The songs of Joseph Mather

Mather, Joseph (1737-1804)

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Song I. THE FILE HEWER'S LAMENTATION.

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Tune—“A Pilgrim Blithe and Jolly.”

Ordained I was a beggar,
And have no cause to swagger;
It pierces like a dagger—
To think I'm thus forlorn.
My trade or occupation
Was ground for lamentation,
Which makes me curse my station,
And wish I'd ne'er been born.

Of slaving I am weary,
From June to January!
To nature it's contrary—
This, I presume, is fact.
Although, without a stammer,
Our Nell exclaims I clam her,
I wield my six-pound hammer
'Till I am grown round-back'd.

I'm debtor to a many,
But cannot pay one penny;
Sure I've worse luck than any;
My traps are marked for sale.
My creditors may sue me,
The bailiffs may pursue me,
And lock me up in jail.

As negroes in Virginia,
In Maryland or Guinea,
Like them I must continue—
To be both bought and sold.
While negro ships are filling
I ne'er can save one shilling,
And must, which is more killing,
A pauper die when old.

My troubles never ceased,
While Nell's bairn time increased;
While hundreds I've rehearsed,
Ten thousand more remain;

My income for me, Nelly,
Bob, Tom, Poll, Bet, and Sally,
Could hardly fill each belly,
Should we eat salt and grains.

At every week's conclusion
New wants bring fresh confusion,
It is but mere delusion
To hope for better days,
While knaves with power invested,
Until by death arrested,
Oppress us unmolested
By their infernal ways.

A hanging day is wanted;
Was it by justice granted,
Poor men distress'd and daunted
Would then have cause to sing—
To see in active motion
Rich knaves in full proportion,
For their unjust extortion
And vile offences swing.

Song II. THE AUTHOR'S PETITION TO FORTUNE.

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Tune from an Air in Midas.

Poverty, that vile tormentor,
Keeps me in strong bonds confined;
Fortune quits me at a venture
Since I've got a generous mind.
Rags disguise me, friends dispise me,
Bums and lawyers catechise me,
All against me seem combined.

CHORUS.

Wearied bones, despised and daunted,
Hungry guts and empty purse,
Hung with rags, by bailiff's haunted,
Prove the times grow worse and worse.

Dunners at my door come knocking,
And with frowns demand their debts;
Wretched is my fate and shocking,
Since my wants exceeds my gets.
Thus invested, I'm detested,
Since by poverty arrested,
Which my brain quite oversets.

Let not care, distress and trouble
My poor heart so much enslave,
Rather lay the burden double
Upon some impious knave,
Who for riches nips and twitches—
Though their bags are fill'd like fitches,
Midas-like, the more would have.

Poverty, that monster frightful,
Crowds the thoughts with anxious care,
Renders life no ways delightful,
Rather leads to black despair.
Come, be speedy, help the needy;
Of abundance I'm not greedy;
Give, oh give, me Agur's prayer.

CHORUS.

Then calm, peace, and sweet contentment
Shall subdue my troubled mind,
Turn the point of sharp resentment
And make friends more mild and kind.

Song III. MR. BATTY'S MULE.

Mr. Batty I've catch'd your mule
As he was galloping on the highway;
Seeing him run like a resolute fool,
Caus'd me to think he was going astray.

Some vile neighbour says, Batty, I know,
Gave him bad counsel, which made him do so;
Put him i'th' stable and give him some grains,
And I will recompence thee for thy pains.

Mr. Batty, with grief of soul,
Says “honest fellow,” thou must understand,
This dumb creature, when he was a foal,
Always was subject to my command:
Notwithstanding to him I've been kind,
Now he'll do nothing but what he's a mind;
But if he does not refrain these tricks,
Round-legs shall have him to lead coals and bricks.

Many who bear the Christian name
Frequently upon their reason intrude;
Then why should we this animal blame,
Since with that he was never endued.
Then let us study sound wisdom to nurse,
Lest like him we grow older and worse;
Through all our proceedings let reason bear rule,
For man is by nature more frail than a mule.

Since in Adam his children fell,
Each must endeavour to alter the case;
“Cease to do evil, learn to do well,”
Pray to be changed from nature to grace.
Why should man in his natural state
Boast of his knowledge or think himself great?
Inspir'd wisdom, by faith, has declared
That man to a wild ass is compared.

Peradventure he yet may reform,
When he by poverty shall be brought low,
For want of provender and a long storm
Soon may cause him himself for to know.
Then his galloping will have an end,
When he has parted with me, his best friend;
Then he'll, like multitudes, when 'tis too late,
Blame his ingratitude—curse his hard fate.

Song IV. BAD LUCK TO THE CROW AND THE OWL.

One day vindicating a mule,
There sprang from the regions below
An infamous, infernal owl,
In company with a black crow.
The owl being eager of prey,
Ere I of his claws could get clear,
He robbed me upon the highway,
For which I was muzzled a year.

CHORUS.

Bad luck to the crow and the owl,
Mat Linen and beef-headed Bob,
That silly old man with his mule,
And all the infernal black mob.

The crow, his companion and friend,
Who with him goes prying about;
He was always too idle to fend,
Which kept him long time in the moult.
But since he's deformity wed,
He swells, and his feathers shine clear;
With dainties he daily gets fed,
Although I've been muzzled a year.

Each day you may see this vile pimp
The dictates of satan pursue,
And surely he's Beelzebub's imp,
Who has always men's ruin in view.

His infamy, thousands agree,
Doth penetrate every year;
He thought to assassinate me,
The day I was muzzled a year.

This black diabolical train,
The devil but masters them all;
In view an advantage to gain,
They brought me to Loggerhead's Hall.
With infernal malice and rage
These ruffins surrounded me there,
And all their black arts did engage,—
They muzzled me for a whole year.

These pupils, allur'd by Old Nick,
Against me with more did conspire,—
Because I told knaves of their tricks,
Like tinder their spirit took fire.
And soon as they did of their base
Superlative villany hear,
They never could rest in a place,
Until I was muzzled a year.

My time being fully expired,
It's proper I vented my mind;
I've done what the law has required,
So why should my tongue be confined?
'Tis liberty Englishmen claim,
A priviledge counted most dear:
I only embraced the same,
For which I was muzzled a year.

Song V. SPENCE BROUGHTON'S LAMENT.

Hark, his blood, in strains so piercing,
Cries for justice night and day;
In these words which I'm rehearsing,
Now methinks I hear him say—
“Thou, who art my spirit's portion
In the realms of endless bliss,
When at first thou gav'st me motion
Knew that I should come to this.

“Though I lie in this condition,
'Tis not thine appointed will,
Yet it was by thy permission
That these wretches did me kill.
Thou art free from every evil,
Witness thine own righteous law:
Cruel men, led by the devil,
Brought me in the hands of Shaw.

But when time shall be fulfilled,
How will their guilty conscience roar,
When the youth, whom they have killed,
Stands before them in his gore!
When the Lord shall come with fury,
Taking vengeance on his foes,
There no bribed judge or jury
Will through interest then be chose.

Though you should escape the halter,
I exhort you to amend,
And for grace your ways to alter
Importune a sinner's friend.
Though your crimes be more in number
Than the sands on the sea shore,
Watch and pray, beware of slumber,
Beg of Him to pay the score.”

Song VI. BUGGY EYRE.

About eight or nine months ago
My mind was possess'd with sobriety,
All my acquaintances did know
I was in a friendly society,
But through a vile plot that was laid,
Unspeakable loss I sustained;
A cripple I got myself made,
And many an enemy gained.

CHORUS.

'Twas Buggy first led me astray
By promising me an old hatchet;
I think from his tedious delay
He never intends me to catch it.

I chanced to be chopping a stick,
The first day of last January,
When Buggy, employed by Old Nick,
Came down to our house brisk and airy;
He said if I would with him go,
A nice little hatchet he'd give me,
But little did I think or know
It was his intent to deceive me.

Then quickly I laid down my job,
And out of the house then he took me,
Forthwith to the head of the town
And into the Falcon he 'ticed me.
The kitchen was thoroughly lined
With people both jovial and pleasant;
Amongst them they kept me confined
Whilst Buggy went out for the present.

Then out of his pint made me drink,
As free and good-natured as could be,
Yet at the same time I did think
That was not the place where I should be.
They told me to ne'er mind the score,
And hop'd I would not be offended,
Whenever I went to the door
By two or three I was attended.

When Buggy saw how I was caught,
For fear I should think him ungrateful,
Instead of a hatchet he brought
Of roast beef and pickle a plateful.
They tossed the rum bottle about,
While I in their midst was surrounded,
And ere I could get myself out
I stay'd till my reason was drownded.

Then some of them ask'd for a song,
But for a long while I refused;
I had not sung one of so long,
I begg'd that I might be excused.
Yet harder and harder they press'd,
Some said for a song they would thank me,
So I took my turn with the rest,
And thus by their craft they unhank'd me.

[OMITTED]

Song VII. NELL AND JOS.

Last night, past ten, nigh half an hour,
There coming on a heavy shower,
I stepped aside while it did pour,
Into a lonesome entry.
There through a broken pane of glass,
Surprised I saw both Nell and Jos,
Who were beyond description cross,
Throng fighting in the pantry.

Bold Jos was strip'd unto his buff,
With hair untied, exceeding rough,
And Nell, whose nose was daub'd with snuff,
With her long nails did rake him.
She got both hands into his wool,
Against the door she dash'd his skull,
Although he roar'd like some town bull,
Most soundly did she shake him.

Then Nell for want of strength and wind
To give it out she was inclined,—
Then Jos began to speak his mind,
And told her of her gallants.
His hide from wounds had been as free
If drawn through some thick hawthorn tree,
A man worse flogg'd I ne'er did see,—
Which made him curse her talons.

Before poor Jos put on his shirt
She cast him out amongst the dirt,
His forehead broke, his nose ill hurt,—
When she her strength regained.
I help'd him up and took him in,
And quickly Nell's warm heart did win;
She dress'd his wounds and wash'd his skin,
And thus to me complained:—

To-morrow being Sabbath day,
For meat and flour we have to pay,
Tobacco, sugar, soap, and tea,
And likewise coals and milk, sir.
The half year's rent is just at hand,
And different debts upon demand,
I'm fit upon my head to stand—
Since no man I can bilk, sir.

This night for us, and three in bed,
He's only brought a poor sheep's head;
One shilling, and three cakes of bread
Is all in our possession.
Since Jos has took no better care
The wool and horns shall be his share,
Unless he'll eat the bones when bare
For this his past transgression.

Song VIII. TIMBER-LEGG'D HARRY.

When timber-legg'd Harry crook'd Jenny did marry,
They were not at all apprehensive of blows;
Three ragmen did quarrel about their apparel,
Which often had frightened both small birds and crows.
This resolute prial fought on battle royal,
While Jenny spoke thus, with hump back and sharp shins:
“Be loving as brothers, we'll chant for some others,
And you shall take ours for some needles and pins.”

The bridesmaid, full-breasted, both vowed and protested
She never saw men at a wedding so rude;
Old Grace with her matches, quite full of her catches,
Swore she would be tipsy ere they did conclude.
The supper being ended, they each condescended
With wholesome hot liquor to fill up their skins;
Jack Tar in his jacket, who sat by Doll's placket,
Swore he would drink nothing but grog and clear gin.

Blind Ralph, with his fiddle, was placed in the middle,
Who had not been shaved since the second of June;
Young Sandy the piper told Moll he would stripe her
If she would not dance now his pipe was in tune.
They played them such touches that wood legs and crutches,
And rag-pokes and matches and songs flew about:
Blind Ralph being a stranger, his trap was in danger.
So he tenderly begged that they would give it out.

Then Ralph was intreated in state to be seated,
Upon an old cupboard the landlord had got;
Like madmen enchanted they tippled and ranted
'Till down came the fiddler as if he'd been shot;
They drank gin by noggins, and small beer by flagons,
Till each had sufficiently loosen'd his hide,
Then all who were able retired to the stable,
And slept with their nose in each others backside.

Song IX. SHEFFIELD RACES. No. 1.

Misers may stay with their treasure,
Who eagerly mammon embraces;
This is the season of pleasure,
Come lasses and lads to the races.
Johny to treat his fair
Has just drawn part of his wages;
Harry and Ruth, this year,
Are come to renew their ages.

CHORUS.

John, with his old gray mare,
As hard as he could pelt her,
Yesterday came to the fair,
To see them helter-skelter.

Dolly, that crooked old woman,
Who was sister to full-breasted Mary,
Swore she would go to the common,
Conducted by splay-footed Harry,
There to meet sharp-shinned Dick,
And squint-ey'd Poll, with her garters;
Bandy legg'd Ralph and Mick,
Bare four feet five and three-quarters.

CHORUS.

Roger came driving Kate,
A pace enough to melt her,
Fearing they should be too late
To see them helter-skelter.

See, now they go off with a clatter,
The horse that can win it shall wear it,
Jockeys well versed in the matter
Exert their whole power to clear it;
With shouts that rend the sky
And put to a consternation
Numbers of birds that fly
And part of the brute creation.

Song X. SHEFFIELD RACES. No. 2.

Come, ye lads and lasses gay,
Lay aside your toil and labour,
Joy and mirth begin to-day,
Call upon each friend and neighbour;
All as one united be
To partake of things diverting,
At the races you will see
Man and horse their powers exerting.

CHORUS.

Bacchus, O thou god of wine,
This week holds us to exalt thee;
Bastards only will repine,
Free-born sons disdain to fault thee.

Hark, the bells begin to ring
To invite all loyal people,
Enemies to church and king
Wish they may shake down the steeple.
Such to him may lie and prate,
Cant and censure man and woman,
We'll go see who wins the plate,
Come let's haste towards the common.

Now the colours are displayed,
And the music plays most charming,
Let no mortal be dismayed,
Nothing interferes, alarming.
View aloft the shining purse,
With such pomp and splendour guarded,
With the same the winning horse
For his toil shall be rewarded.

See, they're off, away they scour,
Whip and spur are both in action,
Man and horse exert their power
To yield sportsmen satisfaction.

Elevated by huzzas,
See, they push and change their places;
Such diversion for three days
We expect at Sheffield races.

Thursday's race is for a cup,
Neatly chased and ornamented,
Helter-skelter cutting up
There will be, 'tis represented.
And when Friday's plate is won
Let us lay these lines before us,
Friendly talk of what's been done,
Drink about and join this chorus.

CHORUS.

Thank thee, Bacchus, god of wine,
For thy aid in past enjoyment;
Now, be it each one's design
To retire to his employment.

Song XI. JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER.

Part I.

Last Friday, at dinner time, who should I see,
But Jezebel's daughter come riding so free:
As soon as she did nearer approach
I found she had got into Watson's stage coach.
Thought I to myself, thou seem'st for to swell,
A sow would become a king's palace as well.
We don't need to wonder the world is at strife,
Since beggars can imitate folks of high life.

I wonder, says one, who they've got in the stage,
That looks so much like an old woman in rage:
Her fine spotted habit, I think for my share,
Would look full as decent upon a cart mare.
She also was dress'd in a cap trim'd with wire,
A sponge in her topping to raise it the higher.
Some of the militia men wickedly swore
She was a great masculine coarse-featured whore.

Besides, she had got a conspicuous head:
No horse-flesh, I'm certain, that's been a month dead
In scorching hot weather stinks worse than her breath;
She ought to be weather-cock'd deep in the earth.
At Leeds she was taken for old mother Bunch,
By some for the wife of my friend Mr. Punch.
Some thought she belonged to a mountebank fool,
While other some thought she was John Addy's doll.

When she had fill'd the whole town with surprise
By telling great numbers of audacious lies,
Her clothes which she borrow'd or bought upon strap
She bundled them up and put under her lap.
A little short pipe in her mus she did screw,
As though she belonged to some pedlar or Jew.
Then came slobbing home in a large pair of shoes—
Stout Wharton's the person that brought me the news.

She lobs up and down in a white petticoat,
She bares it nine inches in order to show't.
She told many strangers she bought it when new,
But it sprung from the “pop shop” I know to be true;
Yet, here's the misfortune, it not being wide,
She hasn't got liberty for a great stride.
The reason,—it bound her so fast o'er the rump,
When crossing the sink she was forced to jump.

Astride of a water pot, often half drunk,
Two lusty men's shoes and her stockings much sunk,
A pair of scabbed hands and her head dress'd in taste,
To be big with child, she appear'd in the waist.
Her haft-pipe she rested upon a large wem,
A pipe black as charcoal, two inches the stem,
Confined in her mus-hole; prepared to suck biles,
'Twas Jezebel's daughter I saw chopping files.

Song XII. JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER.

Part II.

One day, at my labour, I o'erheard a neighbour,
Most briefly relating her journey to Leeds,
'Twas Jezebel's daughter, whose mother had taught her
The art of seduction and many bad deeds.

I gave due attention to all she did mention;
Well pleased with her story I got it by rote.
The words are verbatim, as she did relate 'em,
Composed to the tune called “shuffle and cut,”
And these were the words of this snivelling slut:

With a short pipe in my mouth,
And a pair of men's shoes, about half an ell
I turned my face to the South,
And returned home to old Jezebel.
When I arrived at my cot,
The old gipsy was tenting it,
I found it was the same spot,
But not as I had been representing it.

Slut-holes above and below,
Spider-webs no one could nominate,
Cat's muck and dog's muck also,
S---t pots mould and abominate.
Black-clocks, crickets, and mice,
Rats very daring and impudent,
Millions of bugs, fleas, and lice
Were wandering over my tenement.

Fretting, alas! was in vain,
So I composed myself speedily,
Fell to my calling again,
Baking and thieving most greedily.
Every peck I did bake,
I nibbled harder than e'er I did;
Yes, I took more by a cake,
This I am certain and clear I did.

Then did old Jezebel say,
For thy expenses extraordinary,
We'll make the leaven tub pay
Sixpence a peck more than ordinary.
Yesterday twelve pecks of meal
Came to be baked in reality,
Twenty-four cakes I did steal,
Which shows a great deal of frugality.

Twelve pence my wage was at least,
Had not I cause to look pleasantly,
I got as drunk as a beast,
How it was I'll tell you presently.
We've a stone bottle in cog,
A bottle for secresy suitable,
We get it filled up at the Dog,
When we've a mind, indisputable.

If we go seek for some ale,
A pint or pennyworth with sanctity,
While we are telling our tale,
The girl fills us treble the quantity,
Corks up the bottle secure,
Lest they discover our knavery,
Gives it us very demure—
Thus we do live above slavery.

Tipsy, we then fall asleep;
When we awake we are dry again:
Close to the bottle we creep,
Drink deep and then set it down again.
Here's good health to John Shay,
Who still keeps the bottle replenishing;
He may work hard day by day
To pay for his liquor diminishing.

We must confess it's not right
For mortals whose lives are in jeopardy,
Daily to live by the bite,
And swell us with other men's property.
We deceive women and men,
All sorts of wickedness cherisheth,
What will become of us when
The hope of the hypocrite perisheth.

Song XIII. JOHN OLDHAM'S DISASTER.

When all nature was hush'd, bird and beast gone to rest,
And each temperate man in his bed,
My heart in an instant with fears was distress'd,
Peace and sleep to a distance were fled.
This moment each thing was as still as a mouse,
But the next, to my shocking surprise,
Something quite uncommon did shake the whole house,
In my life I never heard such a noise.

The bed where I lay jump'd a foot from the place,
Which made my wife and children quake,
A cratch fill'd with bottles fell down the staircase,
And they clashed while the kitchen did shake.
Plates, irons, and glasses made different sounds,
While the clothes on the winterhedge blazed,
At this midnight concert my fright had no bounds,
So I ran out of doors almost crazed.

It was my intent to have holloed out fire,
But two neighbours I chanc'd for to meet,
And what was the reason I began to inquire,
Of the terrible shock in the street.
One said 'tis John Oldham, who's got such a fall,
'Tis a mercy we are not destroy'd;
Our brewing tubs and gantries are overturn'd all,
And each one in the house terrifi'd.

Alas! said another, it is not to tell
What a loss by this shock was sustain'd,
Our sow has got kill'd, by the hog-stye that fell,
And eleven fine pigs but just weaned.
In short, we concluded our dwelling to quit,
Which apparently soon must fall down,
Or petition the parliament not to permit
Such a monster to live in the town.

Song XIV. BEN EYRE.

On Sunday morning last,
We played a trick not fair,
We stole near twenty walking sticks,
Belonging to Ben Eyre.

Blencorn and him did thwart,
While we took thick and small,
Then one by one we took them down,
'Till we had got them all.

To Gosports then we went,
Where we got ready sale;
To such like drunkards as ourselves,
We sold them by retail.

When Ben awoke from sleep,
Thinking to view his store,
From off the balk he miss'd his sticks,
Lord how he curs'd and swore!

Then he began to think
Who had been in his room,
Two blackguard dogs Blencorn and Ben,
Sure death shall be their doom.

How vex'd was I to think,
My trouble thrown away;
I went to Wharncliffe for those sticks,
Upon last New-Year's day.

But since my passion's cool'd,
I'm will'd to set them free,
I freely do forgive the world,
And hope the world will me.

Song XV. FRANK FEARNE.

Mortals all in town or city,
Pay attention to this truth;
Let your bowels yearn with pity,
Towards a poor deluded youth.

Tho' with Satan's vile injunctions,
I was forced to comply,
Now it causes sad reflections,
Since I am condemed to die.

Andrews, O that name! it pierces,
Thro' my very inmost soul:
And my torments much increases,
In this glomy condemn'd hole.

At Kirk edge I shot and stab'd him,
Cut his throat and bruis'd his pate,
Of his watch and money robb'd him,
Causes my unhappy fate'

Christians pray that true repentance
May be given a wretch like me.
I acknowledge my just sentence,
Ther's no law can set me free.

Let me make one observation,
Though to sin I've been enslav'd,
Through my Saviour's mediation,
My poor soul may yet be sav'd.

Hark! I'm call'd to execution,
And must bid the world adieu!
'Tis the hour of dissolution,
And my moments are but few.

Let me endless bliss inherit,
Wash me from my guilty stains:
O, receive my precious spirit,
Though my body hang in chains.

Song XVI. LOXLEY EDGE.

Last Easter Sunday with bat-stick and trip,
To Pitsmoor firs I did eagerly trip,
But soon got fast in a quick-set edge;
A Methodist preacher, good natur'd and stout,
Took hold of my shoulders and lifted me out,

And said, “Young man, take advice from a stranger,
Permit me with freedom to tell thee thy danger,
Thou art in the road to Loxley edge.”

I found a desire on that point to be clear,
So I asked him how he could make it appear,
Since I had my face toward Washford bridge.
Says he I have visited many a cell,
And heard malefactors repeatedly tell,
That breaking the Sabbath doth often contribute,
To lead to the gallows, from thence to the gibbet,
So thou'rt in the read to Loxley edge.

Whilst thou art transgressing the laws of the Lord.
By murdering the time set apart for His word,
Thou may'st be assur'd thy soul is in pledge;
Thy heart will grow harder and harder each day,
Thy light become darkness, and thou wilt give way
To Satan's temptations and subtle seductions,
Until thou art ripe for the pit of destruction,
So thou'rt in the way to Loxley edge.

If thou wouldst be happy my council pray take,
And frequent the means that's appointed for grace,
That I may nothing against thee allege;
Beseech the Almighty to plough up thy heart,
To take away sin and his spirit impart.
Had Fearne ta'en this method, his life had not ended,
At Tyburn, near York, nor in chains been suspended,
Betwixt heaven and earth upon Loxley edge.

Song XVII. STEVENS & LASTLEY'S EXECUTION.

O Wharton, thou villain, most base,
Thy name must eternally rot;
Poor Stevens and Lastley's sad case
For ever thy conscience will blot.
Those victims, thou wickedly sold,
And into eternity hurl'd,
For lucre of soul sinking gold,
To set thee on foot in the world.

Thy house is a desolate place,
Reduc'd to a shell by the crowd,
Destruction pursues thee apace,
While innocent blood cries aloud.
Poor Booth in strong fetters thou'st left
Appointed for Botany Bay,
He is of all comforts bereft,
To die by a hair's breadth each day.

Depend on't thou never can'st thrive,
Thy sin will e'er long find thee out,
If not whilst thy body's alive,
It will after death, without doubt.

When Stevens and Lastley appears,
Requiring their blood at thy hands,
Tormenting a million of years,
Can't satisfy justice's demands.

Some others were equally vile,
To prompt thee to this wicked work;
In order to share of the spoil,
Thou got by the blood spilt at York.
All are equally guilty with thee,
And as a reward for their pains,
They ought to be hung on a tree,
And then be suspended in chains.

Song XVIII. THE DERBYSHIRE FARMER.

A farmer in Derbyshire had a wild son,
That would go a courting let what would be done;
Away he set out without any regard,
What honest man's daughter he injured or marr'd.
His friends and relations were fill'd with disgust,
When he threw the reigns on the neck of his lust;
Each one was offended, though ever so meek,
For many miles round the D---l's house in the Peak.

Just like some wild jackass, o'er the mountains he stray'd
In search of a female he gallop'd and bray'd.
At length a young damsel he utterly spoiled,
For by his seduction he got her with c---ld.
Her father then promised how liberal he'd be,
If they two to marry would jointly agree:
The knot being tied, the farmer in full,
Produced the girl's fortune—a lousy young bull.

The calf was removed to his father's own farm,
Where there was no want of good hay in a storm;
If ever he bellowed, old Bagshaw would say,
“Hark, yon's thy wife's fortune, go drive him away.”
One day he went out in a wonderful air,
And with his ash-plant drove the brute to Hope fair:
The cause of offence to remove as I'm told,
And there he converted his bull into gold.

This done he returns to his parents in peace,
In hope animosities ever might cease.
I cannot but pity his singular case,
His father still throws the bull-calf in his face.
If ever he puts the old man in a pet,
No matter what company there may be met,
He blacks him and calls him a shackle-brain'd elf,
And right in his teeth throws the lousy bull-calf.

CHORUS.

So take my advice, ye young men of Foolow,
Of Castleton, Bradwell, and Small-Dale, also:
You'd better live single, than marry by half,
For Bagshaw's wife's fortune—a lousy bull-calf.

Song XIX. THE CASTIGATION.

My song is true, so let it pass,
A horse transform'd into an ass,
Not worthy of the meanest grass,
Produced by lanes or commons.
With Putty prim'd the other day,
He cock'd his tail, began to bray,
To th' Justice Clerk did trot away,
And there procur'd a summons.

The paper purchas'd for abuse,
He may apply to dirty use;
The brute is left without excuse,
Though destitute of reason.
Presumptious beast, insulting clown,
How durst thou look towards my crown,
Much less attempt to pull it down,
I'd have thee tried for treason.

Though thou display'st thy knavish tricks,
First bites, then turns thy heels and kicks,
E're long, I'll make thee carry bricks,
And to the coal yard send thee.
Thou animal, despised by hogs,
To thy round legs I'll chain two clogs,
And bait thee oft with butcher's dogs,
To see if that will mend thee.

The Hawke that soars about thy house,
As poor as any pauper's louse,
For greedy of a little mouse,
Did villany exhibit;
That knave that's lost a tooth before,
That bird and ass that paid the score,
Bug, prick-ear'd Sam, and many more,
Deserve to grace the gibbet.

Song XX. FISH AND TOMMY TICKTACK.

An alderman for satan's use,
In Tophet slipt the cable,
In order Garbut to reduce,
But he will not be able.
Though Sambourne, Wilkinson, and Shaw,
That base militia sergeant,
Ticktack and Bedford joins the cause,
And Fish, the devil's agent.

CHORUS.

Then butcher's boys
Let's all arise,
And drive that ruffin quick back,
And all that join
That blaek design,
With Fish and Tommy Ticktack.

See Garbut, like a busy bee.
Improve each shining moment,
And seeks his bread from sea to sea,
Which well deserves a comment.
Whilst idle drones stay in the hive,
Extort from friend and stranger,
Conspire against him and contrive
Because their craft's in danger.

Behold that black insulting crew,
Who wish to pass for gentry,
Has purchas'd waster goods, in view
To take in all the country.

Such trumpery was never bought,
They scarce will hing together,
For which these rascals should be caught,
And flogged like Fish's father.

This combin'd herd on market days,
When Garbut mounts the rostrum,
With grudging hearts upon him gaze,
And sigh for want of custom;
They curse him in his hairy dress,
Although a man deserving,
His efforts meet with great success,
Whilst sneaking dogs are starving.

Rooker in opposition stands,
With Gay in borrow'd habit,
Worse ne'er escap'd the hangman's hands,
Nor scarce disgrac'd a gibbet.
Those blacks are held in utmost scorn,
'Midst thousands of beholders,
Whilst Garbut through the streets is borne
In triumph on men's shoulders.

May that infernal dog of hell,
Now absent from his region,
Soon re-possess his native cell,
And take with him a legion;
Such as conspire to starve the poor,
Of every rank and station,
Likewise each rogue and private whore
That formed this combination.

Then butchers' boys, &c.

Song XXI. DR. KELLY.

A vile and most abandon'd wretch,
No friend to man nor nations,
Did kindle with a hellish match
Venereous conflagrations;

America soon catched the flame,
The whore in every alley
Exclaimed against the blasted name
Of squinting wry-nos'd K---lly.

CHORUS.

With gums and tongue as sore as biles,
And jaws tied up with flannel,
The hunters curse the match and wiles
Of black infernal Daniel.

Full thirty years he's ranged the globe,
With blue stone, pills and unction;
And scandaliz'd a genteel robe
With his infernal function.
“Pox-master general” resounds
O'er ev'ry hill and valley,
The infamy hath got no bounds,
Of squinting wry-nos'd K---lly.

At Gib' he set the rock on fire,—
Should any person doubt it,
Among the train he may enquire,
They'll tell him all about it.
His wife a stinking victim died—
May Hymen weep for Nelly—
And wished she never had been tied
To squinting wry-nos'd K---lly.

The god of marriage was unwise—
Appealed to Cupid's mother:
Tho' one wife fell a sacrifice,
He soon gave him another.
Now she is fir'd as bad as Nell,
(The bosom friend and ally,)
By that destructive dog of hell,
Old squinting wry-nos'd K---lly.

Bold Samson turned his foxes out,
With firebrands at their ar---es,
To burn the standing corn, about
Three hundred took their courses;
Just so the devil slip'd his fox,
With firebrand at his belly,
That all the world might get the p---x,
Thro' squinting wry-nos'd K---lly.

His villany on foreign shores
Hath often been detected;
Of stealing bacon, deals, and stores,
The rascal stands convicted.
His h---lish deeds excite disgust,
The universe can tell ye,
The devil I would sooner trust,
Than squinting wry-nos'd K---lly

Song XXII. THE HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.

Poor John being drinking one day with a friend,
He had but two shillings, and that he would spend,
Which made him uneasy for fear of his wife,
“Nay, truly,” says he “I'm afraid of my life.”

CHORUS.

Try again, Johnny, lad,
Fight like a tiger, lad,
Try again, Johnny lad, conquer or die.

His friend being angry to hear him say so,
To take up his cudgels fool-hot he did go,
The house being dark made the madam to think
It was her poor Johnny disguised in drink.

She seized the poker, his head she did feel,
Altho' a stout fellow she made him to reel;
He returned the blow with a shocking surprise,
For he flatten'd her nose and he swelled up her eyes.

He follow'd his blows till she cried “Spare my life!
Remember, dear Johnny, that I am thy wife;
I own for insulting thee I was to blame,
The fault's in myself, I confess to my shame.”

So when that he found her begin to relent,
He went out and left her a while to repent,
Then brought in her Johnny inform'd of the news,
Who splutter'd great words with his heart in his shoes.

He call'd for his supper, she brought it in haste,
For fear of his cruelty more she should taste,
Then they went to bed, but poor John could not sleep,
For hearing his wife in such sorrow to weep.

Poor John could not sleep for hearing her sighs,
Much more when he saw her swell'd cheeks and black eyes
O then honest Johnny replied “My dear Ruth,
If thou wilt forgive me I'll tell thee the truth.

A friend unto whom I related my case
Came here in my absence and used thee so base,
For which I am sorry and grieved to the heart,
And wish that I could but partake of thy smart.”

These words he had scarcely let go from his lips,
But hold of the bed-stock she eagerly grips,
And with it she did the poor simpleton beat,
Like some able husbandman thrashing of wheat.

He roar'd out for mercy, but all was in vain;
When weary she rested, then at him again:
All manner of colours she painted his hide—
This merciless bedstock was well occupied.

So under the basket poor Johnny remains;
Of her cruel treatment he daily complains:
“I'm under the basket,” repeated he cries,
“But might have ruled master if I had been wise.”

Song XXIII. THE CROOKES ROGUE.

My name's Blackguard, I dwell at Crookes,
Infernal tempers, sulky looks,
Actions none can justify;
Which makes my neighbours jointly cry,
That's the jockey that bought the goose,
Stole another when it got loose.

Two wings procured, a knave allured
To swear it was his own when try'd;
Here lies the sequel, they were not equal,
For both of them chanc'd to belong one side.

This accusation was too true,
The goose I bought to Walkley flew;
I stole a friend's for recompence,
For which a lawsuit did commence.
To arbitrators it was put,
Quite out of feather my goose was cut,
These two odd wings so mix'd my springs,
I lost the trial with costs of suit;
The money I tender'd, and thus got render'd
An infamous villain of no repute.

Song XXIV. NELL AND THE JOURNEYMAN HATTER.

Rodney has gotten the day,
De Grassey is justly rewarded,
The truth I may venture to say
By some it is little regarded.
The people have chiefly engaged
To talk of a different matter,
The women are greatly enraged
At Nell and the Journeyman Hatter.

Fal, lal, &c.

Like a he-goat or jack-ass,
That ranges the forest all over,
Which cannot a fellow brute pass,
But what he's inclined for to cover,
Regardless of every one,
Who ridicule, scoff, and bespatter,
When men to their labour are gone,
To Nell goes the Journeyman Hatter.

Happy in each other's arms,
Mistrusting no manner of evil,
One day they were rous'd by alarms,
Proceeding they thought from the devil,

The soot in such quantities fell,
Soon ended their amorous chatter.
From sweeps it was hard for to tell
Miss Nell and the Journeyman Hatter.

One with a long holly bush
Ascended the house like a martin,
Who sent soot down with a brush,
Which set them a sneezing and f---ting;
The one in his breeches let fly,
The other her urine did scatter,
Which quite put a stop to the joy
Of Nell and the Journeyman Hatter.

Nell and her sister also,
Once quilting up-stairs for employment,
When hearing her gallant below,
Nell knock'd for a little enjoyment.
This jockey, without any dread,
Ascended the stairs with a clatter,
And soon they were upon the bed,
Both Nell and the Journeyman Hatter.

This is no stranger than true,
The sister inclined to their notion,
Right upon the Hatter's back flew,
Desirous to join them in motion;
So then there was ill upon worse,
Like frog upon toad back they at her,
Which must be vexation of course,
To Nell and the Journeyman Hatter.

What shall we do in this case,
But make a purse by contribution,
Erect a Cuck-Stool at that place,
To wash them from this pollution.
As Nelly resides at a house,
Nigh where there is plenty of water,
Come let us assemble and douse
Both Nell and the Journeyman Hatter.

Song XXV. HALLAMSHIRE HAMAN.

When Ahasuerus o'er Persia did reign,
Vile Haman by plots did much treasure obtain,
By fradulent stratagems rose to be great,
And caused himself to sit at the King's gate.
The offspring of Belial raised so high,
Great homage demanded of all who pass'd by;
But Mordecai, one of the seed of the Jews,
To honour proud Haman did ever refuse.

CHORUS.

Then Haman he vowed that all Israel should die;
And Mordecai hang 'twixt the earth and the sky;
But though he on plunder and rapine was bent,
He never took discount at fifty per cent.

Then Haman sent forth that it was the king's word
For each tribe of Israel to die by the sword;
His breast that no mercy or clemency knew,
Thought he by their death all the Jews to subdue.
But “Hallamshire Haman,” proud infernal elf,
For cruelty equalling Nero himself,
Who knew he must fall, should we rot in our graves,
He makes us pay discount for being his slaves.

This “Hallamshire Haman” keeps blacks at command,
To spread his dire mandates throughout the whole land,
Together they meet and their malice combine
To form a most hellish, infernal design.
On malice, on mischief, and tyranny bent,
Five poor honest grinders to prison they sent;
Though nothing they had of these men to complain,
But not paying discount for wearing a chain.

He took a poor man to where justice is sold,
And mercy polluted for lucre and gold;
To ruin his family he was fully bent,
And fain he to Wakefield this man would have sent.
But while for revenge he thus cruelly sought,
In a snare of his own this proud Haman was caught;
He dare not face justice, lest she should ordain
That he should pay back all his discount again.

This “Hallamshire Haman,” proud infernal thing,
Expects the next year to be Hallamshire's King,
But proverbs assure us that those who would sip,
Shall find that much falls “'twixt the cup and the lip.”
So if his great master should send in the year,
And cite him at his dreadful court to appear,
In torments and flames he must certainly dwell,
And discount resound from the corners of hell.

Song XXVI. SANCHO.

When Sancho was a raw-boned whelp,
And lived in yonder jennel,
Although he snatched, the curs did yelp,
And chas'd him to his kennel.
When but a little snarling pup,
He thought himself most famous,
In that delusion he grew up,
Both fool and ignoramus.

CHORUS.

See! how he flees in mad career,
With Mammon for his backer,
Grac'd with a firebrand at each ear.
And tail a flaming cracker.

Now purse-proud, soft, and ignorant,
He instigates a faction,
Then tells us soldiers shall be sent
To keep us in subjection.
Oft private interest needs a tool,
To bring about oppression,
For that same end the red-hot fool
Retains his old commission.

And daily flees, &c.

By Chesterfield he took his round,
'Twas at the revolution,
And hunting in forbidden ground,
They sought his execution;
But mercy interfered that day,
Although he was convicted,
Which made presumption plumply say,
“This proves he is elected.”

Yet still, &c.

In quest of game by foul demeans,
A sacred place he rifled,
Where nine times twenty-five thirteens
Were altogether stifled.
His dragon's tongue with fiery stream,
Spued forth infernal slander,
Set all around him in a flame,
Like some hot Salamander.

See! how he, &c.

His gilded god keeps all in awe,
But speak and he'll indict you;
Approach his kennel, touch a straw,
And doubtless he will bite you.
But if you speak of oil or blanks,
Or mention whom he fleeces,
You instantly must shift your shanks,
Or you'll be torn to pieces.

For still he, &c.

Though he's attained to hoary hairs,
His heart is dark and callous,
And doubtless soon will say his prayers
Beneath some tree or gallows:
Then gladly for an iron suit
The public will contribute,
The surgeons need not make dispute,
For Sanc. shall grace a gibbet,

Nor longer fly, &c.

Song XXVII. BRITONS, AWAKE.

Awake from your letharghy, Britons, awake,
Your lives and your liberties all are at stake;
Why should you repose in security's arms,
When every moment's expos'd to alarms;
The powers of darkness afresh are enrag'd,
To work out your ruin they all are engaged.
See liberty banish'd! the clergy deprav'd!
Religion in sackcloth! the people enslaved!

Last Monday, if Beelzebub had not been chained
A most diabolical point he had gained,
He stretched the last link to collect a vile crew,
To render thanksgiving where stripes were most due.
He rallied his forces his cause to maintain,
At Bang-beggar Hall he assembled his train,
With teeth and nails sharpen'd soliciting power,
Like ferocious hell-hounds the poor to devour.

A fire engine pan when discharging the stream,
Those fiends represented when backing their scheme;
Their breath was so hot, made me stand in amaze,
Expecting to see it break forth in a blaze;
Such infernal sulphur and sparks flew about,
Some coughing, some sneezing, some f---ing came out,
Declaring when they had recover'd their breath,
That Bang-beggar Hall was a hell upon earth.

Like Jericho's walls, the address tumbled down,
Which gave satisfaction to thousands in town,
Bur gave the vile crew both the cholic and gripes,
They all stood in need of old B---n's glister pipes.
When R---l discovered his scheme was made void,
Altho' a black hell-hound some thought he'd have dy'd,
An ague fit seized him, convulsions ensued,
And all the way home fire and brimstone he spued.

Old B---n, with two faces, a popular tool,
That day filled the chair to keep order and rule;
His gilded deception threw dust in some eyes,
All could not descern him a fiend in disguise.
A vile proclamation pick'd up at hell's mouth,
That means to make libels or treason of truth—
They met to give sanction, but I must confess
I've seen a more excellent speech by an ass.

Song XXVIII. TRUE REFORMERS.

Come, ye patriots bold, whose affections are cold
Towards tyrannical monsters' laws,
Let's true friendship display, and comem'rate the day
That our brethren escap'd from their foes:

When the bloodhounds of state were most insatiate
For the lives of brave Hardy and friends,
Heaven lent her kind aid to those mortals betray'd,
And redeem'd them from ruffians and fiends.

When arraignd at the bar, Hardy shone like a star,
Though opposed by the infamous Ross;

But alas, to be brief, his poor wife died with grief—
Ah, who can compensate his loss.

Consolation to Muir, may his heaven be secure—
Skirving's, Palmer's, Yorke's, Marg'rot's, and P---'s;
Let's not Gerrald forget, nor the least patriot,
Whose characters admit of no stain.

'Twould be cruel to o'erlook Erskine, Gibbs, and H. Tooke,
Who defeated their wicked design;
May Thelwall and the rest with good juries be blest,
And their souls through eternity shine.

Into ruin we sink, England's now on the brink,
By its infernal wise men's exploits;
Swift destruction to all who our lives do enthrall
And invade constitutional rights.

Song XXIX. NORFOLK-STREET RIOTS.

Corruption tells me homicide
Is wilful murder justified,
A striking precedent was tried
In August, 'ninety-five,
When arm'd assasins dress'd in blue
Most wantonly their townsmen slew,
And magistrates and juries too
At murder did connive.

I saw the tragic scene commence;
A madman drunk, without offence
Drew out his sword in false pretence,
And wounded some more wise;
Defenceless boys he chased about,
The timid cried, the bold did shout,
Which brought the curious no doubt
To see what meant the noise.

The gazing crowd stagnated stood
To see a wretch that should know good,
Insatiate thirst for human blood
Like one sent from beneath;
This gave me well to understand
A sword put in a madman's hand,
Especially a villian grand,
Must terminate in death.

'Twas manifest in the event
That what the bloody tyrant meant
Was murder without precedent.
Though by injustice screened.
The “Courant” may her columns swell,
Designing men may falsehoods tell,
Not all the powers of earth and hell
Can justify the fiend.

This arm'd banditti, filled with spleen,
At his command, like bloodhounds keen,
In fine, to crown the horrid scene,
A shower of bullets fired.
The consequence was deep distress,
More widows, and more fatherless,
The devil blushed and did confess
'Twas more than he required.

Corruption cried for this exploit
“His worship shall be made a knight,
I hold his conduct just and right,
And think him all divine.”
Oppression need not fear alarms,
Since tyranny has got such swarms
Of gallant heroes bearing arms,
To butcher-grunting swine.

The stones besmeared with blood and brains,
Was the result of Robin's pains,
Surviving friends wept o'er the stains,
When dying victims bled;
As Abel's blood aloud did call
To Him whose power created all,
Eternal vengeance sure must fall
Upon his guilty head.

Ye wanton coxcombs, fops, and fools,
Aristocratic dupes and tools,
Subject yourselves to better rules,
And cast away that badge.
Remember on a future day
Corruption must be done away,
Then what will you presume to say
When truth shall be your judge?

Song XXX. THE BRAWN.

Good people I pray you draw near,
And I'll read you a riddle of mine;
It is of a brawn as you hear,
Whose picture hangs up for a sign;
The sign it is fair to be seen,
And to know where he lives you may lack,
It is down by the West-bar green,
Where he hangs with his hull on his back.

This brawn he is vicious and stout,
Two steps there go up to his hull,
He'll tumble you neck and heels out,
When with swillings your belly is full.
I'd have you beware of his tushes,
For I make no doubt as I'm told,
But some part or other he crushes,
If once he does fairly lay hold.

I've heard people say very oft,
A mechanic he was to be made,
But he was so peevish and soft,
He never could master his trade,
At length being tired of his station,
Resolved he was in his mind,
To travel from nation to nation,
Till some better place he could find.

At Gib' he arrived at last,
And by cheating poor soldiers there,
He gather'd up acorns so fast,
They served him for many a year.
Being puff'd up with beggarly pride,
And ill-gotten treasure in store,
He's lately come here to reside,
And he lives where I told you before.

He has an old sow of his own,
But she does not satisfy him;
So he ranges all over the town,
A seeking some others to brim;
He at length found the gingerbread baker,
And his substance upon her does spend;
He swears he will never forsake her,
Until he has gained his end.

Song XXXI. ELEGY ON R. CLAY, ESQ.

Hark! what mean yon piercing cries,
Throbbing breasts, and pensive sighs,
Death alas! has just removed
One by high and low beloved.

CHORUS.

Attercliffe, thy loss deplore,
Clay, thy donor is no more.

Orphans lisp “our friend is dead,
By whose bounties we were fed;”
Widows cry “we're all undone,”
Whilst their eyes like fountains run.
Tyrants live to tyranize,
Men of mercy scale the skies;
Mortals all combine this day,
To lament immortal Clay.

The Widow's Prayer.

O may his spirit sweetly rest
With those exalted saints above,
Who doubtless are for ever blest
By virtue of redeeming love;
Then will his bold bright soul give praise
To Christ his Saviour's endless days.

The Orphan's Lamentation.

Within this gloomy silent cell
My much lamented friend doth lie;
Since he a prey to reptiles fell,
My weeping eyes have not been dry;
His liberal hand, alas, no more
Can clothe and feed an orphan poor.

Song XXXII. THE BLACK RESURRECTION.

I lived for a series of years
Not far from the toll of the bell,
My house they pull'd over my ears,
And I was consign'd to my cell.
Before my remains were dissolved
The black resurrection took place,
My troubles upon me revolved,
Much to the old serpent's disgrace.

The strangers and paupers that slept
With me in the peaceable clay,
Who much in affliction had wept,
The serpent hath seized his prey;
For justice and mercy he pleads,
Assuming an angel of light;
We see by his infamous deeds
The widow he robs of her mite

Thus raised by his infernal power
I went the old ruins to view,
I saw in the course of an hour
Wide streets and high buildings all new,
And heard a lamentable cry
Of many a serpent-stung friend,
Whose all had been sacrificed by
That black diabolical fiend.

Did not his implacable spleen,
Which ransack'd and tore up our graves,
Exhiblt a tragical scene
To gratify Beelzebub's slaves,
Whose interest it served to destroy
Our mansions as well as remains,
To render them pompous and high
That should be suspended im chains.

How striking to our weeping friends
That saw us thus mangled and torn,
By ravishing hell-hounds and fiends,
Who long stench of brimstone had borne:
Here was the extent of his sting,
Whose power could no further encroach;
The tombs with his infamy ring
To his everlasting reproach.

Although my detestable dust
Be scattered thoroughout the whole globe,
I'll rest in an unshaken trust
“To see my redeemer with Job;”
The serpent will then hang his head
With his diabolical tribe,
When all their indictments are read,
Which I'm at a loss to describe.

Not suffered to stay above ground,
Nor yet in my grave to remain,
I'll watch till the trumpet shall sound,
My ashes cast out of dead lane,
And then re-ascend to my rest,
Resume both my harp and my crown,
Enjoy the reward of the blest
When all the black herd are gone down.

SONG XXXIII. RADDLE-NECK'D TUPS.

Among some infernal productions
Consistent with Norfolk-street news,
Black Cerberus pick'd up his instructions,
And came a recruiting for blues.

My grandmother told me last winter,
But hoped I'd her dotage excuse,
They were by a democrat printer
Call'd “Raddle-neck'd Tups” and not blues.

Not blues, &c.,

My name is Timothy Careless,
I sprang from a vagabond Jew,
I'm subtle, blood-thirsty, and careless,
Exactly the thing for a blue.
To fighting I am but a stranger,
Its consequence I never knew,
I take to my heels when in danger,
And just skulk away like a blue.

My thoughts in succession are evil,
My clothes are both ragged and few,
Last week I shook hands with the devil,
And then volunteer'd for a blue.
Like him that leads up our banditti
To Beelzebub I will be true,
I'll show no love, remorse, or pity,
And that's just the part of a blue.

'Tis true we're the slaves of oppression,
The sensible slaves to subdue;
While curs'd villany rides in procession,
Protected by hell-hounds in blue,
The poor must all be kept under,
Held down as it were with a screw,
The rich with impunity plunder,
And boast of assassins in blue.

The fate of the swine we'll determine,
Repeated insults they shall rue,
They think us detestable vermin,
More fitted for halters than blue;
When tyranny offers a bounty
The Norfolk-street feats we'll renew,
And slay all the pigs in the country
That grunt at us, butchers in blue.

If I be convicted of murder
A jury will pull me clean through,
They'll say “twas maintaining good order,”
And tell me I am a true blue.

Mad Cerberus was our commander
When Sorsby and Bradshaw we slew,
We took him for great Alexander,
He played such exploits in his blue.

But ah! if the French should invade us,
How must we approach Pichegru?
In Wharncliffe our chief man parade us,
For none durst be seen in his blue.
B---s---t in the hole of some badger,
I would raise an uncommon stew:

In like manner I durst lay a wager
Would be every hero in blue.

Till brave San-Cullotes returned homewards
We should not wear out many shoes;
The strongholds of foxes and polecats
Would be sanctuaries for blues.
Should interest become a temptation,
I would, with my infernal crew,
Sell loyalty, sovereign, and nation,
And go to old Nick like a blue.

SONG XXXIV. NOTHING LIKE LEATHER.

All you that wear breeches, both women and men,
Attend to these verses, the fruit of my pen;
With short introduction my story begins;
For beauty and service no stuff I declare
Was e'er manufactured that's fit to compare
With doe-leather breeches, the best of two skins.

The tailor condemns them for sinister ends,
Because neither wages nor cabbage depends;
Thus wronging his conscience he adds to his sins:
The mercer he skits them, I'll tell soon you why,
His craft is in danger, and suffers thereby:
For beauty and service no stuff I declare
Was e'er manufactured that's fit to compaae
With doe-leather breeches, the best of two skins.

Their natural colour (it is no way a lie;)
As black as a raven my skins I can dye,
And colours in fact as the rainbow scarce wins;
The grave or the gay I can equally suit;
Make trial, my story no man will dispute;
For beauty and service no stuff I declare
Was e'er manufactured that's fit to compare
With doe-leather breeches, the best of two skins.

The farmer commends them for wearing like steel,
The traveller likes them because they're genteel,
And sings of their merit wherever he inns;
The Prince when at Wentworth and nobles also,
All made their appearance in neat foreign doe;
For beauty or service no stuff I declare
Was e'er manufactured that's fit to compare
With doe-leather breeches, the best of two skins.

SONG XXXV. THE COCK-TAIL LADY.

Hague says to Beet, let's go ride the gray horse,
Come along then says Jack, tho' it is to my loss
Ball's supper'd up, and old Samuel's in bed,
Smiling Kate to entice us has drest up her head,
Jem looks asquint,—to see powder in it,
Mammy to back it is commonly ready,
Rivals who sit spending all their wit,
Turn out and fight for the grand cock-tail lady.

Thus sung old Samuel, inspired by his cup,
The head of my daughter deserves blowing up;
Blow up her head,—with powder o'er spread,
Her lappit caps and perfuming pomatum,
Her bonnet balloon I wish at the moon;
I say blow them up, for I mortally hate 'em.

Beet cry'd, it's wrong for a Derbyshire wench
To be powder'd and puff'd in the mode of the French,
Cow-leather manners to strut in stuff shoes
Is a notable crime, as you'll find in the news.
At her swing glass her time she doth pass,
And kicks at the wholesome advice of her daddy,
The lin'-and-wool wheel may go the d---l,
These are the scorns of the grand cock-tail lady.

On Sunday night I beheld smiling Kate,
Come shining along with a wonderful pate;
Greatly amazed at the sight I did stop,
I thought on her head was a spring table top,
Beat better skill'd,—with laughter was fill'd,
Seeing me struck with a head so unsteady,
Replied it's a hat,—what think you of that,
Fool's pennies bought for the grand cock-tail-lady.

All thro' West-bar, strange enquiries were made
Who had darken'd their windows and doors with her head;
Some people said it was really a shame,
But the greater part wished it had been in a flame.
Old Triggy cry'd, yonder's beggarly pride,
Mounted on horse-back riding so heady;
She is running quick to get to old Nick:
Ride forward Kate, thou'rt the grand cock-tail-lady.

Warrants are granted in order to search
For the sounding board stole out of Ecclesfield church;
Sacrilege sure is a crime double dy'd
Yet 'tis here the result of this new fashioned pride;
Fixed on a skull, deck'd with my arms full
Of ribbons and gauzes, I beheld it already;
Tell Stringer, the clerk, he'll not miss his mark
If he searches the house of the grand cock-tail-lady.

Three Rotherham girls I o'ertook on the road,
Who were wishing for hats that are now a-la-mode;
One said with ribbons and gauze I declare
I'll go deck our new tea-board, and shine at the fair;
The next answered brief, our round table leaf
I'll dress in like manner, and make it more shady;
The third (more untow'rd) the church sounding board
She vow'd she'd steal to be like the grand cock-tail lady.

SONG XXXVI. SHOUT 'EM DOWN'S BARM.

In Knock-'em-down Alley
I saw Tom and Sally;
Both lay sensless, as if they had been slain:
I could not help thinking
But they had been drinking
Too freely of smit'em, cut-throat, and tear-brain;
I told our old woman
Her drink was uncommon,
Since two of her customers thus were done o'er;
One quart of her stingo
Would make the dumb sing-o,
The man that falls with it will never rise more.

CHORUS.

The brewer excuses,
For all these abuses.
That range thro' the country exciting alarm;
'Tis not her resentment,
Witchcraft, nor enchantment,
But working her liquor with Shout-'em-down's barm.

Last Sabbath day morning
Will sure be a warning
To Turton, who felt the effects of our drink;
He spent but one farthing,
Reel'd into the garden,
And in a few moments was down in the sink;
Knee-deep in the gutter,
He made a strong flutter;
Like one that was drowning, he catch'd by the edge;
If timely assistance
Had been at a distance,
His church must have been overhead in the sludge.

John Hallam, last summer,
Who took a full brimmer
Of old hock and knock-'em-down, instantly fell;
Ah! what can the matter be?
If he no better be,
Justice will grant no more licence to sell;
Some strong Taylor's brandy
We bottled last Monday;
On Tuesday, like shots all the corks took their flight,
With much circumspection,
One took a direction,
Twas found below Masbro' on Saturday night.

Whoever engages
Spitfire and outrageous,
I tell them, lest I should my friends disoblige,
Must dread an explosion,
And handle with caution
Those vessels which burst like bombshells in a siege;
Should Wainwright and Rowley,
Dame Hoyland unweildly,
Brown, Carnelly, Hartley, Eyre, Handley, and Steel,
All burst on the gantry,
And o'erflow the country,
The works on the Don must the consequence feel.

One morning young Nelly
Came with her big belly,
Requesting a bottle against she lay in;
Soon as she departed
Behold how she started,
When out flew the cork, like the crack of a gun,
As swift as an arrow
It kill'd a cock sparrow,
A crow and a swallow, (if 'tis not a lie,)
Astonish'd each neighbour,
Threw Nell into labour,
And brought down a wild goose three hundred yards high.

SONG XXXVII. THE BLIND FIDDLERS.

Last market day even,
John Gibbons, blind Stephen,
And two other fiddlers that never could see,
They fought battle royal,
An hour by the dial,
Before that each party'd consent to agree,
The landlady cries out,
They'll knock all their eyes out,
A speech by a bystander not to be bore.
So down Sykes did toss her,
And laid the sack across her,
And there she remained till the battle was o'er.

SONG XXXVIII. GOD SAVE GREAT THOMAS PAINE.

God save great Thomas Paine,
His “Rights of Man” to explain
To ev'ry soul.
He makes the blind to see
What dupes and slaves they be,
And points out liberty,
From pole to pole.

Thousands cry “church and king”
That well deserve to swing,
All must allow:
Birmingham blush for shame,
Manchester do the same,
Infamous is your name,
Patriot's vow.

Pull proud oppressors down,
Knock off each tyrant's crown,
And break his sword;
Down with aristocracy,
Set up democracy,
And from hypocrisy
Save us good Lord.

Why should despotic pride
Usurp on every side?
Let us be free;
Grant freedom's arms success,
And all her efforts bless,
Plant thro' the universe
Liberty's tree.

Facts are seditious things
When they touch courts and kings,
Armies are rais'd,
Barracks and bastiles built,
Innocence charged with guilt,
Blood most unjustly spilt,
Gods stand amaz'd.

Despots may howl and yell,
Tho' they're in league with hell
They'll not reign long;
Satan may lead the van,
And do the worst he can,
Paine and his Rights of Man
Shall be my song.

SONG XXXIX. THE GUINEA CLUB FEAST.

All we undermentioned have jointly agreed
To banish contention and discord with speed,
As friends to unite, and be nobly employ'd
In tipping off bumpers to loosen our hides;

Here's Pickering and Cooper, and Barber and Might,
Have made an agreement to drink the whole night,
Here's Sutton sits cross-leg'd clapping his breast,
To loosen their hides at the guinea club feast.

CHORUS.

Then fill up a bumper and let it go round,
Why should a stark hide or a niggard be found?
May Bacchus's children have flowing spring tides,
And humming strong liquor to loosen their hides.

Here's Litton and Spencer, and Siddall and Sykes,
Foul weather in harvest, which no farmer likes,
Here's Mather and Dickson, Rhodes and Davenport,
Will loosen their hides, for they're lads of that sort;
Here's Colley and Hawley, and Epworth also,
Here's Richardson, Bayster, and Beet, we all know,
Here's Stephenson, Haley, and Gough, till deceas'd,
Will loosen their hides at the guinea club feast.

There's Burley and Furniss, tho' civil and dry,
Will tip up their buckets to heighten their joy;
Here's Holland and Lenton, and Whalley besides
Will have no objection to loosen their hides;
There's Anderton, Ashmore, friend Oxley, and Jones,
Will tarry to-morrow to polish the bones:
Here's Greaves and the Bishop confirming each guest
That's got a loose hide at the guinea club feast.

Altho' 'tis gone twelve, push the tankard about,
We sons of old Bacchus think it scorn to give out,
Go fetch up a barrel, let the bung be destroyed,
And never submit till we've loosened our hide;
In love and true friendship we mean to conclude,
And drink all the liquor our friend has got brew'd,
We'll drain every barrel, from biggest to least,
To loosen our hides at the guinea club feast.

SONG XL. THE NETHER GREEN LAD.

The Nether-green lad had a spark in his throat,
The ocean he drinks makes the landlady's note;
Begot by old Bacchus, he calls him his dad;
His tenets he follows by day and by night,
In tipping a bumper he's exactly right,
He'll dance, drink, and sing, like a toper true-born,
And scorns to give out until three in the morn,
Then goes reeling home like a Nether-green lad,
Who ne'er forgets tol de rol, tol de rol la.

Sancho, “Bang-beggar,” or else “Cock-tail reel,”
He sings elevated astride of a stile,
Regardless of highwayman or a footpad.
No sooner at home but he tumbles up stairs,
To keep a clear conscience he whistles his prayers,
Then tells them to lay a green sod at his head,
This motto inscribed on his tomb when he's dead,
“Here lie the remains of a Nether-green lad!”
Who ne'er forgot tol de rol, &c.

SONG XLI. THE JUSTASS.

When poverty puts off her habit of rags
She quickly turns tyrant and boasts of her bags:
'Tis always the case with the dung-hill bred train,
To give the community cause to complain:

The poor are oppress'd by their infamous deeds,
For what they take from them their luxury feeds.
I'll tell you an instance will wonder surpass,
The son of a baker is made a just-ass.

One Tuesday, behind a green table I saw
A grand ignoramus currupting the law,
I thought to myself 'twas a desperate case
To see a mule sit in a magistrate's place;
For want of a right cultivation at school
He acted like tyrant, and madman, and fool.
I ask'd what irrational rascal that was,
And found 'twas a baker's son turned a just-ass!

It was not by merit he rose from the mire,
Altho' he arriv'd at the pitch of a squire;
A wealthy old miser this upstart may thank,
Who rais'd him from indigence to this high rank.
It would be more proper for such a blackguard
To govern wild creatures, or be a bear-ward,
Than hector in court, while the men of his class
Spite the son of a baker turn'd to a just-ass.

He formerly travell'd the streets crying rolls,
With both stocking heels out, and shoes wanting soles;
But now the poor vagrant he'll send to knock hemp,
Forgetting his pedigree was of that stamp.
The people of Yorkshire will merrily sing
When upon a gibbet the rascal shall swing;
Jack Ketch is desirous to handle the brass,
For hanging the baker's son turned a just-ass.

SONG XLII. THE OWL'S COMMISSION.

Last Tuesday, in the afternoon,
I took a ramble up the town,
Where numbers told me very soon
The owl was in commission;
The more's the pity, I replies,
That such a wretch should tyrannize,
The jury will be deemed unwise
For granting him commission.

They say 'twas done for this intent,
To keep the parish from expense,
Which would have been the consequence
Of his distressed moaning;
Ere long a halter he will stretch,
While in the presence of Jack Ketch,
Who quickly will the halter stretch,
That Tyburn may cease groaning.

SONG XLIII. HE'S OUT OF COMMISSION, BOYS.

Now I've struck straight with neighbour Bob,
And more of the infernal mob,
No longer with them I'll contend,
But leave them all for the devil to mend,

Though that busy insulting fiend,
Satan's agent, shall not be screened,
Who maliciously,
And most viciously,
Seeks our ruin, we must each allow:
Let all men living
Join in thanksgiving,
He's out of commission, boys, now, now, now.

Last Easter, from Norfolk street Arms,
In King-street, Sheffield, strange alarms
Were circulated through this town,
When pulling this proud monster down,
There were present some trusty friends,
Whom we never can make amends,
Whose fidelity
Brought tranquillity
To this suffering town I vow,
Let all men living
Join in thanksgiving,
He's out of commission, boys, now, now, now.

This owl, or agent of old Nick's,
For divers base and subtle tricks,
Was undertook to be cashier'd:
And thanks be prais'd, the point was clear'd,
The powers of darkness did contend,
And plead for their infernal friend,
But morality
This black quality
Quite defeated, they best know how:

Let all men living
Join in thanksgiving,
He's out of commission, boys, now, now, now.

Thus from a vast exalted height
He is brought down in a woful plight;
Instead of hunting Linnen's stag,
He may procure himself a bag,
No longer must the wretch intrude,
His claws are cut his power subdued,
And calamity,
Want, and extremity
Stamped upon his infernal brow,
Let all men living
Join in thanksgiving,
He's out of commission, boys, now, now. now,

SONG XLIV. WATKINSON AND HIS THIRTEENS.

That monster oppression, behold how he stalks,
Keeps picking the bones of the poor as he walks,
There's not a mechanic throughout this whole land
But what more or less feels the weight of his hand;
That offspring of tyranny, baseness, and pride,
Our rights hath invaded and almost destroyed,
May that man be banished who villainy screens:
Or sides with big W---n with his thirteens.

CHORUS.

And may the odd knife his great carcase dissect,
Lay open his vitals for men to inspect,
A heart full as black as the infernal gulph,
In that greedy, blood-sucking, bone-scraping wolf.

This wicked dissenter, expelled his own church,
Is rendered the subject of public reproach:
Since reprobate marks on his forehead appear'd,
We all have concluded his conscience is sear'd:
See mammon his God, and oppression his aim,
Hark! how the streets rings with his infamous name,
The boys at the playhouse exhibit strange scenes
Respecting big W---n with his thirteens.

And may, &c.

Like Pharoah for baseness, that type of the de'il,
He wants to flog journeymen with rods of steel,
And certainly would, had he got Pharoah's power,
His heart is as hard, and his temper as sour;
But justice repulsed him and set us all free,
Like bond-slaves of old in the year jubilee.
May those be transported or sent for marines
That works for big W---n at his thirteens.

And may, &c.

We claim as true Yorkshiremen leave to speak twice,
That no man should work for him at any price,
Since he has attempted our lives to enthral,
And mingle our liquor with wormwood and gall;
Come Beelzebub, take him with his ill-got pelf,
He's equally bad, if not worse than thyself;
So shall every cutler that honestly means
Cry “take away W---n with his thirteens.”

And may, &c.

But see foolish mortals! far worse than insane,
Three-fourths are returned into Egypt again;
Altho' Pharoah's hands they had fairly escaped,
Now they must submit for their bones to be scraped;
Whilst they give themselves and their all for a prey
Let us be unanimous and jointly say,
Success to our Sovereign who peaceably reigns,
But down with both W---n's twelves and thirteens.

Any may, &c.

SONG XLV. BANG BEGGAR.

Young Lurk keeps a throstle whom nature has taught
A song which exceeds all conception or thought,
Too high for a letter-learned scholar to reach,
Yet, speaking with grace, I've attained a short sketch.
Last week when poor Will had his flogging receiv'd,
The bird lower'd his feathers apparently griev'd,
It wept for a while with head under its wing,
Then, as the ghost renders it, thus it did sing.

CHORUS.

At Bang-beggar's hall, in a Bang-beggar's cage,
I'll sing the Bang-beggar, tho' Bang-beggar rage,
A Bang-beggar's bird was ne'er heard from a bush,
To sing the Bang-beggar, like Bang-beggar's thrush.

I've sung loud two summers, till autumn came on,
Not hinting one crime that my master had done,
But finding it sin to connive at his ways,
I'll let out the cat, though she should end my days:
He seiz'd a poor lad they call Nottingham Will,
For crying thirteens, who thought it no ill;
Four days kept him starving amidst gloomy scenes,
Then banished and flogg'd him for crying thirteens.

When he wrought at cutling mere twelves made him sick,
And doubtless thirteens would have caus'd him to pick;
He joined the tame army, starve rather than work,
But getting disbanded they've made him Young Lurk.

He lurks for his madams, but these cost him pence,
Then seizes a tramper to pay the expense:
The premium got up for poor Will in his tears
Paid off Butter-Poll what was due in arrears.

Behold how he swells like a man of renown,
Tho' scorn'd and detested by most of the town.
In dignity far below ragman or sweep,
None should, save a hangman, his company keep;
But ignorance prompts him to swagger and prate,
Believing himself to be chief magistrate;
Unless the cat eat me I will not refrain
To sing the Bang-beggar till autumn again.

At Bang-beggar's hall, &c.

SONG XLVI. WATKINSON'S REPENTANCE.

At lengh this old Wolf to repentance is brought,
Who a long time in Sheffield hath wandered about,
A large blackguard snatch of late he hath made,
To pull down the prices of the cutlering trade.

CHORUS.

But he gets well remember'd what a rogue he has been
In extending dozens from twelve to thirteen.

This is full repentance and a lamentable tale,
I had rather been broken and sent to the jail
Than heard such a scandal be sung thro' the town,
That the name of great W---n doth pull prices down.

It is every night when I go to my rest,
My conscience doth constantly pierce thro' my breast,
I seldom can sleep, but I constantly dream
I hear thousands shouting “I will have thirteen.”

Once I was walking the street up and down,
The most that pass'd by me spoke with a frown,
Singing “there goes old W---n who hath lost his brain,
And never must recover his senses again.”

One night to the play I happened to go,
But I could not rest long, they troubled me so,
For before in the play-house long time I had been,
The whole gallery shouted “I will have thirteen.”

Come all Sheffield masters, take warning by me,
For fear you should share the same fate you see,
And never attempt poor men's bones for to scrape,
Who daily do labour for all that they do get.

SONG XLVII. TAPE ALLEN.

Some say Tape Allen is not to be a gunner,
His head is so lofty the clouds it divides;
Others they say he'll make a special runner,
His legs are so long, that he takes such great strides,

Some have got a notion,
He'd stride across the ocean,
Like Cololssus
When he crosses
The extensive seas.

Then why should he refuse
To go and bring us news
From America,
When he could in one day
Set out from home,
Both go and come,
With very much ease?

SONG XLVIII. THE THANKSGIVING.

Now peace to Britain is restor'd,
And George our king has sheath'd his sword,
The Prince of Peace should be ador'd
By every mortal living.
Let all that breathe the vital air
Acknowledge His paternal care,
His love towards this land declare,
And give praise,—all their days,
Worthy of true thanksgiving.

Since by transgression Adam fell,
Each man is born an heir of hell,
His fallen nature will rebel
Throughout all generations.
The world through wickedness was drown'd,
Save eight who in the ark were found;

Gomorrah and the cities round
Were overturn'd,—altho' Lot mourn'd,
They were with fire and brimstone burn'd
For their abominations.

Distresses from an enemy,
As well as each calamity,
We read in sacred history
Were all the fruits of sinning.
View Adam when in Paradise,
Who in his Maker did rejoice,
And did with an unfeigned voice
Laud his name,—Eve the same,
Until the serpent wrought their shame,
Lo! here was war's beginning.

The heart of man is still deprav'd,
And by infernal lusts enslav'd,
And Satan's image is engrav'd
Until he is converted;
Make this a true thanksgiving day,
When all with one accord shall say
“The Lord incline our hearts to pray,”
And increase love and peace;
Then surely wars will ever cease,
And Satan be deserted.

SONG XLIX. REPENTANCE.

With a sorrow for sin
Let repentance begin,
Then conversion of course will draw nigh,
But till wash'd in the blood
Of a crucified God,
We shall never be ready to die.

And that we may succeed,
Let us haste with all speed
To a Saviour who cannot deny.
Let us tell him in brief,
That of sinners we're chief,
But we long to be ready to die.

We've his word and his oath,
His dear blood seal'd them both,
And we're sure the Almighty can't lie;
That if we don't delay,
To believe, watch, and pray,
He will soon make us ready to die.

Then with sword, staff, and shield,
Let us enter the field,
And make all our proud enemies fly;
In the strength of our king
We shall victory sing,
Till the Lord sees us ready to die.

When the battle is won,
And our race fully run,
We to mansions of glory shall fly;
There eternally praise
The blest Ancient of Days.
For His love made us ready to die,

SONG L. THE ROYAL GEORGE

No history can parallel
The dreadful tale I mean to tell;
The tidings sent us from on board
Sufficiently can't be deplor'd.

CHORUS.

Britons lament, this loss so large,
Kempenfelt, and the Royal George.

It was at Spithead where she lay,
And had on board, that fatal day,
Well nigh a thousand of both sex,
Perhaps two-thirds betwixt the decks.

Britons, &c.

The ship was heel'd for some repair,
With ports not lash'd for want of care,
And lying just athwart the tide,
By which we lost our navy's pride.

What numbers of unthinking souls,
Were doubtless merry o'er their bowls,
When suddenly a squall arose,
The sea pours in and down she goes.

The whirlpool caus'd by her descent
Drew in a sloop, which also went:
Excluding all the boats could save,
Six hundred got a watery grave.

The lamentation heard all round,
And bodies floating that were drown'd,
Exhibited a dreadful scene:
Sure Neptune did it out of spleen.

Who can conceive or comprehend
The loss of our brave naval friend,
Who on the ocean's briny flood
Had done this land essential good.

May providence our foes disarm,
Defend and keep us from all harm,
And bring about a lasting peace,
That trade and commerce may increase.

SONG LI. THE VALENTINE.

A letter charge—I've read at large
The stuff which thou'st indited,
And ere at all I read thy scrawl
I thought we'd been united;
But since I find thou art inclined
To prejudice thy neighbour,
For thy reward—thou mean blackguard—
Take this for thy past labour.

Not far from Hull thy great thick skull
At first had its existence:
The Westbar-green had better been,
If thou had'st kept thy distance.
Thy valentine, thou ill-bred swine,
Displays thy wit, I tell thee,
Thou Battys's mule dost ridicule,
Altho' it does excel thee.

For actions base, thy native place
Thou did'st at first abandon;
Wrapt up in rags, hung round with gags,
Thou had'st scarce a shoe to stand on;
But now thou'rt rais'd—fortune be prais'd,
By these three last elections;
A man of note, that's got a vote,
Thou art without objections.

Like some fat hog, or listless log,
Thou lies in bed each morning
Till nine o'clock,—altho' the cock
To rise doth give thee warning;
Thou says no prayers, but runs down stairs,
As though something did fright thee,
And down the yard,—like one that's scared,
For fear thou should'st be---e thee.

Of all the names, I think Muck James
Would never stand much bidding,
Without pretence,—he'd give twopence
Each morning for thy midden;
At such a heap how he would leap!
I wish he could but rent thee
The year about, I make no doubt
But closely he would tent thee.

With idle bread thou'rt daily fed,
And oft at others' tables,
Thou swelling hog,—thou'rt like the frog
We find in Æsop's fables;
Like it thou'lt burst, so do thy worst;
Not all the world can save thee:
Thy friends backbite, eat, drink and sh---e;
The worms in short must have thee.

SONG LII. THE COCK-TAIL FEAST.

[PART FIRST.]

Soon as old Ball got better,
A merriment there was appointed,
Creditor as well as debtor
Both came to be better acquainted;

Numbers of lads there were present,
From Kimberworth, Brightside, and Masbro',
Each with a countenance pleasant,
His true love did cuddle and clasp her:
Stephen turned out with his fiddle,
Each lad took his lass by the middle,
Went reeling about like a riddle,
As if they had been enchanted;
Care, the forerunner of sorrow,
Was kick'd out of doors till to-morrow,
Not one in his spirit was narrow,
Then boh! cried Tiger, undaunted,

CHORUS.

Hey! cried Tidswell and Tiger,
See crowds in almost ev'ry station,
Flocking to Cock-tail most eager,
To celebrate Ball's restoration.

Tiger, connected with Jemmy,
Conducted Ball out of the stable,
Join'd in the yard by old Sammy,
Who ale-fied came from the table:
Ball being well prim'd with ginger
Was sit to jump over the fences;
Neighbours, as well as each stranger,
All thought they were out of their senses.
Samuel, who hates to be idle,
Took hold of old Ball by the bridle,
Then gave him a kick made him sidle,
So went four rounds as they wanted;
Right hand and left they did clever,
Made Jem to squint harder than ever,
He promis'd his partner some liver,
Then boh! cried Tiger undaunted.

Out jump'd the calf elevated.
The cow broke her rope and ran after,
Shout upon shout it created,
And fill'd the spectators with laughter;
Tidswell, the cow was so named,
Because at that fair they bought her,
She ran at Tiger untamed,
To fork him as nature had taught her.
Tiger at that was displeas'd,
Which caus'd a fresh dust to be rais'd;
Her nose in a moment he seiz'd,
At which old Samuel ranted.
Tidswell took off like be-madded,
O'er mother and daughter she gadded.
Huzzas in abundance were added,
Then boh! cried Tiger undaunted.

Stephen, tho' blind as a beetle,
Laugh'd hard at Hannah's disaster;
He lost no time with his fiddle,
His elbow went quicker and faster.
Ball cut such new-fashioned capers,
Which really by-standers amaz'd;
All his four feet were as tapers,
The pavement it perfectly blaz'd:
Samuel, nor no one that join'd him,
Durst venture their carcase behind him,
Tho' age in a manner did blind him;
No colt could win him 'twas granted,
Tidswell caught Tiger and toss'd him,
Quite out of the ring till she'd lost him,
Tho' many a bruise it did cost him,
Still boh! cried Tiger undaunted,

Sam'el imbib'd a wrong spirit,
Tho' hundreds and thousands were charm'd,
Curs'd poor old Ball for his merit,
And Jem who his fundament warm'd:
Tidswell bled hard at her snort-horn,
Where Tiger was constantly aiming,
That by old Sam'el was not borne,
And thus he began of exclaiming:
Blow up the gantries and barrels,
Kate's mouse-trap, that breeder of quarrels,
And all the night owls without laurels,
By which our stag room is haunted;

Sounding-board, hat, balloon-bonnet,
That head-dress, my curse be upon it,
For ever this shall be my sonnet,
Then boh! cried Tiger undaunted.

PART SECOND.

Oceans to drink being call'd for,
Hot cuddle-me-buff was the liquor,
“Wife of my own” Jemmy call for,
Old Hannah cried “Stephen” play quicker.

Off they went after each other,
As if they had quicksilver in them,
Join'd by first one then another,
You never saw aught that could win them,
Setting down sides then up again,
Crossing o'er couples, so up again,
Sam'el inspired with his cup again,
Of his activity vaunted;
Ball being prim'd with the rest of them,
F---ed and kick'd with the best of them,
Seemingly made a mere jest of them,
Boh! cried Tiger undaunted.

CHORUS.

Hey! Tidswell and Tiger,
Dame Jenkinson, look to your smock-tail,
Crowds from all quarters ran eager,
To scamper amongst them in Cock-tail.

Tidswell when Tiger pursuing
Threw up mother Jenkinson's smock-tail;
Jem whilst her marigold viewing,
Cried hey! for the humours in Cock-tail!
One o'er another they tumbled,
You scarce could see faces for a---s;
Tiger at some of them grumbled,
Supposing some—were faces.
Some were intent upon heel and toe,
Others ran hedge and bind to and fro,
Sam'el to Ball shouted Stand still, wo!
Wind a bit lads, for he panted.
Ball thro' some misapprehension,
To Sam'el paid no great attention,
But started at all he could mention;
Then boh! cried Tiger, undaunted.

Hotbread was there with his barrow.
So Tiger for mischief ran under;
Tidswell pursued him so narrow,
Nice apples and pears she did sunder;

Nosey she instantly seated
Betwixt her two horns with her basket;
Tiger for manners retreated,
And left the old virgin to risk it,
As she kept gadding thro' thick and thin;
“Buy or toss, now you are sure to win,
Up with it, lads, and I'll put it in.”
This was the song that she chaunted—
“Kill-grief and hearts-ease I've got to sell;
Gingerbread, taste, it will please you well:”
When from her element down she fell,
Boh! cried Tiger, undaunted.

Ball by a sudden manœuvre
His heel turned round to Muck Josey,
Kick'd him thrice over and over,
With his face at the a---e of old Nosey.
Nosey had dropt a face card,
Thro' the fall of her exalted station,
Josey snuffed up very hard,
Being happy in his situation;
Sam'el at that hung his slipper,
Whilst Jem with his ginger and pepper
Applied a bit more to Ball's crupper.
Of which he never repented:
Ball steered his course with fresh vigour,
Determin'd to go to the rigour,
Ran open-mouth'd after bold Tiger,
Still, Boh! cried Tiger, undaunted.

Tiger run under Ball's belly,
All danger like Rodney kept scorning,
Some thought he was rather silly,
For Ball was new frosted that morning;
Sam'el got hurt in the scuffle,
As Ball his forefeet was advancing,
That seem'd his temper to ruffle,
And quite put an end to their dancing,
Then they dismis'd in civility,
Talking of Ball's great agility,
Tidswell and Tiger's fidelity,
Which kind nature implanted;
How the four brutes in particular,
Danc'd with their tails perpendicular,
Straight forwards, sideways, and circular,
Boh! cried Tiger, undaunted.

SONG LIII. ROUNDLEGS.

Roundlegs to Wadsley went,
With burying cakes he was sent,
Fol, lol. lol, la.

Roundlegs tumbled o'er a wall,
Let all his spice cakes fall,
Fol.

Roundlegs turned his mule i'th park,
He then made some nasty wark,
Fol.

Roundlegs next went to the wheel.
To watch them polish steel,
Fol.

Roundlegs was a cunning old toad,
Made three mules carry four-horse load,
Fol.

Roundlegs went to Joel Rose's door,
(He had ne'er been there before,)
Fol.

“Does any dead folks live near,
George Pearce has sent me here,”
Fol.

Roundlegs was a famous glutton,
Once he ate a leg of mutton,
Fol.

Roundlegs put a chalk o'er't door,
Then swore he would go there no more,
Fol.

Roundlegs shall be buried i'th fold,
When he's dead and his a---e is cold.
Fol, lol, lol, la.

SONG LIV. THE FACE CARD.

From Derbyshire I was transported
To Rotherham, where I now dwell,
A fool I was always reported,
The people of Bakewell can tell;
I hector and talk about fighting,
Till I am amazingly scar'd;
When scolding I'm ready for sh---g,
When struck, then I drop a face card.

You've heard with what bullocking speeches,
When absent from home, not in want,
I sold from my a---e my new breeches,
And gave half-a-crown to recant;
The buyer he quickly resign'd them,
And cast them away from him, yards,
When he saw how well I had lin'd them,
With flushes of trumps and face cards.

My neighbours all envy my genius,
Because I endeavour to thrive;
Five pounds I turn'd into five guineas
By making the cypher a five.
The assignees thought I could conjure,
Till the bill and the books were compar'd,
But now they incessantly grumble,
And throw in my teeth the face card.

At Ecclesfield, after receiving
A free and most generous treat,
Before I could well think of leaving
My friend I attempted to cheat;
Altho' to his kindness a debtor,
By gratitude doubly debarr'd,
Yet cleanliness taught me no better
Than drop in his house a face card.

Then to it we fell with a rattle,
Broke buffets, stools, tables, and chairs;
But just in the midst of the battle,
We both tumbled down't cellar stairs.
Strong beer in the barrels was jumbled,
Here Bacchus and Mars rather jarr'd,
My pride he sufficiently humbled,
By making me drop a face card.

At Sheffield, inspired by the barrel,
I let them know Bullocking Dick;
As usual I kick'd up a quarrel
With one whom I'd play'd a foul trick;
The landlady stept in betwixt us,
For which she deserved a reward,
Ere she in our seats had refix'd us,
I privately drop'd a face card.

My wife, a good kind of creature,
Who knew me a coward in grain,
Says, “Dickey, our good legislators
On fighters inflicteth much pain,

I pray thee go home with me quickly,
Thy new leather breeches thou'st marr'd;
I find myself turn very sickly,
By smelling thou'st drop'd a face card.”

Before we got opposite Peach's
The legs of the knaves were display'd,
From under the hams of my breeches,
On which a young chaisedriver said—
“Here's Dick made a crack in his manners,
His new leather breeches he's marr'd,
He has not drop'd all the four honours,
'Tis nought but a simple face card.”

The legs of my Jack's growing longer,
Some enter'd the tops of my pumps;
The streets with spectators grew stronger,
Who all shouted out “hearts are trumps!”
The ace, king and queen quickly follow'd,
Small trumps, I play'd near forty yards;
If all the whole pack I had swallowed,
I could not have drop'd more face cards.

This wicked chaisedriver turn'd poet,
And put my misfortunes in print;
In order that people might know it,
He's giv'n the public this hint;
So now I'm perplex'd above measure,
By boys and insulting blackguards,
Who cry as I walk out at leisure,
“That's Dickey that drops the face cards.”

A fool you may bray in a mortar,
And he will remain a fool still;
Poor Dick till his days are cut shorter,
His new leather breeches will fill;
A wit might as easily manage
To reconcile fire and dry hards,
And plough up both Mam-Tor and Stanedge,
As stop him from dropping face cards.

SONG LV. THE RIMSEY OLD MAN.

Burton wheel grinders declare upon honour
That Patty's front room lets for more than a hull;
Not without reason they cry fie upon her,
And jovial sing thus when their pitcher is full:—
I saw John wonderful diligent,
Taking dimensions of Patty's front tenement,
When to the parlour door tip-toe I peeping went,
At the lascivious rimsey old man.

CHORUS.

Man, says one, look into chronology,
Scale the wild mountains of his genealogy,
Asses and goats, without any apology,
Were his forefathers, deny it who can.

John knows adultery's strictly forbidden,
Yet still he presumes to transgress the command,
As if it could from Omniscience be hidden,
He acts like a he-goat that can't understand.
The people all round cry in sincerity,
He is the vilest of Adam's posterity,
Treat him, they say, with the utmost severity,
He's a lascivious rimsey old man.

Joseph retreats, and stands pimp with submission,
While John runs flaming with lust to his wife;
Patty was always of that disposition,
She ne'er was content with one man in her life.
Lust for lust, as it is rendered,
And when repeatedly they have engendered,
Patty by Joe is embraced when tendered
By that lascivious rimsey old man.

John some time since had a tenant a grinder
Whose wife paid the rent, if the neighbours don't lie;
Strict in an article he did bind her,
To go for acquittance five stories high.
This she did, looking for recompense,
And then indicted him, risking the consequence:
John was the scribe, the devil the evidence,—
O that lascivious rimsey old man.

Much like a fox by the huntsman's tantivy,
He's oft been put up when the trees were in leaf,
Hedges and woods to his whoredoms are privy,
As thus sung the birds in Clay-wood and Burngreave.
Johnny, whose ways are all iniquity,
Often goes there with his whores in obscurity,
Taking no thought in the least of futurity,—
He's a lascivious rimsey old man.

John I presume has no more felicity
Than the wild jackass that ranges the moors,
His element is a vast multiplicity
Of most abandoned adulterous whores.
Since his choice is their society,
Daily embracing forbidden variety,
May we not say with the strictest propriety,
He is a mischevious rimsey old man?

END OF MATHER'S SONGS..

University of Virginia Library

Song I. THE FILE HEWER'S LAMENTATION.

Song II. THE AUTHOR'S PETITION TO FORTUNE.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

Song III. MR. BATTY'S MULE.

Song IV. BAD LUCK TO THE CROW AND THE OWL.

CHORUS.

Song V. SPENCE BROUGHTON'S LAMENT.

Song VI. BUGGY EYRE.

CHORUS.

Song VII. NELL AND JOS.

Song VIII. TIMBER-LEGG'D HARRY.

Song IX. SHEFFIELD RACES. No. 1.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

Song X. SHEFFIELD RACES. No. 2.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

Song XI. JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER.

Part I.

Song XII. JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER.

Part II.

Song XIII. JOHN OLDHAM'S DISASTER.

Song XIV. BEN EYRE.

Song XV. FRANK FEARNE.

Song XVI. LOXLEY EDGE.

Song XVII. STEVENS & LASTLEY'S EXECUTION.

Song XVIII. THE DERBYSHIRE FARMER.

CHORUS.

Song XIX. THE CASTIGATION.

Song XX. FISH AND TOMMY TICKTACK.

CHORUS.

Song XXI. DR. KELLY.

CHORUS.

Song XXII. THE HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.

CHORUS.

Song XXIII. THE CROOKES ROGUE.

Song XXIV. NELL AND THE JOURNEYMAN HATTER.

Song XXV. HALLAMSHIRE HAMAN.

CHORUS.

Song XXVI. SANCHO.

CHORUS.

Song XXVII. BRITONS, AWAKE.

Song XXVIII. TRUE REFORMERS.

Song XXIX. NORFOLK-STREET RIOTS.

Song XXX. THE BRAWN.

Song XXXI. ELEGY ON R. CLAY, ESQ.

CHORUS.

The Widow's Prayer.

The Orphan's Lamentation.

Song XXXII. THE BLACK RESURRECTION.

SONG XXXIII. RADDLE-NECK'D TUPS.

SONG XXXIV. NOTHING LIKE LEATHER.

SONG XXXV. THE COCK-TAIL LADY.

SONG XXXVI. SHOUT 'EM DOWN'S BARM.

CHORUS.

SONG XXXVII. THE BLIND FIDDLERS.

SONG XXXVIII. GOD SAVE GREAT THOMAS PAINE.

SONG XXXIX. THE GUINEA CLUB FEAST.

CHORUS.

SONG XL. THE NETHER GREEN LAD.

SONG XLI. THE JUSTASS.

SONG XLII. THE OWL'S COMMISSION.

SONG XLIII. HE'S OUT OF COMMISSION, BOYS.

SONG XLIV. WATKINSON AND HIS THIRTEENS.

CHORUS.

SONG XLV. BANG BEGGAR.

CHORUS.

SONG XLVI. WATKINSON'S REPENTANCE.

CHORUS.

SONG XLVII. TAPE ALLEN.

SONG XLVIII. THE THANKSGIVING.

SONG XLIX. REPENTANCE.

SONG L. THE ROYAL GEORGE

CHORUS.

SONG LI. THE VALENTINE.

SONG LII. THE COCK-TAIL FEAST.

[PART FIRST.]

CHORUS.