the saint hides a sinner, Of the poet buy nonsense, the man wants a dinner, Thus, lose whoe'er may. still shall you be a winner, For in pitying others you honour yourself.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

TOM TRUELOVE woo'd the seweetest 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 named her for his bride, A sail appeared, ah fatal sight! For grief his love had died; Must I, cried he, those charms resign, I loved so dear, so well? Would they had tolled instead of thine, Tom Truelove's knell.

Break heart at once and there's an end, Thou all that heaven 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 tried, Sen•• news, one rough, tempestuous night, That his dear friend had died: And thou too! must thee resign, Who honour loved so well? Would they had tolled instead of thine, Tom Truelove's knell.

Enough, enough, a salt sea wave, A healing balm shall bring; A sailor you cried one, and brave? Live still to serve your king!

The moment comes, behold the foe; Thanks generous friend, he cried, The second broadside laid him low, He named his love and died: The tale, in mournful accents sung, His friends still sorrowing tell, How sad, and solemn, three times rung, Tom Truelove's knell.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

I'VE thought and I've said it sin I were a boy, That what folks get at easy they never enjoy; Why I was the same, at what's homely I'd scoff, But how fine if it comed a good many miles off: So big with this fancy, though but a poor clown, I hied me away for to see the great town, Where they push'd me, and throng'd me all as one as a fair, Then they'd titter, and snigger, and laugh, then I'd stare, Why bumkin did'st e'er see such sin'ry as this, In your place, cried a monkey in trowsers, why yes! You'd your joke master coxcomb, and now I'll have mine, I've seen peacocks and gold finches t••n times as fine: So I left master whissle, and whistled along, Then humm'd to myself the fag end of a song; The good that we wish for mayn't match what we've got, Their minds are their kingdom, who're pleased with their ••ot, And to whatever place discontented folks roam, At last they'll be forced to say this of their home, Our friends are as true, and our wives are as comely, And damn it home's home, be it ever so homely.

So since for strange sights, I to town took my range, Faith I zeed sights in plenty, and all of them strange, I zeed folks roll in riches, who pleasure ne'er knew, I zeed honest poverty rich as a Jew; Time and oft dressed lamb fashon I zeed an old ewe, I zeed madam's monkey as smart as her beau, I zeed beauty, and virtue, that never knew shame, And I zeed vice caressed under modesty's name, I zeed a fine head dress, worth more than the head, I zeed folks with their brains out before they were dead,

I zeed rogues of their knavery making their brags, And I zeed fools in coaches, and merit in rags; And still through the crowd as I whistled along, I hummed to myself the fag end of a song, The good that we wish for mayn't match what we've got, Their minds are their kingdom, who're pleased with their lot: And to whatever place discontented folks roam. At last they'll be forced to say this of their home, Our friends are as true, and our wives are as comely, And damn it, home's home, be it ever so homely.

But what zickened me most was, one day in the Park, As the guns were all firing, a queer looking spark, Cried, what nonsense and stuff with their fuss and parade; Stuff and nonsense, said I, Oh! what that that you said? Why they fire for a victory, and you have your choice To go home or with all honest subjects rejoice; Mighty well, cried my spark, but a word in your ear, The affairs of the nation are cursedly que••r; Nay 'tis true, we're done up, 'twill be seen by and by, How much did they give you to catch me, said I, The country's a good one, all good men perceive it, And they that don't like it, why damn't let 'em leave it; So I left my queer, spark and went whistling along, Then I hummed to myself, the fag end of a song, The good that we wish so▪ mayn't match what we've got, Their minds are their kingdom, who're pleased with their lot: And to whatever place discontented folks roam, At last they'll be forced to say this of their home, Our friends are as true, and our wives are as comely, And damn it, home's home, be it ever so homely.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

NOW you shall see what you shall see, Lady, gemmen come, One very great curiosity, What makes to speak ••e dumb; Vat green, and red, and brown, and blue, And black, and white can paint, Vat make Jew Christian, Christian Jew, Make good come out of evil, Vat make a devil of a saint, and of a saint a devil,

"Peep troo dat little hole, Sir—Vat you see there? Eh," —'What do you say, master Shewman, it will make black white?—The devil's in it if it won't!—Why it is a large purse of money!'

Now you shall see, vat you see, fine ting before you go, Come gentleman and lady see my Raree Show.

Now you shall see, vat you shall see, Please to look in there, One very great curiosity, Vat make the people stare; One terrible, one shocking, ting In horror dat abound; Before your face I go to bring One horrible production; Look quick and you shall be surround Vid death, and vid destruction.

"Vele saar vat you see now? Eh!"—'Ah! master Shew|man, you be a wag—Death and destruction with the devil too't!—Why it be a Pothecary's shop.'

Now you shall see, &c.

Now you shall see vat you shall see, Please to put your eyes; One very great curiosity, Vat give you great surprize; More shocking as the toder sight, You never have see such, Come look, make haste, don't you be fright, You shall see one place spacious, All fill up vid great many much, Strange animal voracious.

"Why, master Shewman, this be a cuter joke than the tother—I wish I may die if it ben't the Lord Mayor and Aldermen at dinner!"

Now you shall see, &c.

Now you shall see vat you shall see, Please to look once more, Vat give you more delight and glee, As all you see before; Great pleasure and great bliss vat give To all the Englitch race, Vat make them all so happy live, Vat blessing can impart, Vat make the smile in all the face, The joy in all the heart.

"Ah! master Shewman, you did never say a truer thing in your life—Why, Lord love him, 'tis the King's Majesty."

Now you shall see, &c.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

I NEVER shall survive it, cried Lumkin in despair, She's gone and I shall ever wail and cry, I've lost my charming Caelia, the fairest of the fair: Will no one comfort send me, Why then these hands shall end me, Hung by his garter on that tree I'll die; Let none my fame be mangling, While dangling, dangling, dangling, On you tree I die.

Young Kitty of the cottage, and, Jenny of the mill, And bonny Suke, and sprightly Peggy Sly, And Fan and Nan, and Poll and Doll, I know will try their skill, Tricked out in all their beauty, To lure me from my duty: But I can tell them they are deceived—I'll die! These girls will all be angling: 'Twont do for dangling, dangling, All for love I'll die.

I own that Kitty's eye brows some trait of Caelia's bear, Suke has her nose, and ••eg her sparkling eye; Both Fan and Nan, her dimples, and Poll and Doll her hair; But these shall all be slighted, For Caelia's charms united, Not all her sex combined can boast—I'll die! Then let them all be wrangling, And pulling caps for dangling, They shall see me die.

And yet on recollection, Young Daelia formed to please, Her dimples has, her hair, and sparkling eye; Nay, Daelia is like Caelia as ever were two peas, Has all those charms that won me, Would she take pity on me! But lord she'd never think of me—I'll die! While hopes and fears are jangling, I'll dangling, dangling, dangling, All for Caelia die.

'Twixt hanging, and 'twixt marriage, still doubtful which to chuse, As Lumkin paused, came Daelia tripping by, Ads wounds, cried he, would'st thou consent, I'd tye the other noose, She smiles, good bye poor Caelia, I go to marry Daelia, Not in a halter, but in her arms to die; Better in wedlock wrangling, Than dangling, dangling, dangling, On a tree to die.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WHISP.

ON Olympus blue summit as loud vacant mirth, Shook with laughter the sides of the gods, Were not nectar, cried Bacchus, forbid sons of earth; 'Twere rare sport to celestialize clods: Say, shall they a nectar possess of their own, That like ours with delight shall be rise? I've hit it, let Punch, by my fiat, be known, A liquor the Symbol of Life.

Of the elements four, that the universe sway, Our nectar celestial we make, So pun••••h•• that henceforward shall moisten man's clay, Of the passi••ns of man shal•• partake: The sweets that from godlike benevolence flows, Shall correct the sharp acid of strife, While the spirit of rage temperance mean shall compose, So shall punch be the Symbol of Life.

Punch shal be the first fiddle in life's motley hand, That, un••uned, scrapes harsh discords and hoarse. But when screwed to its pitch by a masterly hand, Shall most excellent music discourse: Punch, unmade, wi••l a chaos misshapen disclose, Rude atom with atom at strife, But, which tempered, to beauty and symetry grows, Thus, is Punch, the true Symbol of Life.

When in sloth, li••e's warm water, mankind are immersed, And sweet luxury's sought from afar, Rage, and four heart burnings, by indolence nursed, Blaze in all the dread fury of war:

But when temperate reflection takes rule in the mind, Cruel war is disarmed of his knife, And the blessings of peace shed their balm on mankind, And thus Punch is the Symbol of Life.

As pleasure on pleasure in wedlock you meet, If, thoughtless, you surfeit and feed, Sullen, sour discontent shall corrode every sweet, And luke warm indifference succeed: But when wedlock's ingredients, in mean true and even, Are blended in husband and wife; Such a pair, so well mated, on earth find a heaven, And thus Punch is the Symbol of Life,

Thus in all their concerns, shall this liquor divine, Some moral instruction impart, That the medium of truth may correct and refine, Each crude feeling that springs from the heart: Be your lives then nor mankish, strong, sour nor yet sweet, But a mixture of all, to shun strife; So men's joys shall be next to celestials complete, So shall Punch be the Symbol of Life.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

'TWAS a hundred years ago, Or there-about, I believe, Liv'd a wife you must know, As I quickly shall shew, A true bred daughter of Eve: For this wife, though spouse, was civil, For so the story ran, Was tempted to evil, But not by the devil, But a devi••ish handsome young man.

This young man was an officer gay, With a mien so militaire, An ensign on half-pay, Though no colonel, some say, Had so fierce, and so noble an air: Now the husband had but one eye. And for this his crafty bride,

Chose him out by the bye, Half her faults to espy, And to catch him upon the blind side.

The husband was gone from home, She tricked out smart and neat, Now the officer's come, Cupid braces his drum, And a parley is presently beat: When Betty, who closely watched, Cried out, as she come unawares, 'If a lie can't be hatched, 'We are all of us catched, 'For my master's a coming up stairs.'

Cried the wife, 'I have hit on it sure; 'Come, come, 'tis no time to flinch! 'We're from danger secure, 'Get behind the door, 'Wit never left wife at a pinch: Then the husband came in fight: Cried she in a counterfeit scream, 'What joy and delight, 'Does your presence excite, 'Dear Husband I dreamt a dream.

'A dream so extraordinary and rare, 'Pray heaven it prove not a lie, 'I dreamt in that chair, ''Tis as true at you're there, 'That fate had restored your blind eye: Cried he, "What a rout, and a pother:" 'Nay, nay, at my hopes do not scoff; 'The blind eye's like its brother, 'Let me cover tother,' ''This doing, the lover stole off.

Her Mars safe retreated, she cried, 'Well love is the fight wholly lost?' "Yes wife your dream lied, "Though 'till doomsday you tried, "I should yet see no more than a post:" Then the devil take dreamt I say, For I'm more disappointed than you, Quoth the husband, nay, nay, When next I'm away, Let us hope all your dreams may come true.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

WHILE music lends its heavenly art, And banners are unfurled, Hail, hail, the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world: See its chief magistrates to grace London in pomp and show, The source of its great riches trace, To all the winds that blow▪ The companies to silver Thames, Move on in slow parade, Each bearing as its banner names, A pageant of its trade: Then while sweet music lends its art, And banners are unfurled, Hail, hail the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world. First, minstrelsy and loud acclaim, That sweet musicians bring, Musicians of fair London's fame, Still emulous to sing: And, hark! the armourers cleave the wind, By one in armour led, While memory tells the patriot mind, At Agincourt who bled: Then, while sweet music lends its art, And banners are unfurled, Hail, hail the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world. Nor let the shipwrights by us slip, In high commercial fame First in the rank, for from a ship Fair London took its name: Now while the croud each trade surrounds, That joy and use supplies, Hark! where the massy anvil sounds, See! where the shuttle flies: Then, while sweet music lends its art, And banners are unfurled, Hail, hail the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world.

These fit with art the even joint, Those dress the supple skin, Others th' industrious needle point, Or decorative pin: Some sing of Blaze and dress the wool, Some shape the wheels of time, The ever lengthening wire some pull, Some teach the bells to chime: Then, while sweet music lende its art, And banners are unfurled. Hail, hail the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world. Those, friendshi••'s emblem, bring the square, These bear the gordian ring, And now, while trumpets rend the air, And sweet musicians sing, Haste to the feast where while the band, The social hour prolong, The loyal toast from plenty's hand, Relieves the loyal song: Then, while sweet music lends its art, And banners are unfurled, Hail, hail the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world. Last at the ball-room see the fair, Each fair a British toast, Lovely in charms, in virtue rare, Blest England's pride and boast▪ But did I to my theme give way, By fancy led along, Soon were the poet's teeming lay, A history, not a song: Yet while sweet music lends its art, And banners are unfurled, Hail, hail the first commercial mart, Throughout the peopled world.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

IF lobberly landsmen to gratitude strangers, Still curse their unfortunate stars, Why what would they say, did they try but the dangers Encountered by true hearted tars:

If life's vessel they put 'fore the wind, or they tack her, Or whether bound here, or there, Give 'em sea room good fellowship, grog and tobacker, Well then damme if Jack cares where.

Then your stupid Old Quid Nun••s to hear them all clatter, The devil can't tell you what for, Though they don't know a gun from a marlinspike, chutter About and concerning of war: While for King, wife, and friend, he's through every thing rubbing, With duty still proud to comply, So he gives but the foes of Old England a drubbing, Why then, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, if Jack cares why.

And then when good fortune has crowned his endeavours, And he comes home with shiners galore, Well what if so be he should lavish his favours, On every poor object long-sh••••: Since money's the needle that points to good nature, Friend, enemy, false or true, So it goes to relieve a distressed fellow creature, Well then, damme, if Jack cares who. Don't you see how some diff'rent thing ev'ry one's twigging, To take the command of a rib, Some are all for the breast-work, and so••e for the rigging, And some for the cut of her jib, Though poor, some will take her in tow to defend her, And again, some are all for the rich; As to I, so she's young, her heart honest and tender, Why then, damme, if Jack cares which.

Why now if they go for to talk about living, My eyes—why a little will serve, Let each a small part of his pittance be giving, And who in this nation can starve? Content's all the thing—rough or calm be the weather, The wind on the beam or the bow, So, honestly, he can splice both ends together, Why then, damme if Jack cares how.

And then for a bring up—d'ye see, about dying On which such a racket they keep, What argusies if in a church yard you'r lying, Or find out your grave in the deep: Of one thing we're certain, whatever our calling, Death will bring us all up—and what then?

So his con••••••ence's tackle will bear overhauling, Why then, damme, if Jack cares when.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

IS'T my country you'd know? I'm an Irishman born, And they christened me Paddy O'Blarney, In haymaking time I stept over one morn, All the way from the Lakes of Kilarney: Turn'd my hand to just whatever came in my way, To be sure while the sun shin'd I did not make hay. Well then you know the wives and daughters of the farmers won't—well they won't Have plenty of ••••use to remember the day, When first they saw Paddy O'Blarney.

Then what does I do the next calling I seeks, Ah! the world for the Lakes of Kilarney, I cries macker••l alive that were caught for three weeks, Ah! let alone P••ddy O'Blarney, Then fresh gathered strawberries, so sound and so sweet, With just half a dozen a top ••it to eat—

'Ah! madam, you need not examine them bless your two good looking eyes, they are full to the bottom, paper and all.' "Well, I'll trust to you—I dare say you won't cheat me."

So I coaxes her up, and herself makes her cheat, Ah! ••ait let alone Paddy O'Blarney.

Next I turned to a chairman, and got a good job, Ah! the world for the Lakes of Kilarney, I harangued at a famous election the mob, Ah! let alone Paddy O'Blarney. Then to see how his honour and I did cajole, He knock'd down his flats with words, and I mine with my pole—

Then you know when they came to chair him, I was no longer, you see, an odd man, there was a pair of chairm••n.

And sure such a pair was ne'er seen, by my soul, As his honour and Paddy O'Blarney.

But this notion of greatness was none of the worst, Oh! the world for the Lakes of Kilarney, Having played second fiddle, I thought I'd play first, Can't ye let alone Paddy O'Blarney:

So, swearing, to plunder, and never to squeak, I my qualification took out and turned greek—

Ah! to be sure we did not make a pretty dovehouse of our Pharoah Bank—Let me see, we pigeoned, aye fait and plucked them completely too—

Four tradesmen, and six banker's clerks in one week, Will you let alone Paddy O'Blarney.

A big man in all circles so gay and polite, Ah! the world for the Lakes of Kilarney, I found one who larnt grown up jolman to write, Just to finish gay Paddy O'Blarney: I first larnt my name, 'till so fond of it grown, I'd don't say I'd better have let it alone— But by my soul and conscience it had like to have finished me in good earnest, for you see, I just wrote— Another jolman's signature 'st••ad of my own, What a devil of a Paddy O'Blarney.

But since fate did not chuse for to noose me that day, Ah! the world for the Lakes of Kilarney, With a Venus of ninety I next ran away, What a fine dashing Paddy O'Blarney. So marriage turned out the best noose of the two, The old soul's gone to heaven I'm as rich as a Jew—

'So that if any jolman has an occasion for a friend, or a lady for a lover, or, in short, if any body should wish to be disencumbered of the uneasiness of a wife, or a daughter, or a purse, or any such kind and civil service that can be per|formed

By a gentleman at large that has nothing to do, Let me recommend Paddy O'Blarney.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

'TWAS post meridian, half past four, By signal I from Nancy parted, At six she lingered on the shore, With uplift hands and broken hearted, At sev'n, while taughtening the forestay, I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy, At eight we all got under weigh, And bid a long adieu to Nancy.

Night came, and now eight bells had rung, While careless sailors, ever cheary, On the mid watch so jovial sung, With tempers labour cannot weary: I, little to their mirth inclined, While tender thoughts rushed on my fancy, And my warm sighs increased the wind, Looked on the moon, and thought of Nancy.

And now arrived that jovial night, When every true br••d tar carouses, When, o'er the grog, all hands delight To toast their sweethearts and their spouses: Round went the can, the jest, the glee, While tender wishes filled each fancy, And when, in turn, it came to me, I heaved a sigh, and toasted Nancy.

Next morn a storm came on at four, At six, the elements in motion, Plunged 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 seemed to forbid the waves, To snatch me from the arms of Nancy.

Scarce the soul hurricane was cleared, Scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattle, When a bold enemy appeared, And, dauntless, we prepared for battle: And now, while some loved friend, or wife, Like lightning, rushed on every 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. discovered 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 gayly jumped ashore, And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

LIFE'S as like as can be to an Irish Wake, Where their tapers they light, And they sit up all night, Wid their why would you leave your poor Paddy to moan, Arrah how could you be such a ca••e? Musha what will I do, Lilly, lilly, lilly, la loo, Oh hone! Fait we're left all together alone: But when the grief the liquor puts out, the fun is all chang'd in a crack; Away like smoke goes the whiskey about, And they foot it, cross over, and back to back, With their tiptelery, whack, Poor miss, bolted safe wid a good lock and key, Like Thisbe, may call Through the hole in the wall, How hard's my misfortune, I'm left here to moan, Will no one take pity on me? Musha, what will I do, Lilly, lilly, lilly, la loo, Oh hone! I shall after be lying alone. But when the rope ladder affords her relief, And she turns on her mother her back; 'Mong her friends and relations, she leaves all her grief, And away to Scotland they trip in a crack, With their tiptelary whack.

The toper, next morning, low, sick, and in pain, The glasses all breaks, Beats his head 'cause it aches, And wishes that wine may to poison be grown, If e'er he gets tipsey again: With his what will I do, Lilly, lilly, lilly, la loo, Oh hone! From this moment I'll drinking disown; But when, in a possee, come Bacchus's troop, He changes his tone i•• a crack;

They drink, and they sing, and they hollow, and whoop, Till they don't know the colour of blue from black, And its tiptelary whack.

And so 'tis through life, widows left in the nick, Dying swains in disgrace, Patriots turned out of place, Don't they, cursing their stars, make a horrible moan, Just like when the devil was sick? Wid their what will I do, Lilly, lilly, lilly, la loo, Oh hone! Fait we're left all to grunt and to groan: But when the widow gets married again, When the lover is taken back, When the patriot 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a place shall obtain, Away to the devil goes care in a crack, And 'tis tiptelary whack.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

THE gloomy night stalk'd ••••ow away, The twilight spoke the doubtful day, When on a rock poor Peg reclined, Mad as the waves, wild as the wind. Give me my love, she frantic scream'd, I saw his ghost as by it gleam'd, I'll dive, I'll search the briny gloom, And snatch him from his coral tomb▪ Ah! let me, Fate, his relics save, True lovers should find out one grave.

And now the tempest dims the sky, How many ways poor sailors die! See, see, the staggering vessel splits, She's lost, like Peg's poor shipwrecked wits: No, 'twas in battle that he died; Would no power turn the ball aside? I saw it as it rent his heart, I heard him cry—and must we part? For Peggy, ah! these relies save, True lovers should find out one grave.

Where on the deep the cavern yawned, Now as the purple morning dawned. The surge, in breakers loud and hoarse, Her love cast up a lifeless corse: She raves, she screams, her hands she wrings, The shock returning reason brings, Reason returns, alas! too late, She clasps her love and yields to fate: Their mourning friends their relics save, And these true lovers find one grave.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

THE world still judges by the mien, For habit holds the yellow glass, And through that jaundiced medium seen, Shall wisdom's self for folly pass. 'Tis not because you vapid smart, Strays, carelessly, from reason's rules, That he hates reason, has no heart, 'Tis that he's one of fashion's fools.

The toper, o'er the bowl, has joke Who vents against his dearest friends, Next morn would fain the bowl were broke, And he'd been dumb to make amends: For honour well his heart can touch, He well knows golden friendship's rules, His fault is that he drinks too much, And thus he's one of fashion's fools.

The Bouncer swears that brown is blue, And moulds at will dame nature's law, And talks of joys he never knew, And fancies charms he never saw: 'Tis not that he would fain renounce Fair truth and all her sacred rules, But 'tis that its genteel to bounce, And thus he's one of fashion's fools.

If merit pine away forgot, If rakes at sacred honour sneer, If wedlock prove no gordian knot, And lovers dread to be severe▪

'Tis not that men so much delight To deviate from honour's rules, But that its vulgar to be right, And thus they are all fashion's fools.

Say what conclusion's to be drawn? Are we to fancy, or to feel, To live awake, or in a yawn, To be consistent or genteel: Soon the election may be made— Let's square our lives by reason's rules, So far be fashion's modes obeyed, But let us not be fashion's fools.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

I'M a cook for the public, can suite every palate, With some savory bonne bouche, from the soup to the sallad, Are you partial to fish? I've for dunces, cod's joles, Carp, and crabs, for plain dealers, for topers good ••o••es: I thought I'd some maids, but I made a mistake, I've a rich liquorish old wife for any poor rake, I've a plaise for a courtier, for jokers I've grigs, I've gudgeons for quacks, and I've flounders for ••eagues, Coming, coming, you'll see that I've told you no fable, This way, if you please gemmen, dinner's on the table.

I've some fine devilled lawyers, some sinners disguised, Some patriots stewed, and some generals surprized; Then, if cayenne you love, and would wish something nice, Lord, I'll roast you a a nabob, dear sir, in a trice, Then for sops, who to make themselves fools take such pains, I've a fine thick calf's head, with the tongue and the brains; I've mushrooms for upstarts, for Welshmen I've leeks, Ducks and drakes for stock jobbers, and pigeons for greeks: Coming, coming, you'll see that I've told you no fable, This way, if you please gemmen, dinner's on the table.

And then the desert, I have all sorts of cakes, I've islands of moonshine, in sylabub lakes, I've a fig for ill nature, I've raisins in glut••,

And then, for all those fond of secrets, I've nuts. Such as through fashion's maze pass their lives in a dream. May sicken on trifles, and ice, and whipt cream, Vain coxcombs on flummery may feast till they burst, Then I've got for your true snarling critic a crust: Coming, coming, you'll see that I have told you no fable, This way, if you please gemmen, dinner's on table.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

YOU have heard of the man who such virtues possessed, That he wished a glass window were placed at his breast, To the world all his actions as plain to display, As the nose in your face, or the sun at noon day. So I put on my spectacles, look mighty wise, And read in a trice peoples hearts through their eyes; While the catalogue, large, of their whims I run over, And of life's motly crew the deceptions discover, Though my questions are malapropos and uncouth, I, in sight of their teeth, make their tongues to tell truth.

When a flirting coquette for fresh conquests agog, One who loves and adores her treats worse than a dog, Gives him rivals she hates, appears vex'd when she's glad, For the dear harmless pleasure of making him mad; I put on my spectacles, look mighty wise, Read her whimsical heart through her beautiful eyes, As you hope to be married, ma'am, quick answer me, Do you hate this man! Lord what a creature, cries she, Must I then be sincere! Well, I love the sweet youth, As dear as my life, sir, and now you've the truth.

To follow up next the coquette with the prude, Who pretends every man that regards her is rude, Who can't abide flirts, rails at each amorous elf, Who flirts never, excepts in a corner, herself: I put on my spectacles, look mighty wise, Read her warm yielding heart through her cold frigid eyes; 'Are you this man hater, good ma'am, you pretend?' "And pray who gave you leave to school me my good friend?" "D'ye expect I shall own that I've yet a colt's tooth: "Well I do love young fellows, and that is the truth."

I could instance a thousand things, various and true, Where one thing men say, and another thing do, Nay, I now could dispel all my own anxious fear, But there's no occasion for spectacles here: Nay, were I to wear them, to look ere so wise, I could then, but as now, read your hearts in your eyes; Mister Dibdin, says you, we're here on your behalf, And, while your wit's harmless, and you make us laugh, You may banish each fear from your mind, for, in sooth, We shall willing applaud you, and that is the truth.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

NO more of waves and winds the sport, Our vessel is arrived in port; At anchor see she safely rides, And gay red ropes adorn her sides: The sails are furled, the sheets belayed, The crimson peticoats displayed, Deserted are the useless shrouds, And wenches come a board in crouds. Then come, my lads, the flip put round, While safely moored on English ground, With a jorum of diddle, A lass, and a fiddle, Ne'er shall care in the heart of a tar be found: And, while upon the hollow deck, To the sprightly jig our feet shall bound, Take each his charmer round the neck, And kiss in time to the merry sound.

Bess hears the death of honest Jack, Who sw••re he'd safe, and sound, come back, She calls him scurvy, lying swab, And then she kindly takes to Bob: Ben asks the news of Bonny Kate, Who said she'd prove a constant mate, But winds, and girls, are false, for she Took Ned the morn Ben went to sea. Well come, says Ben, the flip put round, While safely moored on English ground, With a jorum of diddle, A lass, and a fiddle

Ne'er shall care in the heart of a tar be found; And, while upon the hollow deck, To the sprightly lig our feet shall bound, Take each his charmer round the neck, And kiss in time to the merry ••ound.

By will and power, when last ashore, His rhino Tom to Poll made o'er; Poll touched the prize money, and pay, And with the agent ran away: And Jenny just as cute a trick, His back once turned, played whistling Dick, Dick left her cloathes to cut a flash, She sold 'em all and spent the cash. But come, says Dick, the flip put round, While safely moored on English ground, With a jorum of diddle, A lass, and a fiddle, Ne'er shall care in the heart of a tar be found; And, while upon the hollow deck, To the sprightly jig our feet shall bound, Take each his charmer round the neck, And kiss in time to the merry sound.

While feet and tongues, like lightning go, With—what cheer Suke—and how do Joe, Dick Laniard chuses Peg so spruce, And buxom Nell take Kit Caboose. Thus, 'mongst the girls they left behind, A lot of true and false they find, While they bewail those shot, or drowned, And welcome home the safe and sound, Still thankful while the flip goes round, They're safely moored on English ground, With a jorum of diddle, A lass and a fiddle, Ne'er shall care in the heart of a tar be found; And, while upon the hollow deck, To the sprightly jig our feet shall bound, Take each his charmer round the neck, And kiss in time to the merry sound.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

I AM one of those pretty, tonish smarts, my good old man, Who under love's sweet contribution lay all the fair O, I make them die, and sigh, And consent, and repent, With a ran, dan, dan— Why I have a hundred times had the felicity, so sweet, Of seeing some yielding easy daughter, or wife. Begging, and imploring at my feet— "Hey, sir! how often did you say you had this felicity?" 'Never in the whole course of my life, With a ran, dan, dare O.'

Then, since amours are nothing without confidents, my good old man, How oft when bursting with good fortune and success, so rare O, Hare I, to my friends, told stories of yielding nieces, and aunts, With a ran, dan, dan, Dressed out in all their facinating charms, With all their simperings, and whimperings, Their fond love to disguise, While they were longing to fly to my arms— "And pray was all this truth that you told your friends?" 'Oh, no, a parcel of infernal lies! With a ran, dan, dare O.'

Why would you believe that with the lovely Myrtilla it chanced to hap, my good old man, Who seemed as if all the powers of virtue made her their care O, That I should contrive, while those pretty, watchful guardi|ans were taking a nap, With a ran, dan, dan— To kneel, pant, entreat, implore, heave sigh, start tear, And address, with all the force of eloquence and grace, Till struggling in my arms at last she—Oh dear! "Well, what did she do? 'Why gave me a slap in the face, With a ran, dan, dare O.'

Another time, when I was flatly refused, my good old man, Oh, 'tis a business that will make you stare O! Every one of the family round I fairly abused, With a ran, dan, dan— Hamstrung the pigs, pulled the spiggot out of the ale, Poisoned the lap dog, killed the canary birds, put jalap in the tea, Threw the cat out of the window, cut off the monkey's tail— "Go on, sir, go on." 'Kicked the husband—Oh no, damme, he kicked me! With a ran, dan, dare O.'

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

I'VE heard, cried out one, that you tars tack and tack, And, at sea, what strange hardships befel you, But I don't know what's moorings—what don't you said Jack, Man your ear Tackle then and I'll tell you: ••uppose you'd a daughter quite beautiful grown, And, in spight of her prayers and implorings! Some scoundrel abused her, and you knocked him down, Why, d'ye see, he'd be safe at his moorings.

In life's voyage should you trust a false friend with the helm, The top lifts of his heart all akimbo, A tempest of treachery your bark will o'erwhelm, And your moorings will soon be in limbo: But if h••s heart's timbers bear up against pelf, And he's just in his reckonings and scorings; He'll for you keep a look out the same as himself, And you'll find in his friendship safe moorings.

If wedlock's your port, and your mate true and kind, In all weathers will stick to her duty, A calm of contentment shall beam in your mind, Safe moored in the haven of beauty: But if some frisky skiff, crank at every joint, That listens to vows and adorings, Shape your course how you will, still you'll make Cuckold's Point, To lay up like a beacon at moorings.

A glutton's safe moored, head and stern, by the gout, A drunkard's moored under the table,

In straws drowning men will Hope's anchor find out, While a hair's a philosopers cable: Thus mankind are a ship, life a boisterous main, Of Fate's billows where all hear the roarings, Where for one calm of pleasure, we've ten storms of pain, Till death brings us all to our moorings.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

LOOK all over the world, round and square, and through|out, We a••l know that best we know nothing about, Don't ignorant gipsies pretend to teach Fate, And pray who now like coblers can tinker the state: Blind as mill-posts ourselves we can all guide a friend, Because why 'tis more easy to find fault than mend; In short no sweet creatures lead such happy lives, Or are half so well managed as bachelor's wives.

If I'd this man's fortune, or tother man's wit, Unnoticed d'ye think I'd so quietly sit? No, my cash should do good, and my writings should be, Ah! fait Shakespear himself should be nothing to me: Thus we all to mend merit of others are prone, And how nobly we spend that that's none of our own; Who the reins has not got, always furiously drives, And, thus, none are managed like bacehlor's wives.

That battle that made such a devil of a rout, Why don't you and I know they were all of them out? Had this general advanced, and that troop come in play, 'Twould have been, by my conscience, a glorious day! Thus at home, we best know how abroad matters pass, Ah! give me a brave bottle fought over the glass! Threatened people live long, and the envied man thrives, Just as none are so managed as bachelor's wives.

What we have we don't want, because why dat we've got; Your true style of enjoyment's to have what you've not, What eats so delicious as fish not yet catched, Or as fruit in the blossom, or chicken not hatched? 'Tent the dinner to-day, 'tis the pleasure I borrow, While I think on the dinner I'm eating to-morrow, What's the present my soul till the future arrives? Arrah give me for management bachelors wives.

To do what we're able's a thing so absurd, Arrah who'd walk on foot that cou••d fly like a bird? Don't we see every moment that lordly ting man Do each nonsense in nature except what he can In short, our desires look from Ireland to Rome, Are the harvest that's growing, the cloth in the loom, The honey we've taken before we've bought hives, And who'll after this rail at bachelors wives.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

THE poet says that love's like fire, Which kindly heat and joy imparts, For every purpose, and desire, That warms, and that expands our hearts: But, trust th••s fire, where is the bound, That shall its devastation stay? Relentless ruin stalks around, And horror marks its trackless way: Thus both we dread, and both admire, Thus poets say that love's like fire.

The toper says, that love's like wine, And that its power, 'bove human ken, Can lift the soul, and so refine Our joys, that gods might envy men: But, from this elevation sunk, The moment reason leaves the feast, H••s godship finds a god, when drunk, Is little better than a beast: Thus both are beastly, both divine, Thus topers say that love's like wine.

Your sportsmen say, love's like the chase That ••eads us many a weary mile, Through many a rude and dangerous place, O'er mound, and hedge, and ditch, and stile: But when his pleasures, with his toil, Are fairly counted, what's the gain? Fatigued, and tired, he makes a coil, And puts up game not worth the pain: Thus love's without a goal, a race, Thus sportsmen say, love's like the chase.

True lovers say, love's like the devil, Who turns a hundred devious ways, With, saint-like face, and heart of evil, And smiles the most when he betrays: Does not the devil take every hue, And in all forms and fashions move! Is not he black, and white, and blue, And hot and cold?—and so is love: And thus to love are lovers civil, As Indians court from fear the devil. Let carping idiots still condemn, Where reason bids them most rejoice, For if they err the faults in them, And in the objects of their choice: The lover that shall all excel, Let him but choose a faithless fair; His love shall prove a very hell, No Lethe to relieve his care: Let him of reason take advice, And love shall be a paradise.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

LIFE'S a general chase, and the world is the field, Where friends, friends hunt, and brothers hunt brothers, Where to day, fairly hunted, to us others yield, And to-morrow we're hunted by others: Through calling, profession, and trade, to get rich, All wrangle, and squabble, and scramble, Through wood, dale, and bottom, o'er hedge, stile, and ditch, Through bush, and through briar, and through bramble, Then, come round me all hunters—in Life's hark away We have portions of pleasure and sorrow, And the man after game that's a hunter to-day, May be game for some hunter to-worrow.

The poor poet, of virtue who'd fain be the friend, Cries the age is corrupt, and he'll shew it; But while hunting his brains the world's manners to mend, Pale poverty hunts the poor poet: While hunting in battle for glory and fame, Grim death hunts the soldier and sailor, And the heir, out of cash, who can start no more game,

Is at last hunted down by his taylor: Then, come round me all hunters—in Life's hark away We have portions of pleasure and sorrow, And the man after game that's a hunter to-day, May be game for some hunter to-morrow.

Country squires dash away, nor their noddles concern, 'Bout the world, or its jostlings, and crossings, Till, at length, to die bottom, Actaeon's they turn, Eaten up by their dogs and their horses: Indiscriminate pleasures who chases in view, While to pleasure in time fall a martyr, And the bold fortune hunter who ran down a shrew, Will find he was caught by a tarter: Then, come round me all hunters—in Life's hark away We have portions of pleasure and sorrow, And the man after game that's a hunter to-day, May be game for some hunter to-morrow.

The hunks who hunts riches, is hunted by care, Those who joy hunt are hunted by trouble, The chymist hunts gold through fire, water, and air, And is run down at last by a bubble: Folly hunts the four misanthrope close at the heels, In the moment at folly he's scoffing, And ev'n the death hunter, in coffins who deals, Is, at last, hunted into a coffin:

Virtuosos hunt butterflies, courtiers levees, Patriots hunt for the good of the nation, Hungry gluttons hunt turtle, physicians hunt sees, And are chased, in return, by vexation: A reciprocal chase are mankind and their joys, And this maxim obtains the world over, Then with reason in view, let's hunt pleasure my boys, Till by time we are hunted to cover: Then, come round me all hunters—in Life's hark away We have portions of pleasure and sorrow, And the man after game that's a hunter to day, May be game for some hunter to-morrow.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

A BARD in yonder corner see, There's something in this man, says he,

'Tis true he cannot write like me, His wit won't bea•• inspection: To hit the foolish times was right, When men neglected genius slight, My play for instance, damned first night, The manners want correction:

Certainly they do, and, therefore, so far this man's at|tempt is meritorious to be sure. If I had handled the sub|ject it would have been done in a different sort of a manner; but his bungling wit only proves that his own position is truth—

For when he takes such foolish fits, To rail, and scoff, at would be wit••, He proves, as hard himself he hits, That he's not all perfection.

An Alderman 'gainst fools is rage, Cries, lord, he's right to lash the age, Old Shakespear said the world's a stage, He merits our protection: I liked to hear him laugh at fops, And waists cut short, and flirts and crops, Intrigues in churches, and at hops, And fashions strange collection:

And then how I did laugh about the fellow's giving a dinner with nothing to eat, ha, ha, ha,—and then he passed a compliment on the city—He ought to be encouraged.

But when he rails at hoarded pelf, And turtle feasts, the stupid elf, He's wrong—but then he owns himself, We can't be all perfection.

Miss Twinkle cries, to sister Tab, I'm pleased he's given you prude•• a dab, But of coqu••ttish airs to blab, 'Twas done without reflection; Well now, cries Tab, then I protest, I likes about coquettes the best; But when of Prudes he makes a jest, The man deserves correction.

Well then now fait and troth, said an Irishman, 'tis all mighty well with his mixture, and his hope, his good rascal, his honest flatterer, and the rest of it—Oh it is all fair game!

But when he talks, the slanderous rogue, That cards and dice are all the vogue,

Fair, tis too much upon the brogue, But no one's all perfection.

The will then taken for the deed, I fancy in each face I read, I shall, as heretofore, succeed, And without much objection; When I was in the scribbling ••it, Had with my ••eal kept pace my wit, Ev'n Shakespear's self had nothing writ, More worthy of protection.

Nay, big with emulation to merit your applause, had my ability kept pace with my inclination, I should have given my own Thesis the lie, and produced a perfect entertain|ment—

But ardent wishes will not do, I, therefore, must rely on you, And should some little praise be due, Pass by each imperfection.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

THOUGH hard the valiant soldier's life, They some sweet moments know; Joy ne'er was yet unmixed with strife, Nor happiness with woe:

'Tis hard, when friend, when children, wife, Reluctant from him part, While fancy paints the muffled drum, The mournful fife, And the loud volley o'er his grave, The solemn requiem to the brave! All this he hears, Yet calm's their fears With smiles while horror's in his heart:

But when the smiling hour shall come, To bring him home at last, How sweet his constant wife to greet, His children, friends, And in their circling arms to find amends, For all his sufferings past.

'Tis hard when, desolation spread, Death whirls the rapid car,

And those invaded hear, and dread The thunder of the war:

Ah! then, indeed, friend, children, wife, Have you true cause to fear, Too soon, alas, the muffled drum, The mournful fife, And the loud volley o'er the grave, Shall sound sad requiems to the brave, While those alive, Faint joy revive, And blend hope's smile with pity's tear:

But when the smiling hour shall come, To bring him home at last, How sweet his constant wife to greet, His children, friends, And in their circling arms to find amends, For all his sufferings past.

BALLAD—IN WILL OF THE WISP.

OH yes, Oh yes, Oh yes! Lost, or mislaid, Or stolen, or strayed, The character, the decency, the duty of a youth, Who was famed, 'till this sad accident, for probity and truth; Who assuaged his parents sorrows, alleviated their cares, And who, with spotless honour, regulated their affairs:

This young man, as he came out of his father's bankers, was beconed by a lady in a hackney coach—He drove to a jeweller's where he bought a diamond necklace. He dined with a roaring party at a tavern; and, in the evening, was heard to talk very loud at the opera. He was next introdu|ced to a house not an hundred miles from St. James's, where it is supposed he could get no supper, for he was seen at three o'clock in the morning voraciously to swallow dice and eat cards.

Who to his wretched parents this misguided youth will bring, Besides the satisfaction Of doing a good action, Shall receive a sum far more than Indian mines could e'er afford,

They shall see the peace and comfort of a family restored— God save the King.

O yes, O yes, O yes! Lost or mislaid, Or stolen, or strayed, The tears of a widow, young wealthy and fair, Who nursed a rich old husband half a year with tender care, Who loved him not for either her inconvenience, or his pelf, All which is very true, for she told him so herself.

This unfortunate young lady was seen, about three hours after her husband's death, to go to the Commons to prove his will, where meeting with a very handsome young Proc|tor, it is supposed the fire of his glances absorbed and dried up the tears of this disconsolate widow, for she has never been seen to cry since but once, and then she was de|tected with an onion in her pocket handkerchief,

Who to this wretched mourner these same precious drops will bring, Besides the satisfaction, Of doing a good action, Shall receive a gracious smile, which is all that can be prof|fered, For they'll be cried no more, nor no greater reward offered, God save the King.

O yes, O yes, O yes! Lost, or mislead, Or stolen▪ or strayed, The knife and fork of an alderman, a counsellor's wig, The dice box of a grecian, a parson's tythe pig, The fan of a beauty, her false tooth also. And a hair powder licence belonging to a beau.

As these poor suffers are ruined and deprived of their livelihood by the loss of these respective articles, they be|ing their working tools, the charitable and humane are hum|bly requested to take into consideration their forlorn condi|tion—

And, whoever to these poor people th••se articles will bring Besides the satisfaction, Of doing a good action, Many thanks shall be given to the charitable donors, For they're of very little use to any body but the owners▪ God save the king.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

As a plain case in point's the best mode of explaining, To make my position to each judgment clear, Without further a tip-toe your patience detaining, I shall ton at Antipodes, shew and ton here: Here conscience for gold, Ne'er was known to be sold, There to sale they expose it, And every one knows it, For the matter to mince might a good market spoil: Thus what's meant by reports, which are variously spread. That we the feet stand on, and they on the head, Will turn out to be this, without cavil or coil, We're the gem and the Antipodeans the foil.

Is a treaty of marriage on foot the dear lady, Here never to talk of her interest is heard, Full of love she ne'er asks if the writings are ready, Nor thinks of a second spouse, much less a third: Is a counsellor learned, In a law suit concerned, He gives you his trouble, For nothing, to double His fee would that instant the whole business spoil: There still topsy turvy we different modes see, Love obeys, the best bidder, and law the best fee, And thus clear as day, without cavil or coil, We're the gem and the Antipodians the foil.

Would you wish farther proof as a prominent feature, Take this, though 'twill keen sensibility shock, At Antipodes they have a beautiful creature, A fine stately bird very like our game cock: Inflaming its blood, They mix drugs in its food, And arm it for fighting, Then stand round delighting, While these birds of their plumage each other despoil: You wonder and gaze, yet 'tis truth I report, But since England disdains so unmanly a sport,

No reflection on us from their vice can recoil, We're the gem and the Antipodeans the foil.

But to bring the case home, let us speak of their writers, Who having such food for their frolicksome muse, Are in satire and ridicule terrible biters, And, though none they point out, all the cap ••it abuse; Their case touches me, But was I ever so free, In my silly labours, To laugh at my neighbours? No; a fair wholesome moral's the jet of my toil: Besides here no fault could they find did they try, No, I'd have them to know that my audience and I, Wha••'er out of envy their cavil and coil, Are the gem and the Antipodeans the foil.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

WHEN freedom knew not where to rove, From conquered Greece, and groaning Rome, At random driven, like Noah's dove, Without a shelter or a home: The expanded world she viewed, where best She might repose her weary foot; Saw this our isle, set up her rest, And bid the spreading oak take root; Bid it adorn the land, and be Fair England's tree of liberty.

Thus spoke the goddess—This fair tree, The towering forest's kingly boast, Let my behests kept sacred be, This tree shall guard your sea girt coast: Freedom's behests are these—To know No faction, no cabal, no cause, From whose pestiferous breath may grow Aught 'gainst the monarch, or the laws; Keep sacred these, the oak shall be Fair England's tree of liberty.

Its friendly arms that, on their way, Those succour who its aid implore; A faithful portrait shall display, Of England's hospitable shore: Of England's courage this fair tree, A great example to impart, To succour law and liberty, Shall make a rampart of its heart; Hail sacred oak, then, deign to be Fair England's tree of liberty.

Then catch the enthusiastic strain, Hail freedom's tree in fervent hymns, That freely, on the awful main, Launches in Britain's cause its limbs: That mighty walls, and bulwarks forms, Whence England's thunder shall be hurled, And, spight of battles and of storms, That bears our commerce through the world; Hail freedom's shrine! still deign to be Fa••r England's Tree of Liberty.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

WHEN I told you your cheeks wore the blush of the rose, That the spring was the type of your youth, That no lily a tint like your neck could disclose, I made love in the language of truth: Yet the loveliest rose, once the summer away, Of its bloom leaves no vestige behind; But your bloom, when the summer of life shall decay, Fresh as ever shall glow in your mind.

See the bee, as from flower to flower he roves, The sweets of the garden explore, And, in winter, to feast on the banquet he loves, Lay in his industrious store: So all your employment through life's busy day, Is the sweets drawn from goodness to find; Reason's feast to supply, and cheat winter away, From that source of perfection your mind.

And thus, as the seasons of life pass away, We enjoy every various scene; The spring all expanding, the summer all gay, The autumn all mild and serene: You are yet in yoar summer; but, when on your head, While from all admiration you find, Silver winter its honours shall sacredly shed, Still summer shall bloom in your mind.

BALLAD—IN CHIRSTMAS GAMBOLS.

COME here, come here, my pretty dear, Leave business, care, and labour, Christmas comes but once a year, Come lads and lasses, come, and hear My merry pipe and tabor: I sell all sorts of curious wares, Tapes, garters, ribbands, laces: That give the form enchanting air••, And set off pretty faces. And then I've philters, drugs, and charms, That, when the nymph's deserted, Shall lure the shepherd to her arms, And make him tender hearted. Come here, come here my pretty dear, Leave business, care, and labour, Christmas comes but once a year, Come lads and lasses, come, and hear My merry pipe and tabor.

This wonderful love powder see, Though ever so hard featured, To a Venus that converts each she, By making her good natured: This eye water can power dispense, To cure each jealous blindness, And turn, by generous confidence, All jarring strife to kindness: Come here, come here, my pretty dear, Leave business, care, and labour,

Christmas comes but once a year, Come lads and lasses, come, and hear My merry pipe and tabor.

When clouds shall wedlock's sky deface, And dim that brilliant heaven, Upon your lips this padlock place, By wary prudence given: But when, from storms, and tempests free, The horizon looks propitious; From kindness hand take pleasure's key, And open scenes delicious: Come here, come here, my pretty dear, Leave business, care, and labour, Christmas comes but once a year, Come lads and lasses, come, and hear My merry pipe and tabor.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

STANDING one summer's day on the Tower Slip, Careless how I my time should employ, It popped in my head that I'd take a trip Aboard of a Margate Hoy: I took a few slops, such as shirts and a coat, For of prog I knew well they'd be stored; Then I hail'd a pair of oars, shoved of my boat, And away I dashed aboard.

'Ah my dear Commodore, who thought of seeing you? "What, Mrs. Garbage! How is the Alderman?"—'There is my husband, Sir;' "Pon my word and dicky I declare." 'Give me leave, Commodore, to introduce you to my friends: Mr. Shadrack, Commodore Kelson, Commodore Kelson, Mr. Shadrack.' "Very much at your sharvice, Sir." 'Miss Minnikin, Commodore Kelson, Commodore Kelson, Miss Minnikin.' "Very happy to have the pleasure of knowing you Sir." 'Dr. Quibus, Commodore Kelson, Commodore Kelson, Dr. Quibus; Captain Squash, Commodore Kelson, Commodore Kelson, Captain Squash; Sir Phelim O'Drog|heda, Commodore Kelson. Commodore Kelson, Sir Phel••m

O' Drogheda.'—Hollo the••e! Cast off the painter—Sit still ladies and gentlemen.

So off we went with a flowing jib, Full of merriment and joy, The Alderman munching, and pratling his rib, Sing who so blith as we, Who take a voyage to sea, Aboard of a Margate Hoy.

Then such glee and humour, our joy to prolong, Pervaded us fore and aft; Some were telling a story, some whistling a song, As we turned in and out 'mongst the craft: Then we'd talk of our danger, and then we were gay, Then how we'd astonish the folks, When at Margate arrived; then, cut out of our way, To laugh at the watermen's jokes.

'Ho, the ship ahoy.' "Ay, ay." 'Pray have you one Wiseman aboard?' "No, no," 'Then you are all fools, hey—ha, ha, ha, went Miss Minnikin.'—"Dat is very coot chokes," said the Jew. 'Why, I say, Moses,' said the man that was affronted, 'are you a bull or bear? Damme, I thinks ••ou look more like a monkey. And you Miss Dolly Drylips, take a reef in your perriwig, and clap a stopper on your muzzle, clue up the plaits in your jaw bags, and give your tongue leave of absence. About ship—helm's a lee— here she comes,'

So we made tother tack and lay gunnel to, Which soon gave a damp to our joy, Miss Minnikin squalled—mine cot, cried the Jew, Sing who so blyth as we, Who take a voyage to sea, On board of a Margate Hoy.

The company's merriment now out of joint, And their tatlers not moving so quick, Scarce right a-〈◊〉〈◊〉 did we twig Cuckold's Point, But the alderma•••••• ••••gan to be sick: Then we'd like to 〈…〉〈…〉 of an oyster smack, The wind freshing towards the Nore, Then, stretching too fa•• on the larboard tack, By and by, we came bump ashore.

'Ah we shall all be cast away! my poor dear pattern cap; cashed away! What shall I do to be shaved?' "Why faith, said I, I fancy we shall have a touch of the salt water before we get to Margate." 'Yes, Sir,' said the Doctor, 'not that I have any quarrel with death, but I am afraid we shall take in too large a dose.' "How do you do, Sir Phe|lim?" 'Arrah, I should be well enough if I was not so cursedly sick." She rights, she rights!

Next a gale coming on we did preciously kick, Which finished completely our joy, 'Twas, madam, how do you do? Oh I am monstrously sick! S••ng who so blyth as we, Who take a voyage to sea, Aboard of a Margate Hoy.

And now 'twould have made a philosopher grin, To have seen such a concourse of muns; Sick as death, wet at muck, from the heel to the chin, For it came on to blow great guns: Spoilt cloaths, and provisions, now clogged up the way, In a dreary boisterous night; While apparently dead every passenger lay With the sickness, but move with the fright.

'Oh, oh, I wish I was at home in my bed!' "Oh that I was a hundred miles off" "Mashy upon my shi••••.' "Oh, oh, will no-body throw me overboard!" 'Avast there.' "Ah my poor dear pattern cap's blown into the pond!" "Oh, my soul, what a devil of a sickness!" "Arrah, stop the ship—Sir, would you be so kind as to be after handing me the candle cup?' Land, land, upon the starboard bow.

At last, after turning on two or three tacks, Margate lights soon restored all our joy; The men found their stomachs, the women their clacks, Sing who so blyth as we, Who take a voyage to sea, Aboard of a Margate Hoy.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

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 fent ••n a prentice to London.

Jacky's master a barber and a hair-dresser were, Than some squire's 'cod be 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 Jackey'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 Jackey had heen 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 came 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 go take care and pound her.

'Tis our kiaw, but you zee she's been maimed by some brute 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, dam'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 be'st come back a monkey.

Gammer stormed, Gasser swore, Jacky whistled, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 'Twas agreed, without any more passion, To take Jacky in favour as well as the cow, Because they were both in the fashion.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

My grandfather's grandfather, valiant and sto••••, A Briton e'er luxury imported the gout, In the field, in the ball-room, or scampering o'er rocks, Could give chase to the foe, or the fair, or the fo••: A band of choice friends, at the sound of his horn, Sailed forth blyth and buxom, to hail the fair morn; All lusty, and noble, and true and tried men, And called, for distinction, the Lads of the Glen.

Shall I tell you their names, there was bold Alfred Howe, Sprung from Guy, Earl of Warwick, who hunted a cow, And then, on his courser came valiant Sir Hugh. Born from that London 'prentice two lions that slew: Next that dare devil, Hengist, with target and gorge, Worn, his ancestors write, by the mighty St. George; Then Owen ap rice, who again and again, Had been in at the death with the lads of the Glen.

Next Percy, came on, born of that noble race, Who accomplished such wonders at famed Chevy Ch••c••; Then Orson the jolly, a bold daring elf, Sprung from Arthur, nay, some say, from Nimrod himself: Edwin, Gianville, and Huntingdon, sound men and good, The last the great grandson of bold Robinhood; To these add my ancestor, making just ten, And you'll get the whole list of the Lads of the Glen.

'Tis writ in fair characters, now in the hall, What a chase they were led the sly fox to enthral? He run 'em at length, and then hard at a push, And now they're miles from him, and now at his brush:

'Till the dogs are so weary that, panting for breath, They o'ertake him, but cannot accomplish his death; Britons spare prostrate foes, so they loosed him again, To afford future sport for the Lads of the Glen.

Thus rational pleasure was all their delight, They'd hunt in the morning, and revel at night, Fair truth and pure honour, dwelt proud in each breast, And kind hospitality set up her rest: And from their gay board never yet was the day, When th•• poor, and the hungry, went empty away; Britons all have true hearts, yet, 'tis hard to say, when We shall, e'er, see the like of the Lads of the Glen.

Then charge high your b••mbers, in chorus loud sing, Like true subjects let's all drink a health to the King; He's a sportsman himself, and long, long may the chase, Give him health to behold his i••lustrious race: And would ye, ye Britons, your honour ensure, As firm as your courage, your rectitude pure, His virtues but emulate, soon shall, again, Return the good times of the Lads of the Glen.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

GIVE ear to me, both high and low, And, while you mourn hard fates decree, Lament a tale right full of woe, Of comely Ned that died at sea.

His father was a commodore, His King and country, served had he; But, now, his tears in torrents pour, For comely Ned that died at sea.

His sister Peg her brother loved, For a right tender heart had she, And often to strong grief was moved, For comely Ned that died at sea.

His sweetheart Grace, once blyth and gay, That led the dance upon the lea,

Now wastes in tears the lingering day, For comely Ned that died at sea.

His friends, who loved his manly worth, For none more friends could boast than he, To mourn now lay aside their mirth, For comely Ned that died at sea.

Come then and join, with friendly tear, The song that, 'midst of all our glee, We from our hearts chant once a year, For comely Ned that died at sea.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

POOR negroe say one ting you no take offence, Black and white he one colour a hundred year hence, For when massa death kick him into the grave, He no spare negroe, buckra, nor massa, nor slave. Then dance, and then sing, and the banjer thrum thrum, He foolish to ••ink what to-morrow my come, Lilly laugh and be fat, de best ting you can do, Time enough to be sad when you kickaraboo.

One massa, one slave, high and low all degrees, Can be happy, dance, sing, make all pleasure him please; One slave be one massa, he good, honest brave, One massa bad, wicked, he worse than one slave: If your heart tell you good, you all happy, all well, If bad, he plague, vex you worse and a hell; Let your heart make you merry, then honest and true, And you on care no farthing for Kickaraboo.

One game me see massa him play him call chess, King, queen, bishop, knight, castle, all in a mess, King kill knight, queen bishop, men castle throw down, Like card-soldier him scatter, all lie on a ground: And when the game over, king, bishop, tag, rag, Queen, knight, all together him go in a bag, So in life's game at chess, when no more we can do, Massa death bring one bag, and we Kickaraboo

Then be good, what you am never mind the degree, Lilly flower good for somewhat as well as great tree; You one slave, he no use to be sulky and sly, Worky, worky, perhaps you one massa by'm by. Savee good and be poor make you act better part, Than be rich in a pocket and poor in a heart, Though ever so low, do your duty for true, All your friend drop one tear when you Kickaraboo.

BALLAD—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

COME round me ye lasses, and lend me an ear, The almanack says ninety-six is leap year, Leap year, cries our Margery, well numskull, what then? Why, wounds, don't the women go courting the men? And they'll make the best on't, and not stand hum drum, For they won't get another for eight years to come; Come ladies a truce to each maidenish fear, Kiss the fellows, and wish them a happy new year.

See the sly little toads how they ogle and grin, That's right, squeeze his hand, chuck un under the chin, See that shrimp with that giant there, prattle and toy, You're a devilish fine fellow—nay don't be so coy; Then she smirks, and she pats him, and so this the trade is, 'Cod these leap years be nice times for the ladies, That's right, how they snigger, and simper, and leer, Kiss 'em up girls, and wish 'em a happy new year.

Then as there's no Jack but a finds out his Jill, Who knows, hey, but I may of love get my fill, Let 'em come, who's afraid! wounds, as stout as they be, I should like for to catch them a courting of me: She that chuses me out as a person of taste, I can tell her will find me not very shame-faced, What dost tell me, says I, that thou lovest me, my dear, Ge's a buss then, and wish me a happy new year.

But, wounds, while I jokes so in this merry fit, I maunt let my tongue, d'ye see, run 'sore my wit;

For, however, one may laugh 'bout the girls and be free, They have more sense by half in these matters than we: Give a woman her way, and I'll wager upon her, She leaves foppery and nonsense to chuse truth and honour, And he may well brag, and his head high up rear, Whom she kisses, and wishes a happy new year.

Then as each British beauty be constant and loyal, So much do they doat on his majesty royal, That now they got leave for to do what they pleases, 'Cod if 'twere not for shame they'd all kiss un to pieces; So as loyalty, truth, and each generous duty, Be learnt to we men folks by sweetness and beauty, Let us not be out done in our own proper spear, But let love merit love, and each year be leap year.

FINALE—IN CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS.

COME all who love, Through pleasure's grove, To take your merry rambles, Whose hearts so free, Confirm your glee, Join our Christmas Gambols. See the lads and lasses wind, In mazy labrynth dancing, The harmless feelings of the mind, The general joy enhancing: The world's vicissitudes they trace, As they the figure measure, Variety and change of place, Still giving zest to pleasure, Come all who love, &c.

The merry hunters and the horn, That oft have waked Aurora, To unlock the treasures of the morn, Through the domain of Flora: Next in quaint form, and vestments gay, Comes many a mori••e dancer,

While bells that ring, and flutes that play, In merry cadence answer: Come all who love, &c.

The pipe and tabor's sprightly tone, The organ's sound sonorous, The comic bagpipe and the drone, Shall join the swelling chorus: The piercing fife, and deafening drum, For honest hearts recruiting, To join the mingling sound shall come, Of singing, fiddling, fluting: Come then who love, &c.

At length the trumpet's chearful call, Sounds to the feast of pleasure, When in the hospitable hall, Plenty unlades her treasure: See Father Christmas pleased appear, To crown our institution, While circling goes the humming beer, In sportive revolution: Come then who love, &c.

SONG.

POLL dang't how d'ye do, Na'n won't you 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; Oh! I'm the sailor boy, For capering ashore.

Father he apprenti••'d me, All to a coasting ship; I being resolv'd d'ye 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 ••able bay, But mind a pretty rig; The ship driven out to sea, Le••t me and many more, Among the Hottentots, A capering ashore. I loves a bit of hop, Life's ne'er the worser for it; If in my wake should drop, A fiddle, 'that's your sort': Thrice tumble up ahoy, Once get the labour o'er; Then see the sailor boy, A capering ashore.

SONG.

A SUP of good whiskey will make you glad, Too much of the creature will make you mad, If you take in reason it will make you wise, If you drink to excess it will close up your eyes. Yet father and mother, And sister and brother, They 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 bid you drink none at all, But while I can get it a fig for them all, Both laymen and brother, In spite of this pother, Will all take a sup in their turn.

Some doctors will tell ye 'twill hurt my health, And justice will say 'twill reduce your weath,

Physicians and lawyers will all agree, When your money is all gone, you can get no see. Yet surgeon or doctor, And lawyer and proctor, Will all take a sup in their turn.

If a soldier is drunk on his duty found He soon to the three legg'd horse is bound, In the face of the regiment obliged to strip, A naggin will soften the drummer's whip. For serjeant and drummer, And likewise his honor, Will all take a sup in their turn.

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

The Quakers will bid you from drink abstain, By yea and by nay▪ 'tis a fault in the vain, Yet some of the broadbr••ms will get to the stuff, And tipple away till they've tippl'd enough, For stiff rump or steady, And Solomon's lady, Will all take a sup in their turn.

The Germans will say they can drink the most, The French and Italians will also boast, Hibernia's the country, for all their noise, For generous drinking and hearty boys, There each jovial fellow, Will drink till he's mellow, And take off his glass in his turn.

SONG—IN PRIVATE TAEATRICALS.

RECITATIVE.

BEHOLD two mighty chiefs come on! Not Hector, nor yet Telamon;

Who, 'stead of fists, cuff'd foes with rocks, But two tom-tits, or bantum cocks: Not like two combatants of yore, Who slew the foe and drank the gore, Like tygers, or fierce mastiff dogs— But chiefs from Homer's mice and frogs; Lank both in form and voice, and taper, Like an••ee••-skin, or a thread paper; Who ammunition draw from lungs, And wield not swords, nor spears, but tongues. Suppose them enter'd in the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Their cause of quarrel who was hiss'd, Or groan••d at most at either house: Says general frog to general mouse—

AIR.

'Signor Pantheon 'Vat ting you play on, "To give Mr. John Bull delight? "Monsieur Haymarket, "Pray don't you bark yet, "Nor shew your toose, for you can't bite▪"

'My great big house make people stare,' "Vat use great house, nobody dare? "I do de op'ra, you must sing song:" 'Ninety foot wide, hundred yard long, 'And den great many much foot high, 'The chandelier he touch de sky:' "You Sadler-vells, Astley, Foxhall, "All D••r••y Down, Tit fol de rol:" 'Your house make mine one servant-hall,' "I license get, you none at all."

'••ire and fury, dev'l in hell, 'Oh vat disgracia, 'To my faccia, ''Tis ferry fell, 'Fiddler, singer, dancer, quick 'To assist your gen'ral rush, 'Make haste, shoulder your fiddle-stick, 'And all to piece dis nutshell crush.'

"Nutshell be full, he bring some meat a, 'Your fiddle-stick no good to eat a."

'Oh zounds, cot tam! 'Vat rage I am, 'I could my flesh for anger cat:' "Ah do, you'll get no other meat."

'Shades of creat musicians all, 'In heaven, in hell, or on the deep, 'Quick appear, obey my call!'

"He won't appear, he fast asleep." 'Bononcini, 'Farinelli, 'Piccini, 'lomelli, 'And all de elli, 'And Nelli, 'And rini, 'And cini, 'Great fiddling quire, 'Appear at sound of David's lyre. 'Come, drive dis rogue from English land 'Fat, short, and tall a men, 'Come, follow, follow men, 'David and Soloman, 'One sing, and toder lead the band!'

"Ah you may bawl, "You cini he vont come at all."

I'll stop your mouth, you villain taef!' "All dis fine nize dome get roast Leaf!"

"Come dome be fool, "But let us join, "your force and mine, "And den dome fear "But the next year, "Wid your fine hell, "Your tund'ring swell, "May he, and ha, "Mister John Bull "Shall cry hoora! "Vive L'Opera!"

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

DICK DOCK, a tar at Greenwich moor'd, One day had got his beer on board, When he a poor maim'd pensioner from Chelsea saw; And all to have his jeer and flout, For the grog once in the wit's soon out, Cried, how good master Lobster did you lose your claw? Was't that time in a drunken fray, Or t'other when you ran away? But hold you Dick, the poor soul has one foot in the grave; 'Fore slander's wind too fast you fly, D'ye think it fun?—you swab you lie; Misfortune ever claim'd the pity of the brave.

Old Hanibal, in words as gross, For he, like Dick, had got his dose, To try about a wrangling, quickly took a spell If I'm a Lobster, master Crab, By the information on your nab, In some scrimmage, or other, why they've crack'd your shell; And then why how you hobling go, On that jury mast, your timber toe, A nice one to find fault, with one foot in the grave; But halt old Hanibal, halt! halt! Distress was never yet a fault, Misfortune ever claimed the pity of the brave.

If Hanibal's your name d'ye see, As sure as they Dick Dock call me, As once it did fall out, I ow'd my life to you, Spilt from my horse, once when 'twas dark, And nearly swallowed by a shark, You boldly plunged in, saved me and pleased all the crew; If that's the case then cease our jeers, When boarded by the same Mounseers, You, a true English Lion, snatch'd me from the grave, Cried cowards, do the man no harm, Dammee, don't you see he's lost his arm, Misfortune ever claimed pity from the brave.

Then broach a can before we part, A friendly one, with all his heart, And as we put the grog about, we'll chearly sing, At land and sea, may Briton••s fight, The world's example and delight, And conquer every enemy of George our King: 'Tis he, that proves the hero's friend, His bounty waits us to our end, Though cripple••, and laid up, with one foot in the grave, Then Tars and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 never fear, You shall not wan•• compassion's tear, Misfortune ever claimed the pity of the brave.

BALLAD—IN GREAT NEWS.

HAVE you heard of the tax, that such strange consternation, Has spread th••ough old England, that poor helpless nation, 'Tis hair powder, Oh! downfall of guinea••ess beaus, Wh••, unli••enced, will all look like so many crows: Hark the ••rizeurs exclaim! as distracted they roam, 'Mongst the knights of the curling irons, Chaos is come, Sing and cry, cry and sing, mingle misery and fun, England's never so happy as when 'tis undone The Hunks, who can boast but a sing••e colt's tooth, Who, weighed down with age, apes the fopperies of youth, Says, to some Dulcinea, 'my hairs are all grey, 'So I can't be taxed,' cries the Syren, "Nay, nay, "Not all grey—they're half black:"—'Ah! you dear coax|ing ninny, 'Well, I'll purchase a licence and pay half a guinea.' Sing and cry, &c.

Then the Knights of the Rainbow—I say my lord Duke, On hair powder a tax—take the news there and look. I forgot, you can't read—the ridiculous fuss, Why what are such trifles as guineas to us? Nunky pays for we footmen—I'll sport a spruce nab, And Old Quibus come down for't, or demme I'll blab. Sing and cry, &c.

But the drol••est expedient was that of a fop, A man milliner, where there were four in a shop; I've hit upon't, demme: as lawyers coach call, And drive four for a shilling to Westminster Hall, Five and three pence a piece, lads advance, hand it out, We'll purchase a licence and lend it about. Sing and cry, &c.

Then the tea table see, I declare then I'm vexed, Cries out, Old Lady Pyeball, 'Our teeth they'll tax next, 'I should trick 'em at that tho' I have but one tooth:' "'Tis quite right,' cried a beauty all sweetness and truth, "Take the tax, take each feather, that plays on my head, "I shall dress the more plain—but the poor will get bred." Sing and cry, &c.

Then, my countrymen, emulate this charming fair, Deck the heart nor regret how neglected the hair, While Frizeurs, and Footmen, and Fops, cry pecavi, We shall all dress more decent, and they'll man the navy; Let our rulers go on then of honour secure, Each tax upon luxury's bread for the poor, Then hold all this cro••king, and grumbling as fun, By such nonsense Old England can ne'er be undone.

BALLAD—IN POOR VULCAN.

A Parody.

DEAR Maudlin come give me bright guineas, For brighter none sure ever gave, Nor think that I'm one of those ninnies. That can tell you how many I'd have. I'm not to be stinted in pleasure, So to me if you mean to be kind, You must ransack old Crump's rusty treasure, And give me whatever you find.

With a large heavy purse so I fold thee, I then my dear Maudlin, am thine; In satins and silks I'll behold thee, No duchess e'er dressed half so fine;

But our pocket at present but thin is, And soon what we have will be spent, Then prithee give many more guineas, Or you'll find I shall ne'er be content.

Count the rouleaus at Almack•• they're staking, Count the bets laid in Newmarket fields, Count the cash at the bank they are taking, Count the gold that rich Lombard-street yields: Give a p••ep at the India-house coffer, Go number the treasury's store, And when so many guineas you offer, I still shall be asking for more.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THOUGH pleasure's easily d••fin'd, Droll mortals so employ it, Scarce any two among mankind Go the same way to enjoy it. With some a dying parent's groan, With others ill got treasure, A friend betray'd, a wido••'s moan, An orphan's tears are pleasure. From no such source my pleasure's flow, Unfashionably happy; Reason supplies the joys I know, Their zest a jug of Nappy.

Their country's downfall, Faction's elves, For fun, would be pursuing, Though, Samson like, they were themselves Crushed in the mighty ruin. Let them go on, they doubtless see, Congenial to their natures, Some pleasure in that misery They wish their fellow creatures. For me, protected while I sing, My wife and children happy, My favorite toast, church, state, and king, Shall sweeten my brown Nappy.

Love, as facetiously we're told, Has blessings out of measure, And hearts put up, and bought, and sold, Confer a world of pleasure. Then for the joys that wine promotes, Who dares, a lie presuming, Deny that brawls and cutting throats, Are something more than human? Why love and drink's the zest of life, When Reason bids be happy; With hallow'd lips when a lov'd wife Blesses the smiling Nappy.

Yet every mortal to his taste: O'er others no dominion Do I usurp, I've only traced, With deference, my opinion; And, if mankind in folly sunk, Find g••orious fun in treason, In vicious love, in getting drunk, And taking leave of reason; E'en let them think so, since they will, My own way I'll be happy; Of Reason's pleasures take my fill, And drink my jug of Nappy.

BALLAD—IN CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE Yarmouth roads are right ahead, The crew with ardour burning, Jack sings out as he heaves the lead, On tack and half tack turning; By the dip eleven! Lash'd in the chains, the line he coils, Then round his head 'tis swinging; And thus to make the land he toils, In numbers quaintly singing, By the mark seven! And now lest we run bump ashore, He heaves the lead, and sings once more, Quarter less four!

About ship lads, tumble up there, can't you see! Stand by, well bark, hark; helm's a lee, Here she comes, up tacks and sheets, haul, mainsail haul, Haul off all: And as the long lost shore they view, Exulting shout the happy crew; Each singing, as the sails he furls, Hey for the fiddles and the girls.

The next tack we run out to sea, Old England scarce appearing; Again we tack, and Jack with glee Sings out as land we're nearing, By the dip eleven! And as they name some beauty dear, To tars of bliss the summit, Jack joins the jell, the jibe, the jeer, And heaves the pond'rous plummet; By the mark seven! And now, while dang'rous breakers roar, Jack cries, lest we run bump a shore, Quarter less four! About ship lads, tumble, up there, can't you see! Stand by, well hark, hark; the helm's a lee! Here she comes, up tacks and sheets, haul, mainsail haul, Haul off all: And as the long lost shore they view, Exulting shout the happy crew; Each singing as the sai••s he furls, Hey for the fiddles and the girls.

Thus tars at sea, like swabs at home, By tack and tack are bias'd, The furthest way about we roam, To bring us home the nighest; By the dip eleven! For one tack more, and 'fore the wind, Shall we, in a few glasses, Now make the land both true and kind, To find our friends and lasses; By the mark seven! Then heave the lead, my lad once more, Soon shall we gaily tread the shore, And a half four! About ship, &c.