Songs, comic and satyrical :: :: University of Virginia Library

Here's to Thee,—Here's to Me,
On our absent Friends we'll think,
To our noble Selves we'll drink;
Then to him, from Envy free,
Who loves Fun like you and me.

PROLOGUE.

Through gloomy grove, along the Lawn,
Or by the still Brook's side,
When the Day's sable shroud is drawn,
Then Ghosts are said to glide.

The paly Moonshine's silv'ry gleams
Seem dancing down the glade,
Mingling 'midst shadowy forms it's beams,
Which scare the trembling Maid.

The Trav'ller oft is apt to see,
Through twilight's dusky veil,
A Giant in each Hedge-row Tree,
While Phantoms fill the Dale.

So rambling Readers may condemn
This Book of medley Rhimes,
Whose Errors will appear to them
A lift of Giant Crimes.

Already mark;—Sir Cynic scowls,
Rage wrinkling on his brow,
To see, O shame! two am'rous Owls,
Instinctive on yon Bough.

With outspread hands, and upcast eyes,
As Bigots tell their stories,
Th'o'er-zealous Commentator cries,
O Tempora! O Mores!

But why should Critics carp at Songs?
Or Classic Scales apply?
To them alone this freight belongs,
Who'd rather laugh than cry.

For neither Pedant nor for Prude,
These Sonnets took their birth;
But are dish'd up, as pleasant Food,
For Sons of Social Mirth.

SONGS, COMIC AND SATYRICAL.

SONG I. ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY.

[_]

To it's own Tune.

Once the Gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial feast,
Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing,
Merry Momus among them appear'd as a guest,
Homer says the Celestials lov'd laughing.

This happen'd 'fore Chaos was fix'd into form,
While Nature disorderly lay;
While elements adverse engender'd the storm,
And uproar embroil'd the loud fray.

On ev'ry Olympic the Humourist droll'd,
So none cou'd his jokes disapprove;
He sung, repartee'd, and some odd stories told,
And at last thus began upon Jove:

Sire,—Mark how yon Matter is heaving below,
Were it settled 'twou'd please all your Court;
'Tis not wisdom to let it lie useless, you know;
Pray people it, just for our sport.

Jove nodded ascent, all Olympus bow'd down,
At his Fiat creation took birth;
The cloud-keeping Deity smil'd on his throne.
Then announc'd the production was Earth.

To honour their Sov'reign each God gave a boon;
Apollo presented it Light;
The Goddess of Child-bed dispatch'd us a Moon,
To silver the shadow of Night.

The Queen of Soft-wishes, foul Vulcan's fair bride,
Leer'd wanton on her Man of War;
Saying, as to these Earth-folks I'll give them a guide,
So she sparkled the Morn and eve Star.

From her cloud, all in spirits, the Goddess up sprung,
In ellipsis each Planet advanc'd;
The Tune of the Spheres the Nine Sisters sung,
As round Terra Nova they danc'd.

E'en Jove himself cou'd not insensible stand,
Bid Saturn his girdle fast bind,
The Expounder of Fate grasp'd the Globe in his hand,
And laugh'd at those Mites call'd mankind.

From the hand of great Jove into Space it was hurl'd,
He was charm'd with the roll of the ball,
Bid his daughter Attraction take charge of the World,
And she hung it up high in his hall.

Miss, pleas'd with the present, review'd the globe round,
Saw with rapture hills, vallies, and plains;
The self-ballanc'd orb in an atmosphere bound,
Prolific by suns, dews, and rains.

With silver, gold, jewels, she India endow'd,
France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear,
What was fit for each clime on each clime she bestow'd,
And Freedom she found flourish'd here.

The blue-ey'd celestial, Minerva the wise,
Ineffably smil'd on the spot;
My dear, says plum'd Pallas, your last gift I prize,
But, excuse me, one thing is forgot.

Licentiousness Freedom's destruction may bring,
Unless prudence prepares it's defence;
The Goddess of Sapience bid Iris take wing,
And on Britons bestow'd Common-Sense.

Four Cardinal Virtues she left in this isle,
As guardians to cherish the root;
The blossoms of Liberty gaily 'gan smile,
And Englishmen fed on the fruit.

Thus fed, and thus bred, by a bounty so rare,
Oh preserve it as pure as 'twas giv'n;
We will while we've breath, nay we'll grasp it in death,
And return it untainted to Heav'n.

ORIGIN OF FACTION.

[_]

Tune,—I am, quoth Apollo, when Daphne, &c.

In hist'ries of Heathens, by which Tutors train us,
The salt-water Sov'reign is call'd Oceanus;
His spouse was deliver'd, by man-midwife Triton,
Of this sea-girt island, his fav'rite Britain.

The Naiads were Nurses; old Trident declar'd,
To embellish his offspring no pains should be spar'd:
By flying fish drawn, to Olympus he drove,
And petition'd the Gods, that his suit they'd approve.

Quoth Jupiter, I'll make it King of the Sea:
Avast! reply'd Neptune, pray leave that to me:
I'll guard it with shoals, and I'll make their lads Seamen:
Strong Hercules hollow'd out, I'll make 'em Freemen.

And what will you make, Venus whisper'd to Mars?
Why I'll make all Soldiers, that Nep. don't make Tars.
Momus smil'd, as that droll always merrily means;
He begg'd they'd go partners, and make 'em Marines.

Quoth Saturn, much time I'll allow 'em for thinking;
Buck Bacchus reply'd, no, allow it for drinking:
But Mercury answer'd, a fig for your Wine,
The art of Time-killing by Card-playing's mine.

By Styx, quoth Apollo, but Hermes you're bit;
'Gainst Gaming I'll send 'em an antidote,—Wit:
In England, laugh'd Momus, Wit no one regards,
Save that sort of Wit that's in—Playing your Cards.

Well, well, reply'd Phœbus, I'll mend their conditions,
I'll teach 'em to fiddle, and send them Physicians,
'Mong Fidlers, quoth Momus, true Harmony's scarce;
And as to your Doctorship,—Physick's a Farce.

Says Venus, I'll people this Island with Beauties,
And tempt Married-Men to be true to their duties.—
You to Married-Men's duty a friend! bawl'd out Juno,
You're a strumpet, you slut, and that I know and you know.

Then turning to Jove, who look'd pale, she began,—
I'll spoil your olympical gift-giving plan:
Herself not consulted, she vow'd she would wrong us,
Blew a Scold from her mouth, and sent Party among us.

God Bacchus, to counterpoise Juno's rash action,
Commanded Silenus to seize upon Faction;
Swift flitted the Fiend, the old Toper outsped,
While Semele's son sent a Flask at his head.

The Imp, by the blow, speechless fell to the ground;
May Wine thus for ever foul Faction confound:
Unanimity! that, that's the Toast of our Hearts,
Though no Partymen here, Here's to all Men of Parts.

THE RACE.

[_]

Tune,—As Roger came tapping at Dolly's window.

As the Farmer went over his corn ripen'd land,
And counted encrease of his grain,
Scarlet poppies he saw down the long furrows stand,
Like soldiers, in lines on the plain.

Quoth he, though in Learning I am not well skill'd,
In mem'ry this maxim I'll keep,
Those weeds among wheat, shew when belly is fill'd
We have nothing to do but to sleep.

Each scene of creation that ops to our view,
Affords contemplation a theme,
As blossoms enamell'd by drops of bright dew,
With di'monds so Court-beauties beam.
See grape to grape swelling, transparent on vine,
That fruit is an emblem of bliss;
Balmy lip to lip Lovers as lusciously join,
And the nectar enjoy of a Kiss.

While Britons, like Britons, dare English Taste own,
Success on our strength could depend;
We now, by importing enervate Bon Ton,
To impotent Idlers descend.
We wed without Love, we attempt without Powers,
And strengthless, and senseless, in swarms,
Insipid as butterflies, basking on flowers,
The fribbles fill fine women's arms.

If Bacchus and Ceres were drove from Love's court,
Desire must frozen depart!
Roast Beef quantum suff. and take tantum Red Port,
They steel the main-spring of the Heart.
Cou'd we Venus consult, why indeed so we may,
Since each circle a Venus supplies,
I'll back my opinion, those beauties will say
A Milksop's the thing we despise.

The Elixir of Love in our full bottles view,
For Beauty's sake Bumpers embrace;
While kept in this Training we can't but come through,
For Give-and-Take Plates in Love's Race.
Success to that Meeting, where each against each,
Well mounted, push forward to win,
For third, fourth, or fifth heats, they rallying stretch,
And, neck to neck, nimbly come in.

THE WORMS.

[_]

Tune,—When Strephon to Chloe made love his pretence.

Keep your distance, quoth King, who in lead Coffin lay,
As beside him they lower'd a shrowdless old Clay;
The Mendicant Carcase replied, with a sneer,
“Mister Monarch be still, we are all equal here.

“Life's miseries long I was forc'd to abide,
“By the Seasons sore pelted, sore pelted by pride:
“And tho' clad in ermine, yet you've been distrest,
“Both our cares are now over,—so let us both rest.”

A committee of worms, Manor Lords of the Grave,
Overheard 'em and wonder'd to hear the dead rave.
Quoth the Chairman, Dare mortals presume thus to prate,
When even we Maggots don't think ourselves great?

“Insane ostentations, who brag of their births,
“Yet are but Machines, mix'd of aggregate earths:
“They distinctions demand, with destinctions they meet
“When we throw by the rich folks, as not fit to eat.

“They are scurvy compounds of Debauch and Disease.
“Putrefactions of Sloath, or Vice run to the Lees.
“by Luxury's pestilence Health is laid waste:
“And all they can boast is,—They're poison'd in Taste.

“'Tis true, cries Crawlina, the Queen of the Worms,
“They make upon earth immense noise with their forms,
“Pon onner, with Beauties tho' so much I deal,
“On not one in ten can I make a good meal.

“When we chose to regale, on the dainties of charms,
“We formerly fed on necks, faces, and arms;
“Now Varnish envenoms their tainted complexions,
“A fine woman's features spread fatal infections.

“Not a Worm of good taste, and bon ton, I dare vouch,
“A morsel of fashion-made Beauties will touch.
“A Quality Toast we imported last week,—
“Two Maggots, my servants, dy'd eating her cheek.”

Very odd, quoth a Critic, Worms hold such discourse.
Very odd, quoth the Author, that Men shou'd talk worse.
Like Reptiles, we crawl upon earth for a term,
Take wing for a while,—then descend to a Worm.

Dan Pope declares all Human Race to be Worms;
Maids, Misses, Wives, Widows, all Maggotty forms.
But of Worms, and worm-feeding, no more we'll repeat,
Here's a glass, To the Dainty that's made for Man's meat.

THE PICTURE.

[_]

Tune,—Fine Songsters too often apologies make.

Wishing well to good folks, both on this and that,
By my own fire-side, with my Lass,
Not yawning, nor mute, but in spiritful chat,
To Old England I took off my glass.

The next to my King; and the third was a Joke,
Of all places I toasted The Best;
She seem'd not to hear, but her cheeks blushes spoke
The Wanton my Sentiment guess'd.

Her bosom I press'd, to my lips it arose,
The crimson still flushing her face;
With love-lisping laugh, she reply'd, “I suppose
“You presume I can guess at the place.”

I answer'd, but first for my Foe took a Kiss,
“Where the Temple of Love we attend.
“Beauty's columns begin at the Fountain of Bliss:
“In tapering outlines thy end.

“On the top, at the Arch of Enjoyment unite,
“Curl'd tendrils the Pediment grace;
“For Cupid's Pantheon, the Shaft of Delight
“Must spring from the Masculine Base.

“If the Lady of this perfect Mansion you'll see,”
As I spoke, gave my hand to the lass,
“Oh, by all means” she said;—“then my dear come with me;”
So I led my Girl up to the glass.

Off she turn'd, with a pshah! yet no anger exprest,
Good breeding scorns Prudery's skreen;
'Mong our dinner-time toasts, when we drink to the Best,
We only most excellent mean.

Remember, my Bucks, when you're aiming at Jokes
Be sure make the most of a Jest;
Not like the assembly of impotent folks,
Who prove themselves,—bad at the best.

Our Youths in their waists are now scarcely a span,
An insensible, expletive crew;
When Loveliness weds one, in hopes of a Man,
'Tis the worst thing a Lady can do.

Here's to Beauty a Toast, sir, but not Face alone,
Lower yet lies the Circle of Grace;
Beneath, where in scentre Love buckles her Zone,
The Point of Attraction we place.

Let our Bottles, like globes, have elliptical sweep;
Geometrists mind what I say,
May beautiful Parallels distances keep,
To give Perpendiculars way.

SILENUS AND CUPID.

[_]

Tune,—Derry down.

Cupid sent on a message one evening by Venus,
As ill luck wou'd have it, was met by Silenus;
The big belly'd Sot ask'd the Urchin to play,
And the silly lad gam'd all Love's weapons away.
Derry down, &c.

His Bow from the Bubble, the old Gambler drew,
And into a crutch-headed Stick turn'd the Yew:
The String was tough Catgut, Si. swore it was well,
A strong line he wanted, to ring his Bar Bell.

Love's Arrows were Cane, he divided the joints,
Pipe-stoppers the ends made, and Pick-teeth the points.
The Feathers to brush down his tables were clever;
And to a Tobacco-pouch turn'd the boy's Quiver.

For pipe lighting Matches he chose Billet-deux,
And away, at each puff, went a Sonneteer's Vows.
His Tinder was drawn from the brains of the Jealous,
And long-bottled Sighs he preserv'd for his Bellows.

Hermes took the lad home, told the story to Venus,
She dash'd down her tea-cup, and flew to Silenus:
Then threaten'd her Captain shou'd kick the old Clown,
But he laugh'd, and he smoak'd, and he sung Derry down.

She squeez'd his hard-hand, and his filthy beard stroak'd,
Nay kiss'd him, tho' with his tobacco fumes choak'd:
Then begg'd the boy's Arms, but Si. swore with a frown,
He'd be damn'd if he gave them for her Derry down.

She wipt her doves back, vastly piqued you may guess,
In Synod celestial demanded Redress;
Jove laugh'd at the jest, and he vow'd, by his Crown,
When Spouse rail'd hereafter he'd sing,—Derry down.

MORAL.

Ye Husbands, too fond, who are Feminine-fool'd,
And tamely, by Petticoat Government rul'd,
Resist your Wives Railings, their shrill trebles drown,
By smoaking, and singing of,—Down, derry down.
Derry down, &c.

THE DIVORCE.

[_]

Tune,—Old women we are, and as wise in the chair.

No more let defections of wedlock be blam'd,
To be sure of grave Cato you've heard;
In morals more strict not a man cou'd be nam'd,
Yet his Wife to a friend he transferr'd.

In Rome they encourag'd no Trials crim. con.
In France, Cuckold-making's a Jest;
And, I trust, in few years, by the help of bon ton,
We shall be as polite as the best.

'Tis vastly immense! and most horridly low!
When a Month after Marriage is past,
That the Husband shou'd be such a Fright not to know
His Lady's affections can't last.

For, broken in Fortune, and ruin'd in Health,
To patch up both Person and Purse,
His Honour addresses some Citizen's Wealth,
And the Daughter accepts, as his Nurse.

Too oft, for the sake of a Title impure,
Doom'd Beauty is forc'd from her vows,
To unite with a Blank, for upon the Grand Tour
Foreign Vice has disabled the Spouse.

In defence of the Fair, Satire openly stands,
And forbids the vague Spendthrifts to roam;
Wives have too much stock lying dead on their hands
When Husbands are Bankrupts at home.

Censure no marrid Dame, as the trade's so decreas'd,
Heavy Interest, Principal clogs;
When Ladies have furnish'd an exquisite feast,
Must their dainties be thrown to the dogs?

Then Divorce,—but we laugh at such frivolous things,
Having here no intention to part:—
We are wed to our Wine; Wine regen'rates the springs
Of that self-moving muscle the Heart.

Though to Wine we are wed, yet we do not think sit
To be tied down for better for worse,
If our landlord Adultery dares to commit,
At once we demand a Divorce.

But at present I hope, with an Englishman's ease,
We enjoy both our Wine and our Wives;
By Liberty blest, with the pleasure to please,
May we live all the days of our lives.

NUNC EST BIBENDUM.

[_]

Tune,—Moggy Lauder.

Now we're free from College Rules,
From Common-place-book reason,
From trifling syllogistic Schools,
And Systems out of Season;
Never more we'll have defin'd,
If Matter thinks or thinks not;
All the matter we shall mind,
Is—he who drinks—or drinks not.

Metaphysic'ly to trace,
The Mind, or Soul abstracted;
Or prove Infinity of Space.
By cause on cause affected;
Better Souls we can't become
By immaterial thinking;
And as to Space, we want no room,
But room enough to drink in.

Plenum, vacuum, minus, plus,
Are learned words, and rare too,—
Those terms our Tutors may discuss,
And those who please may hear too.—
A Plenum in our Wine we show,
With Plus, and Plus behind, sir,
And when our Cash is minus, low,
A Vacuum soon we find, sir.

Copernicus, that learned sage,
Dane Tycho's error proving,
Declares in—I can't tell what page—
The Earth round Sol is moving.
But which goes round, what's that to us?
Each is, perhaps, a notion;
With Earth, and Sun, we make no fuss,
But mind the Bottle's motion.

Great Galileo ill was us'd,
By Superstition's fury;
Antipodeans were abus'd
By ignoramus jury.
But, feet to feet, we dare attest,
Nor fear a treatment scurvy;
For when we're drunk, probatum est,
We're tumbling, topsy turvy.

Newton talk'd of Lights and Shades,
And different Colours knew, sir:
Don't let us disturb our heads,—
We will but study two, sir.—
White and Red our glasses boast,
Reflection, and Refraction;
After him we name our Toast,—
“The Center of Attraction.”

On that Thesis we'll declaim,
With stratum, super stratum;
There's mighty magic in the name,
'Tis Nature's Postulatum.
Wine, in nature's next to love;
Then wisely let us blend 'em;
First tho', physically prove,
That Nunc, nunc est bibendum.

ENGLISH LITANY.

[_]

Tune,—When I enter'd my Teens, &c.

To a Stage-Coach we aptly may liken this Nation,
Where Passengers seldom are pleas'd with their station;
But wrangling, and jangling, and jostling, and jumbling.
The Inside-folks grin, and the Outsides are grumbling.

The Inns they are in, and the Outs they are out;
To be in is the Riddle, which makes all this route.
The Outs call the Ministry infamous elves;
And the Inns, when they're out, say the same things themselves.

It is cunning Credulity ever enslaves;
The world is a Hot-bed, to raise Fools and Knaves:
They pull this and that way, sometimes pull together;
But Common-sense scorns to go partners with either.

My Country, my Freedom, and oh, my Religion!
These tickle the ear, faith, like Mahomet's pigeon:
'Tis the time's cant, the farce, the finesse of all ages,
For what the best actors of, get the best wages.

Oh my Country! but hold, sir, on which side the Tweed?
Wa worth tul your words, if ye dinna tak hede.
We give praise to one side, the other abuse,
Can the unborn their place of nativity chuse?

Off Prejudice, off, to Oblivion's cave;
We boast we are Britons, as Britons behave:
Can this, or that side of a stream alter nature?
No,—wash those reflections away in the water.

Get, get, is the cry now, and get all ye can;
If ye can get, get honestly; get, though's the plan.
Get one thing, and ev'ry thing else you'll obtain:
For Honours are now humble servants to Gain.

The African Slave-dealers some may think base;
But what must they think—if at home 'tis the case?
The Guinea Trade, here keeps a market 'tis certain;
And Yes and No bought and sold; more's the misfortune.

When a Beauty's enjoy'd by a Man of the Town,
What he doated last week on, this week he'll disown.
The self-sellers thus, become those people's scoff,
Who first turn'd them prostitutes, then turn'd them off.

May all be turn'd off, who those dealings befriended,
Where honester folks have been sometimes suspended;
May they die as they liv'd, by all good men abhorr'd,
We Britons Beseech thee to hear us, Good Lord.

The MARINE MEDLEY.

[_]

First tune.—Come and listen to my ditty.

Now safe moor'd, with bowl before us,
Mess-mates heave a hand with me,
Lend a Brother Sailor Chorus,
While he sings our Lives at Sea:
O'er the wide-wave swelling ocean,
Toss'd aloft, or tumbled low,
As to fear, 'tis all a notion,
When our Time's come we must go.

[_]

Tune,—Life is chequer'd.

Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling
By topsail sheets and haul-yards stand,
Down top-gallants, down be hauling,
Down your stay-sails, hand boys, hand;
Now set the braces,
Don't make wry faces,
But the lee-top sail sheets let go,
Starboard here,
Larboard there,
Turn your quid,
Take a swear,
Yo! yo! yo!

[_]

First Tune again.

Oh, ye Landmen, idly lying
All along-side Beauty's Charms,
Safe in soft beds, seas defying,
Free from all but love's alarms.
While on billows, billows rolling,
Death appears in every form,
On no Lady Laps we're lolling,
No kind Kiss can calm the Storm.

But loud peals, on peals are clashing,
Through rift rocks, the shrill wind shrieks;
In our eyes fierce lightning flashing,
Scorch the sails, and stench the decks.
Bursting clouds upon us pouring,
Black o'erspread the face of day,
Burying seas in whirlpools roaring,
Fiery flies the sparkling spray.

High the tossing Tempest heaves us,
Tow'rds the Pole aloft we go,
While the clouds seem to receive us,
Dreadful yawns the gulph below.
In that dark deep, down, down, down, down,
Down we sink from sight of sky,
By the swell, as instant up thrown,
Hark! what means yon dismal cry!

The fore-mast's gone, yells some sad tongue out
O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck.—
A leak beneath the chestree's sprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick the lannyard's cut in pieces,
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold.
Plumb the well, the leak increases—
Four feet water's in the hold.

Worse and worse, the wild winds tearing
Warring waves around us foam,
For the worst, while we're preparing,
Nature sinks, and sighs for Home.

There, our babes, perhaps are saying,
In their little lisping strain,
As round mother's knees they're playing,
Daddy soon will come again.

[_]

Tune,—Early one morning a jolly young Tar.

If we must die, why die we must,
'Tis a birth in which all must belay mun.
When our debts due, for Death won't trust,
Then all hands be ready to pay mun;
As to Life's striking its Flag, never fear,
Our Cruise is out, that's all, my brother,
In this world we've luff'd it up, thus, and no near,
So let's ship ourselves now for another.

[_]

Tune the first again.

Overboard the guns be throwing,
To the pumps come ev'ry hand,
See her mizen mast is going
On the lee beam lies the land.
Rising rocks appear before us,
Hopeless, yet for help we call,
Ev'ry sea breaks fatal o'er us,
To the Storm's fell power we fall.

Now Dismay, with prospect horrid,
Swells each sleepless eye with tears;
And Despair, with bristly forehead,
On each bloodless face appears.
Sadly still we wait the Wave!—
Th'o'erwhelming Wave rolls mountain high;
The swell comes on, our sea-green grave,—
Hark, what means yon happy cry!

The Leak we've found, it cannot pour fast,
We've lighten'd her a foot or more;
Up and rig a jury Fore-Mast,
She rights, she rights, boys, wear off shore.
Now my Hearts, we're safe from sinking,
We'll again lead Sailors lives;
Come, the Cann, boys, let's be drinking
To our Sweethearts, and our Wives.

REASON.

[_]

Tune,—When Fanny a Woman is growing apace.

What the heart feels oppose to the phrases of schools,
Sweet Sympathies prove the Philosophers fools.
Can all the clasp'd volumes of learned men's feats,
Be equal to clasping one Beauty in sheets.

Go, Instinct, call Reason, and hear what he'll say—
The cowardly Tyrant keeps out of the way.
Bolt the door then Desire, we'll bilk him at least,
He may pick up our Offals, and rail at the feast.

The union of Souls is a Task, words may try
But Lovers' Sensations, Description defy;
To them only known, who voluptuously prove
Affection's Employment, the Phrenzy of Love.

But hark! who is that we hear hobbling up stairs?
It is Reason, quoth Fancy;—Oh is it! who cares?
He's welcome,—a chair there—I hope he'll sit down:
As he enter'd I smil'd,—he return'd me a frown.

My Lass was before me, my Bottle between;
In our looks we rejoic'd we just now were not seen;
But when Pleasure prompts, Reason always sneaks off;
When over, he bully-like, enters to huff.

Just like an old Watchman, the Goblin was drest,
Grey hears, pole and lanthorn, broad belt and long vest;
Young fellow, quoth He, it is time you shou'd think;
Old fellow, quoth Me, it is time you shou'd drink.

I offer'd a Flask of Champaign, on my knee,
And begg'd, as my Doctor, he'd drink for his fee;
I prais'd his wise seeming,—my praises prevail'd;
For Flattery's a nostrum which never yet fail'd.

With Praises, with Bumpers, I ply'd him so long,
That himself he forgot, and wou'd sing us a Song;
Aye and dance, nay a wench he wou'd have, and he swore;
But attempting to rise, he fell drunk on the floor.

As I order'd a Bed, says my love-looking Fair,
“As to Bed, my dear! Reason has no business there;
“The Senses their title to that Manor prove,
“Let Reason sleep on, while we waken to Love.”

The MORAL.

Reason is but a Bugbear, to scare girls and boys,
Wine and women, without him, Experience enjoys;
That we're worthy those Blessings, let Life's practice prove,
May we never want Reason for Drinking or Love.

THE RAILERS.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Ladies who drive from the smoke of the Town.

Behold on the brow the leaves play in the breeze,
While Cattle calm feed in the vale;
The Church spire tapering, points through the trees,
As Lord of the hill and the dale.

The playful Colts skip after Dams to the brook,
The brook slow and silently glides;
The surface so smooth, and so clear, if you look
It reflects the gay green on it's sides

In Farm-yard, by his feather'd Seraglio caress'd,
The King of the walk dares to crow;
No Nabob, nor Nimrod, enslaving the east,
Such prowess with Beauty can shew.

Beneath the still Cow, Nancy presses the teat,
Her face like the ruddy fac'd morn;
Loud strokes in the barn the strong Threshers repeat,
Or winnow for market the corn.

Industrious, their Wives, at the doors of their cots,
Sit spinning, dress'd cleanly, tho' course,
To their Babes, while unheeding the Traveller trots,
They shew the fine Man and his Horse.

At the heels of the Steed, bark the base village Whelps,
Each Puppy rude echo bestirs;
But the Horse, too high bred, bounds away from their yelps,
Disregarding the clamour of Curs.

Illiberal Railers thus envy betray,
When Merit above them they view;
But Genius disdains to turn out of his way,
Or affor'd a reply to the Crew.

To contempt and despair, such infanes we commit;
But to generous Rivals, a Toast,—
May rich Men reward honest Fellows of wit,—
Here's a health to those Dunces hate most.

THE ARTISTS.

[_]

Tune,—Tho' Man has long boasted an absolute sway.

Prude Pallas observ'd to the Demirep Queen,
Dear Venus, what is it these English folks mean?
Their Island is favour'd beyond other Isles,
'Twas I gave them Sapience, and you bestow'd Smiles;
Nay ev'ry Immortal a bounty has sent 'em,
And yet, like cross children, all this can't content 'em.

The Goddess of Grace, in love's soft silver tone,
Reply'd, “'twas immense, immense odd she must own;
“Let us trip down to Earth, just to see the affair,
“It is only through Atmosphere taking the air;

“I've my Doves at the door, come, dear creature, with me;”
Away in a Whirlwind they wisk'd—Vis a vis.

From Council Jove miss'd them, enquiring about,
His feather-heel'd post boy discover'd their rout;
Replies the sky ruler, “they've no business there,
“In Britain there always is beauty to spare;
“And as to Dame Wisdom, by Styx I aver,
“While Faction stays with them they won't employ her.

“Haste home with them Hermes,” away flew the God,
And the yielding clouds cut with his snake twisted rod;
In London, from place to place, questioning flew,
Where is Wisdom? but where, indeed nobody knew.
He return'd with a tale, with a tale melancholy,
That Wisdom clop'd into Scotland with Folly.

“Where is Venus?” quoth Mars, “Aye, my Wife have you seen?”
Cries the King of the Cyclops, “My Man-loving queen?”
“I left her employ'd with her Handmaids, the Graces,
“By Science requested to finish his Faces:
“Here's the name of each Genius with whom she's a guest,
“Reynolds, Gainsborough, Mortimer, Myers, Dance, West.”

Vulcan vow'd he wou'd fetch her, “You shan't thunder'd Jove,
“I encourage the Arts, and yon Island I love;
“Into Fate I have look'd, and e'er long I can see,
“What Athens was once, my Britannia will be;
“So Lemnos be mute, Hæbe hand me the nectar,
“Here's Great-Britain's Artists, and George their Protector.”

THE DREAM.

[_]

Tune,—Push about the brisk Bowl.

By a whirlwind methought I through Æther was hurl'd,
Electric 'mong Spirits of Air;
Upborn by the clouds, we look'd down on the world,
And odd exhibitions spy'd there.

England's Genius was there, bearing Monarchy's crown,
In procession round Liberty Hall;
Faction seiz'd her rich robe, Public Spirit pull'd down,
And Folly broad grinn'd at her fall.

In weather-house plac'd, to denote foul and fair,
Two Figures are veering about;
So pageants we saw, and we smil'd at their glare,
As they turn'd, with the Times, in and out.

The Methodists, mask'd with Hypocrisy's face,
Anathemas thunder'd aloud;
So Jack Puddings joke, with distorted grimace,
Benetting their Gudgeons,—the Croud.

Wit and Humour were there, drove from Dignity's door,
That Stupidity's coach might have room;
Debauch we saw open Temptation's base store,
And Disease taint Simplicity's bloom.

Stubborn Will against Prudence was waging a fight,
While Desire oppos'd Duty strong;
The Passions confess'd Reason's Dictates were right,
Though themselves still resolv'd to be wrong.

A wonderful Troop towards Westminster bore:
What wonders there are 'mong mankind;
In gilt chariots Lawyers paraded before,
On foot Justice follow'd behind.

Church Preferments we saw—but respect shall withstand
The abuse that's pour'd forth on the Cloth;
Stock Jobbers and Statesmen we saw hand in hand,
And Pride stood at par between both.

Cent per Cent had lain siege to Integrity's head,
And Beauty was battering his heart;
East India Success struck Humility dead,
And Title took Vanity's part.

Crafty Care and pale Usury, two sleepless hags,
Wealth o'erwhelm'd, yet untired with toil;
Their heir, Dissipation, we saw at their bags,
With Flattery sharing the spoil.

The myst'ries of Trade,—but no longer I'll dwell,
On either the mighty or mean;
From an Emperor's court to a Penitent's cell,
Life's all the same loughable scene,

'Tis a pitiful piece, like a Farce in a Fair,
Where shew, noise, and nonsense misrule,
Where tinsel paradings, make Ignorance stare,
Where he who acts best is the Fool.

INDEPENDENCY.

[_]

Tune,—Tho' my dress, as my manners, is simple and plain.

Let us laugh at the common distinctions of State,
When merely from Title, men hold themselves great;
If Merit wins Honours, the wearers we praise,
But only the Mean, homage Heraldry's Blaze.

If you are a lineal descendant from Adam,
Or spouse can collateral claim from his Madam;
O'er acres of parchment, tho' Pedigrees spread,
Boast not how you're born, sir, but shew how you're bred.

You laurels display, which your forefathers won;
We allow they did great things, but what have you done?
The Cover, the Stubble, your Conquests proclaim,
And your Country's preserv'd—by the Laws of the Game.

Ye Lords of large Manors, your flatt'rers disband,
What are you but tenants for life to the Land;
Your lakes, gardens, grots, temples, busts, pictures, plate,
Are things of the Inn, where in Life's-stage you bait.

Awhile you the labours of Lexury bear,
'Till Time tells you out, to make room for your Heir:
The same round of riot, he runs for his day,
His successor's summons, sends him the same way.

But He who exists in Infinity's State,
Whose hand holds the Sun, and whose Fiat is Fate;
To some has sent power, to others gives wealth,
And to us, who are humble, his best Blessing—Health.

To the Graces, we nightly, a sacrifice make,
Wit and Humour, the chairs, as our Toast-masters take,
By their social converse, our time we improve,
While Tenderness lends us the daughters of Love.

Jolly Welcome attends Hospitality's call,
Common Sense is our Cat'rer in Liberty Hall;
For one dish dress'd there, all Court Treats we resign,
Keep your distance, ye Kings! Independant we dine.

TOLL, LOLL, LOLL.

[_]

Tune,—Black Joke.

As one day at home in a maudlinish mood,
Like dull Porter Drinkers, I drowsily stood,
Heavily humming out, Toll, loll, loll, loll.
The Fair of my Fancy whisk'd into the room,
All lovely she look'd, like a May morning's bloom;
Her form was, but forming a Simile's flat,
Think all that you can think, and she was all that.
I quickly left yawning, Toll, loll, loll.

On a Sopha she sunk, as if failing in strength,
Then gracefully wanton, fell back at full length,
In attitude temptingly, tuning Toll, loll.
I begg'd for the Words, but her smiling express'd,
What Words among friends? try the Tune 'twill do best.
'Twas a hint, and I instantly 'rose to her Wishes,
Fell into her arms, there she fed me with Kisses,
For Kisses are Symphonies, Toll, loll, &c.

As if just awaken'd, inclining her head,
Her eyes pleasure sparkling, short sighing she said
“How sweet is the sound of Toll, loll?
“All Art in Employment's profane Affectation,
“Possession's true Pleasure, is prompt Inclination;
“When Souls in sweet Unison, blend their Embraces,
“Then, then, and then only, Love's gamut has Graces.”
Toll, loll, loll, &c.

It is Taste at an Op'ra, to Pantomime Pleasure,
O'ercome by the magic of Harmony's measure,
And seem to expire, with Toll, loll, loll, loll.
But Nature's nice organs, have nobler sensations,
Not bodiless sounds, but corporeal vibrations;
In these dear Da Capos, both equal advancing,
Elastical Arteries full Chords are dancing,
Toll, loll, loll, &c.

To practice Love's lesson exceeds all the schools,
Scarlatti and Handel, and such folks were fools,
At Toll, loll, loll, loll, loll, loll, loll.
They Harmony made of half Tones and whole,
To lull lady's ears, but 'tis Love charms the Soul;
When lips to lips tuning soft Symphonies tender,
The heart beating Preludes, denote a surrender
Of Toll, loll, loll, loll.

'Tis Music and Love, or the music of loving,
That only the life which we live for is proving,
Toll, loll, loll, loll, loll, loll, loll, loll,
Tho' Int'rest makes Freedom pay Wedlock's expences,
Yet Love for Love leads up the Dance of the Senses;
Where Jealousy frights not, nor folly is teazing,
There we may enjoy the true pleasure of pleasing.
Toll, loll, loll, loll, &c.

TOLL, DE ROLL, LOLL.

[_]

Tune,—Let the Grave and the Gay.

When the Deity's word
Throughout Chaos was heard,
And in order up rose this vast ball;
Land, Sea, and Sky rung
With Creation's glad song,
It was then a fine—Toll, de roll, loll.

Inconstant mankind
Could not keep in one mind,
But into foul parties must fall;
'Gainst Religion and State
Rais'd a pother and prate,
And made a sad—Toll, de roll, loll.

On this sea-circled land,
By great Nature's command,
Freedom stopp'd at Integrity's call;
England's Genius appear'd,
In full chorus was heard,
Lov'd Liberty's song—Loll de roll.

On each distant shore
We have sung it encore,
And are ready, my lads, One and All,
To sound the same strain,
Tho' I think France and Spain
Have enough of our—Loll, de roll,

All the noise that our foes
Took such pains to compose,
Not a Heart of Oak's Ear could appal;
But the Dons and Mounseers
Were struck dumb with three cheers,
They're the English Tarr's Toll de roll, loll.

At the place Mindon nam'd,
By the British Foot fam'd,
How glorious those days to recall:
The French folks advancing,
Were stopp'd in their dancing,
And tumbled about—Loll de roll.

For this thing, or that,
Toll de roll, comes in pat,
'Tis a Chorus I'll always extol;
'Tis suppos'd, not express'd,
'Twas what each one likes best,
Then here's to the best—Toll de roll, loll, &c.

The ORIGIN OF TOLL, LOLL, LOLL.

[_]

Tune,—As one day at home in a maudlinish mood.

I'll sing you a song, and I'll sing all about it,
Or in tune or out on't, you need not to doubt it,
My tune is Toll, toll, toll, loll, loll,
Stoccatos, Chromatics, Rests, Crotchets, and Chords,
Deep Tenors, sharp Trebles, with Fifths Eighths, and Thirds,
Are sounds without Sense; Common Sense come before us;
So silence each Solfa let's Toll, toll, toll, chorus,
And nothing but Toll, toll, toll, toll, toll, toll.

If word-gnawing Critics grammatical bawl,
Unde derivatur, Sir, this Toll, toll, toll?
“I answer, from Loll, loll, loll, loll, loll, loll.”
And pray what is Loll, loll, loll, perge, quoth Pedant?
Profecto, continues he, I never read on't;
What part of Speech are you, this Toll, loll, loll, making?
“The only part, sir, of the whole that's worth taking,”
Toll, loll, loll, &c.

The Verb which Love conjugates, Nature's the tutor,
Both active and passive, but sometimes stands neuter,
Toll, loll, loll, &c.
When wantonly wish'd for, optative Mood makes it;
When promis'd in future, Hope happily takes it.
Of all Terminations respecting the Tenses,
The present is always the best for the Senses.
Toll, loll, loll, &c.

But let us for once, tho' become something ser'ous;
The Black Joke's a tune, that mayhap is mister'us,
Who knows what is hid under Toll, loll, loll, loll.
What is under, or in it, or what is about it,
Perhaps has a meaning, perhaps is without it;
It may be thought Wit, but that wou'd be wonder;
It may be a single, or double Entendre,
Toll, loll, de roll, &c.

If you have, or if you have not, read a Hist'ry,
If you are Free-mason'd, and understand Mist'ry,
Toll, loll, loll, loll, loll, is Loll toll, toll, toll.
If more may be made on't, I beg to know what,
It may be, or mayn't be, it can, or cannot;
For how be it, hereby, so be it, and so forth,
But good friends excuse me, indeed I must go forth.
Toll, loll, de rol, &c.

The NABOB.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Lovelies who never Inconstancy knew.

Ye makers of Nabobs who millions amass,
Eclipsing Nobility's train;
In pride of profusion your Pageantries pass,
To your Worships a word,—don't be vain.
Tho' Spoils of the East, you exultingly view,
Not a Reptile that crawls but is richer than you.

Your sideboards may bend with superfluous weight,
Your breasts the slant Ribbon may bind,
You homage receive from the Paupers of State,
Weigh these 'gainst the Wealth of the Mind.
An Instinct unerring all animals boast;
Lord-Man he has Reason, and so my Lord's lost.

Can we wanton on waves in the dep troubled storm?
Can the Board of Works, Beaver-like build?
Can ye Artists contend with a transmigrate Worm?
Or Spider-ilke sail through the field?
Contempt must attend on Ambition's odd grasp,
Who catches at Crowns, when he shrinks from a Wasp.

O'er Passion can Beauty a conquest atchieve?
Cou'd Sampson an Ague engage?
What Science can teach us the Art not to grieve?
What Bribe is to buy off old Age?
What Opium can lull the Alarms of the Mind?
That something so wakeful, which wakens mankind.

In pompous down beds Guilt may labour to rest;
Black, Conscience the curtain will draw,
To exhibit such Spectres as harrow the Breast,
While Memory sharpens her saw:
Humanity sighs at the sufferer's pains;
But Justice proclaim'd, Thus I ballance their Gains.

Let us, as we ought, bid defiance to Knaves,
And Briton-like speak as we think.
Disgrace to the crew of Venality's slaves;
To honest men—Happiness drink.
Here's to Liberty, Lads, without Flatt'ry or Fear,
And I hope I am pledg'd from the Heart by all here.

TRUE BLUE.

[_]

Tune,—To all ye Ladies now at Land.

The cards were sent, the Muses came,
'Twas Ceres gave the feast
To Juno, Jove's majestic dame,
Fair Hæbe hail'd each guest.
With Phœbus, Bacchus, wit and wine.
Like man and wife, shou'd social shine.
With I fall, lal, la.

Th'Olympic dance, Minerva wife,
With graceful steps mov'd round;
Blue was the fillet—like her eyes,
Her sapient temples crown'd;
That girdle loosen'd, falling down,
Buck Bacchus caught the azure Zone.

Upon his breast the Ribbon plac'd,
By Styx, avow'd the youth,
What had the Throne of Wisdom grac'd,
Shou'd grace the seat of Truth:
His robe he instant open threw,
And on his bosom beam'd True Blue.

“Kings, taught by me, shall Garters give,
“In Installations show;
“What subjects merits shou'd receive,
“Their Monarchs shou'd bestow.
“This Symbol, lov'd, Celestials view,
“And stamp your Sanctions on True Blue.

The rosy God, Urania prais'd;
The tuneful sisters join;
The Sov'reign of the Sky was pleas'd
To constellate the Sign.
Along the Clouds, loud Pæans flew,
Olympus join'd, and hail'd True Blue.

This order Iris bore to earth,
Minerva charg'd the fair,
Where first she found out Sons of worth,
To leave the Ribbon there.
From clime to clime she searching flew,
And in Hibernia left True Blue.

DITTO.

[_]

Tune,—Masks all.

Let those who love Helicon sip at its streams,
And chill'd by cold water, doze spiritless dreams;
No aid I'll invoke from a tea-drinking Muse,
But bumper me Bacchus to toast the True Blues.
Sing tantararara True Blue.

No man slaying hero's rash deeds I rehearse,
Nor shall Strephon's sighs sadly whine in my verse;
To Friendship, to Freedom, this sonnet is due,
And Friendship and Freedom become a True Blue.

Wrong'd Nature to Newton from Dullness appeal'd,
Mankind he enlighten'd, bright vision reveal'd;
All colours examin'd, and found upon view
One chief, one unchang'd, and he nam'd it True Blue.

Kings, Statesmen, and Patriots, illustrious chuse
The slant azure bandage, the mark of True Blues;
To Britain's chief knighthood the Garter is due,
And that honour'd Ribbon is spotless True Blue.

To furnish, with Science, the sons of the earth,
Olympus the goddess of Wisdom brought forth;
Her eyes, Paris own'd, were the brightest he knew,
And their lustre, quoth Homer, is sparkling True Blue.

In spring, when Creation her blossoms resumes,
And field-flowers fill the rich air with perfumes;
What sky-colour, tell me, the sun best looks through?
The atmosphere's clearest when clouds are True Blue.

To sully that standard each social disdains,
The tint of True Blue bids defiance to stains;
On the breast of each Brother the Ribbon we view,
Which shews, that at heart he is pure and True Blue.

When Liberty ling'ring, Hibernia quits,
And Honour to passive Obedience submits;
Public Spirit to Ireland then bids adieu,
Adieu, lads, to life then, then farewell True Blue.

THE WINE VAULT.

[_]

Tune,—The Hounds are all out.

Contented I am, and contented I'll be,
For what can this world more afford,
Than a lass who will sociably sit on my knee,
And a cellar as sociably stor'd,
My brave boys.

My vault door is open, descend and improve,
That Cask,—aye, that we will try;
'Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love,
And as bright as her cheeks to the eye.

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

Astride on a butt, as a butt shou'd be strod,
I gallop the brusher along;
Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's God,
And a Sentiment give, or a Song.

We are dry where we sit, tho' the oozing drops seem
With pearls the moist walls to emboss;
From the arch, mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream
Like stucco-work cut out of moss.

When the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines,
Which when moisture is wanting decays;
Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines,
Or else there's an end of my blaze.

Sound those Pipes, they're in tune, and those Bins are well fill'd,
View that heap of Old Hock in your rear;
Yon bottles are Burgundy! mark how they're pil'd,
Like artillery, tier over tier.

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

Like Macedon's Madman, my glass I'll enjoy,
Defying, hyp, gravel, or gout;
He cry'd when he had no more worlds to destroy,
I'll weep when my liquor is out.

On their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly will I,
When reeling, I roll on the floor;
Then my legs must be lost, so I'll drink as I lie,
And dare the best Buck, to do more.

'Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be shed,
No Hic Jacet be cut on my stone;
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,
And say that His drinking is done,
My brave boys.

A PASTORAL.

[_]

Tune,—Despairing beside a clear stream.

By the side of a green stagnate pool,
Brick-dust Nan she sat scratching her head,
Black matted locks frizzl'd her skull,
As bristles the hedge-hog bespread;
The wind toss'd her tatters abroad,
Her ashy-bronz'd beauties reveal'd:
A link-boy to her, through the mud,
Bare-footed, flew over the field.

As vermin on vermin delight,
As carrion best suits the crow's taste,
So beggars and bunters unite,
And swine-like on dirt make a feast:

To a Hottentot offals have charms,
With garbage their bosoms they deck;
She sluttishly open'd her arms,
He filthily fell on her neck.

On her flabby breasts one hand he plac'd,
No towels those breasts ever teaze,
T'other fist grip'd her stays-wanting-waist,
Like ladies, she dress'd for her ease:
Jack drew forth his quid, and he swore,
Then his lower lip, charg'd to the brim,
He scoul'd, like a lewd grunting boar,
And squinting, she leer'd upon him.

“Oh, my love, tho'f I cannot well jaw,”
This plyer at playhouse began,
“Not tobacco's so sweet to the chaw,
“As to kiss is the lips of my Nan:”
Oh! my Jack, cries the mud-colour'd she,
And gave him such rib-squeezing hugs,
In a dust-hole I'll cuddle with thee,
Aye, blast me! though bit by the bugs.

Full as black as themselves, now the sky
To the south of the hemisphere lour'd,
To finish love's feast in the dry,
To a stable they hastily scour'd;
While hungry rats round them explor'd,
And cobwebs their canopy grace,
Undaunted on litter they snor'd,
Fatigu'd with dirt, drink, and embrace.

EXTRAVAGANZA.

[_]

Tune,—Pan's song in Midas.

Not one of the wise men, tho' ever so knowing,
Can stop the heart's dancing, when fancy is flowing,

Dame Caution may dodge us, but quickly we'll breathe her,
And high over earth, boys, break cover in Ether.
Toll, loll.

How then shall we laugh at each sublunar system,
And prove to star-peepers how much they have mist 'em;
We'll hob-nob with Saturn, his cellar will charm us,
And hand in hand run round his girdle to warm us.

In tangents fly off, and to Jupiter hurry,
Ask Majesty's leave with his moons to be merry;
On Captain Mars call, from the Spheres get a tune,
Send the North Star a card, by the Man in the Moon.

On Mercury mount, make a Comet postilion,
With Demirep Venus then dance a cotillion;
Her Hesper and Vesper, you know their vocation,
They rise and set just like the state of the nation.

But now to talk more like a two-legg'd terrestrial,
Awhile we'll leave fancying this gallop celestial:
Suppose some dear girl her appointment was keeping,
And pat pat up stairs, you first heard her feet tripping.

Or when down the dark walk the silk gown comes rustling,
How each sense is hurry'd, from head to heel bustling;
Unbounded as mad expectation can fancy,
'Tis pleasure's sharp fury, Love's Extravaganzy.

We fill up our time by full filling our glasses,
And jollity laughing with love-looking lasses;
Our bumpers discharging, then charge to our wishes,
Present and give fire in vollies of kisses.

But we'll have no more now of Roundelays rattling,
Of chiming and rhyming, of tittling and tattling.
This singing or saying may please, I don't doubt it;
But here's to that mouth who makes no words about it.

TIME's DEFEAT.

[_]

Tune,—Cupid sent on an Errand, &c.

One evening, Good Humour, took Wit as his guest,
By Friendship invited to Gratitude's feast;
Their liquor was claret, and Love was their host,
Laugh, song, and droll sentiment, garnish'd each toast.

While Freedom and Fancy enlarg'd the design,
And dainties were furnish'd by Love, Wit, and Wine,
Alarm'd, they all heard, at the door a loud knock,
A watchman hoarse bawling, 'Twas past Twelve o'Clock.

They nimbly ran down, the disturbing dog found,
And up stairs they brought the Impertinent, bound:
When dragg'd to the light, how much were they pleas'd
To see 'twas the grey-glutton Time they had seiz'd.

His Glass as his lanthorn, his Scythe as his Pole,
And his single lock dangled adown his smooth skull;
My friends, quoth he, panting, I thought fit to knock,
And bid ye be gone, for 'tis past Twelve o'Clock.

Says the Venom'd-Tooth'd-Savage, on this advice fix,
Tho' Nature strikes twelve, Folly still points to six;
He longer had preach'd, but no longer they'd bear it,
So hurry'd him into a hogshead of Claret.

Wit observed it was right, while we're yet in our prime,
There is nothing like Claret for killing of Time;
Love, laughing, reply'd, I am pleas'd from my heart,
He can't come and put us in mind we must part.

This intruder, rude Time, tho' a tyrant long known,
By Love, Wit and Wine can be only e'erthrown;
If hereafter he's wanted on any design,
He'll always be found in a hogshead of Wine.

Since Time is confin'd to our Wine, let us think
By this rule we are sure of our Time when we drink;
Henceforth, let our glasses with bumpers be prim'd,
We're certain our drinking must now be well-tim'd.

THE BRITON.

[_]

Tune,—All you who wou'd wish to succeed with a Lass.

From the face of the Sun, see the mists disappear,
Resplendent his beams brighten day;
The highlands, the trees, and the hill-tops are clear,
'Tis the pride of the year, it is May.

The hare starts away, puss disturb'd from her seat,
Flies frighted, and doubles the wold.
How plaintive the sheep their loud echoes repeat,
Because not yet freed from the fold.

'Tis Liberty's language, the voice of the soul,
Throughout air, upon earth, in the sea,
From us unto where the most distant worlds roll,
What animal wou'd not be free?

Let us live while we're free; but when Liberty wanes
Life is but imprisoning breath;
As slaves shall we sigh, or escape from our chains,
And follow our Freedom to death.

We dare, even dying, our birthrights defend,
Our last shall be Liberty's call;
Like Sampson, we'll nobly existency end,
And our tyrants o'erwhelm with our fall.

Good subjects will Government ever obey,
Into air toss Malignity's tale;
But Honour forbid Fraud shou'd e'er come in play,
And England be set up to sale.

While Will, without Law, scourges Gallia's coast,
Let us, in our honesty bold,
First drink the King's health,—then add to the toast,
May Englishmen scorn to be sold!

THE TRIO.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Fair possess'd of ev'ry Charm.

Wit , Love, and Reputation, walk'd
One ev'ning out of town,
They sung, they laugh'd, they toy'd, they talk'd,
'Till night came darkling on:
Love wilful needs wou'd be their guide,
And smil'd at loss of day,
On her the kindred pair rely'd,
And lost with her their way.

Damp fell the dew, the wind blew cold,
All bleak the barren moor:
Across they toil'd, when Love, grown bold,
Knock'd loud at Labour's door.
Awhile within the red-roof'd cot
They stood, and star'd at Care,
But long cou'd not endure the spot,
For Poverty was there.

The Twain propos'd next morn to part,
And travel different ways;
Quoth Love, I soon shall find a heart,
Wit went to look for Praise;
But Reputation, sighing, spoke,
“'Tis better we agree,
“Though Love may laugh, and Wit may joke,
“Yet, friends, take care of me.

“Without me, Beauty wins no Heart,
“Without me Wit is vain;
“If headstrong here with me you part,
“We ne'er can meet again.
“Of me you both shou'd take great care,
“And shun the rambling plan;
“No calling back, my friends, I'll bear,
“So keep me while you can.”

Love stopt among the village youth,
Expecting to be crown'd,
Enquiring for her brother, Truth,
But Truth was never found:
She sought in vain, for Love was blind,
And Hate her guidance crost;
'Tis said, since Truth she cannot find,
That Love herself his lost.

THE END.

[_]

Tune,—The fool who is wealthy is sure of a Bride.

Papilio the rich, in the hurry of love,
Resolving to wed, to fair Arabell drove;
He made his proposals, he begg'd she wou'd fix,—
What maid cou'd say no to a new Coach-and-six?

We'll suppose they were wed, the guests bid, supper done,
The fond pair in bed, and the stocking was thrown:
The Bride lay expecting to what this wou'd tend,
Since created a wife, wish'd to know for what end.

On the velvet peach oft, as the gaudy fly rests,
The Bridegroom's lips stopp'd, on Love's pillows, her breasts:
All amazement, impassive, the heart-heaving fair,
With a sigh seem'd to prompt him, don't stay too long there.

Round her waist, and round such a waist, circling his arms,
He raptures rehears'd on her unpossess'd charms.
Says the fair one, and gap'd, I hear all you pretend,
But now, for I'm sleepy, pray come to an end.

My love ne'er shall end, 'Squire Shadow reply'd,
But still, unattempting, lay stretch'd at her side:
She made feints, as if something she meant to defend,
But found out, at last, it was all to no end.

In disdain starting up from the impotent boy,
She, sighing, pronounc'd, there's an end of my joy;
Then resolv'd this advice to her sex she wou'd send,
Ne'er to wed till they're sure they can wed to some end.

And which end is that? why the end which prevails,
Ploughs, ships, birds, and fishes, are steer'd by their tails:
And tho' man and wife for the head may contend,
I'm sure they're best pleas'd when they gain t'other end.

The end of our wishes, the end of our wives,
The end of our loves, and the end of our lives,
The end of conjunction, 'twixt mistress and male,
Tho' the head may design, has its end in the tail.

T'is time tho' to finish, if ought I intend,
Lest like a bad husband, I come to no end;
The ending I mean is what none will think wrong,
And that is, to make now an end of my song.

CASTLES IN AIR.

[_]

Tune,—The Lass who wou'd know how to manage a man.

If I was a wit, like a wit I'd presume,
But no Muse beckon down from the sky:
I had rather go up—so old Pindar the groom
Bring Pegasus out and I'll fly.

Take a leap from the land, gallop atmosphere o'er,
The man in the moon how he'll stare!
When I start for the pole, I'll go off upon score,
And clear ev'ry Castle in Air.

Those castles are built by Dependancy's dreams,
Poor Vanity's bubble the base:
Pale promise-pin'd Hope, as the architect, schemes,
They're furnish'd by folks out of place.

If the nod of a Courtier our cringing shou'd crown,
Or bit by a smile from the fair,
Self-consequence swell'd, we disdain to look down,
So look up to a Castle in Air.

My country I'll serve, my constituents defend—
On their honour thus candidates swear:
But fixt in their seat, wou'd you look for your friend,
He is lost in a Castle of Air.

What man in his senses of puffs wou'd be proud,
Or covet the multitude's stare?
What use have the shouts of Venality's croud?
But erecting a Castle in Air.

As to Genius, or Learning, or Science;—such names
Are frights to make fine breeding stare;
Dissipation at present such title disclaims,
They're said to be Castles in Air.

Wise men from the East—you indeed ev'ry day
Can count out your orient glare:
Hark forward ye Nimrods, a Nabob's your play,
A Nabob's no Castle in Air.

'Till Death shall us part, I'll be constant I vow,
This, too oft, is the phrase of the Fair,
But some Ladies minds are—one cannot tell how—
Not better—than Castles in Air.

'Till Death!—How appalling must that sentence be?
What looks then the proudest must wear?
When all the land left them, is six feet by three,
Their Castle—but out of the Air.

Too late they perceive, that they've time misemploy'd,
To be star'd at, or only to stare;
That they've liv'd to their loss, as each day was destroy'd,
Erecting new Castles in Air.

The Grave—but too grave is not fit for our plan,
Which is neither to doat nor despair:
While we live, let us live, making life all we can,
Then a fig for each Castle in Air.

REPENTANCE.

[_]

Tune,—In April when primroses paint the sweet plain.

“The dictates of Nature prove school knowledge weak;
“Does not Instinct beyound all the orators speak?
“From their parts of speech we'll not borrow one part,
“Our lips, without words, find the way to the heart.

Thus as last night I sung, with my lass on my knee,
Methought one below, hoarse enquired after me;
We listen'd and heard him, his breathing seem'd scant,
And up stairs he stepp'd, with asthmatical pant.

The door op'ning wide, solus enter'd the sprite,
Black and all black his dress, fable emblem of Night:
His livid lips quiver'd, pronouncing my name,
And, head and staff shaking, declar'd me to blame.

Repentance (quoth he) won't admit of delays,
I insist, from this moment, you alter your ways.
As I star'd at him, slily, my bottle I hid,
Then punctually promis'd to do as he bid.

With unkerchief'd neck, sparkling eyes, and loose hair,
Her gown, single pinn'd, burst from closet my fair;
There she fled when the fright first appear'd in the room,
Then fell at his feet in the health of Love's bloom.

So graceful she knelt, and so tender her tone,
Then she sent such a look, Silver-beard was her own.
I saw his eyes twinkle, blood flatter'd his face,
He fondly, tho' feebly, essay'd an embrace.

I left them, and, just as I fancy'd, the churl
Made a strengthless attempt to be rude with my girl:
She shriek'd, I rush'd in as he strove to escape,
And the Watch took Repentance away for a rape.

Ever since when we wanton in rapt'rous embrace,
The reproach-bearing-wretch-dares not shew us his face:
May each fond of each, thus enjoyment improve,
Be henceforth Repentance a stranger to Love.

ELIXIR L'ARGENT.

[_]

Tune,—Pretty Peggy of Windsor.

Tho' with puffs daily papers are cram'd, Sir,
With antidotes for ev'ry ail,
I'll shew a specific not sham'd, Sir,
A nostrum which never can fail.
The Drop and Pill, may heal or kill,
As Doctors on Doctors have done;
But snug and sure, to work a cure,
Apply th'Elixir l'Argent.

For weak consciences 'tis an Emetic;
A Restorative for a lost frame;
If fear gravels you, this Di'retic
Discharges each symptom of shame.
Like Achilles from Styx, no wound will fix
When this Unguentum is on;
Nay, chuse to anoint ev'n Justice's point,
'Tis blunt by Elixir l'Argent.

'Tis a Stiptic to stop maidens scruples,
An Opiate makes jealousy rest;
'Tis a Lecture where all men are pupils,
Art and science without it a jest.
Be witty, be wise, win Learning's prize,
This Recipe want you're undone:
Merit vainly may strive, no genius can thrive,
But the genius who gets the l'Argent.

His Honour demurs to a hearing,
The Agent demurs to his plan,
The Witness demurs to his swearing,
And Madam demurs to her man:

Yet each sick breast demurs digest,
Secundum artem they're gone,
When a Quantum suff. is took of the stuff,
Elixir nouveau de l'Argent.

When sickness voluptuousness seizes,
The medical corps in array,
Sword by side take the field 'gainst diseases,
And, Swiss-like, give battle for pay.
Not a work of Self, accepting the pelf,
That lesson the learned ne'er con,
But faith we're flamm'd, we might dye and be damn'd,
But for our Elixir l'Argent.

GAMING.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Virgins of Britain who wisely attend.

Last night I attended at Robinhood's group,
Where five-minute-orators keep the thing up;
Where Politics, Physics, Wit, Humour, and Learning,
May hear things to wonder at, past their discerning.

Quoth a Speaker, applying a pinch to his nose,
As slowly, like tragedy ghost, he arose,
The Methodist Preachers began our seduction,
And Gamesters and Gambling complete our destraction.

Young Knowell upstarting, reply'd, with a sneer,
“Mr. President, really that gentleman's queer,
“He rails against Gamesters, yet, this may be said,
“He wou'd have been one, but he wanted a head.

“And now I am up, and my minutes go on,
“That I prove him a fool, why, I'll hold two to one.
“These fault-finders don't know the things they're abusing,
“What's all the world after, but winning and losing?

“I forgive all he knows, and I dare him to say,
“If he wou'd, or wou'd not have the best of the lay.
“Honest people I love, but I never heard yet,
“It was thought wrong to have the right side of a bett.

“Life's like Hazard-playing, we all wish to win,
“And he must have luck, to be sure, who throws in.
“'Tis the Statesman who sets, his friends nick their places,
“And those 'gainst the court are suppos'd to throw Aces.

“On the turf we perhaps may have Cunning's assistance,
“But Westminster-hall gives Newmarket a distance:
“By crossing and jostling this land may be lost,
“And Liberty run on the wrong side the post.

“I abjure each expression wou'd hurt ladies fame,
“But will they not all play the best of the game?
“To be sure trade's a virtue, and gaming a vice,
“Yet fraudulent bankrupts are worse than false dice.

“If our betters will play, and playfellows esteem us,
“Cum Monitor ludit nos quoque ludemus,
“Don't blame him who wins, rather laugh at the loser,
“We only take Fortune from those who abuse her.

“If a Lord loves a Gamester's life, is it absurd
“For a Gamester to take up the life of a Lord?
“Whether Lord, or what else, 'tis a matter of mirth,
“What signifies title, Sir, What are you worth?”

The hammer went down, Knowell silent became,
And henceforth we'll honour the best of the game:
So here goes a Main, here the Caster must win,
We drink to the lucky, who hold longest in.

THE JOLLY SOUL.

[_]

Tune,—The Wine Vault.

Come Liberty, damme boys, but we'll be free,
Tho' Care kill'd a cat, what care I?
I'll hold six to four, only say done to me,
Like a Soul I have liv'ed, and I'll dye.
My brave boys.

They sent me to college, I didn't mind that,
To teach me to preach and to pray;
I woudn't be humm'd, I saw what they were at,
So my eye upon all they can say.

As to pulpit palaver, why, that's all a flam,
No priestcraft shall e'er do for me:
I will, or I won't, a free agent I am,
And I'll only believe what I see.

May lovers of Claret, aye, Claret's the thing,
To drink it without any tax;
I don't mind the bother 'bout Subject and King,
But custom-free that's all I ax.

If Clergy, and Commons, and Lords will but join,
Our national debts to pay off,
And let us free Gratis have women and wine,
Why then we may do well enough.

In half-pints the Parl'ament-house then I'll toast,
And George too, upon my bare knee;
I don't care which side, nor if none rule the roast,
So I've but my fun and am free.

But now they're sad times, for our freedom is gone,
Since we to bumbailiffs submit;
Bill o' Rights! damn all bills, for the nation's undone
By that General Warrant, a Writ.

We must be made slaves if they don't put a stop
To Lawyers, the Justice, and all;
For if in Old England we don't keep it up,
Why then, to be sure, it must fall.

When I dye—but that's queer—and to think on't is dull,
So as to this here, or that there,
Let me go where I will, if my bottle is full,
And I get but a girl, I don't care.

If Master Death thrusts himself into my room,
They tell me, he always makes free;
I'll try if I can't tip old Boney a hum,
If not, why, may-hap he hums me.

As I told you before, I'm resolv'd not to think,
So I cannot a sentiment give,
However, my Souls, while we live let us drink,
Because while we're drinking we live,
My brave boys.

TO-DAY AND TO-NIGHT.

[_]

Tune,—What a Blockhead is he who's afraid to dye poor.

Ruby-finger'd Aurora, fair Lady of Light,
From saffron robes shaking the last shade of night,
Call'd Phœbus, who bless'd with his sea beauty's boon,
Slow awoke, Thetis vow'd, 'twas immensely too soon.

Above the horizon his beams, circling, spead
The grey dappled clouds, fring'd transparent with red:
The breezy air rich with the perfumes of May,
While birds on the boughs chirp'd and sung in the day.

Shall man, most oblig'd, offer less to that pow'r
By whom he's endow'd, to enjoy ev'ry hour?
Yes,—pride-born Ingratitude never will pay
The thanks which are due for the gift of To-day.

No,—To-morrow's the thing; To-morrow! Sloth cries—
To-morrow's the shadow which ev'ry day flies;
Death Yesterday call'd in his fools—and, To-day,
'Tis not six to four but we're had the same way.

We must laugh when we look on Time-killers distress,
Who dress, dine, and daudle—dine, daudle, and dress:
In one senseless saunter dream Day and Night thro'
In nothing to say, and—in nothing to do.

As for thinking To-day, 'tis absurd to begin:
A head fine frizzur'd wants no finish within:
To-morrow's the wild-goose at which they take aim,
A mouthful of moonshine they get for their game.

Let us, lads depend on Life's plain-dealing plan,
Not kill Time, but keep all alive while we can:
Day and Night too, our welcome to Beauty we'll pay,
Love equal expects both good Night and good Day.

To Night be my song then—I honour its shades;
Fall fertile, ye vapours, make Mothers of Maids:
To the end of each Day be our doings upright,
May all do the best thing they can do To-night.

TO DRINK.

[_]

Tune,—Guildford Stile.

When Prudence declaims how time passes
Cou'd we tempt Mr. Chronos to stay,
While we're bump'ring a round of our lasses,
We wou'd wait upon all he cou'd say.
But is it worth while through books to toil,
In troubling our heads how to think?
Thought ne'er was design'd to puzzle the mind,
Let us only mind how we drink.

There was Solomon, one of the wise kings,
When past it, began to complain:
He affected at last to despise things
Because his was labour in vain;
But used to say, there's time to play,
To labour, to love, and to think;
Let those in their prime, remember the time,
At present 'tis time we should drink.

A pox on Reflection, be jolly,
Dispassionate Cynics despise,
Did you once know the raptures of folly,
You never wou'd wish to be wise.
I scorn the plans sobriety scans,
From bumpers I never will shrink;
By the busy in trade, be cent. per cent. made,
'Tis cent. per cent. better to drink.

KISSING.

[_]

Tune,—In pursuit of some Lambs from my Flocks that had stray'd.

Ye delicate lovelies, with leave, I maintain
That happiness here you may find;
To yourselves I appeal for Felicity's reign,
When you meet with a man to your mind.

When Gratitude Friendship to Fondness unites,
Inexpressive endearments arise:
Then hopes, fears, and fancies, strange doubts, and delights,
Are announc'd by those tell-tales, the eyes.

Those technical terms, in the science of Love,
Cold schoolmen attempt to describe,
But how should they paint what they never can prove?
For Tenderness knows not their tribe.

Of all the abuse on enjoyment that's thrown,
The treatment Love takes most amiss,
Is the rant of the coxcomb, the sot, and the clown,
Who pretend to indulge on a kiss.

The love of a fribble at self only aims:
For sots and clowns—class them with beast.
No fibre, no atom, have they in their frames,
To relish such delicate feasts.

In circling embraces, when lips to lips move,
Description, oh! teach me to praise
The Overture Kiss to th'Op'ra of Love—
But Beauty would laugh at the phrase.

Love's preludes are Kisses, and, after the play,
They fill up the pause of delight:
The rich repetitions, which never decay,
The Lip's silent language at night.

The raptures of Kissing we only can taste,
When sympathies equal inspire;
And while to enjoyment, unbounded, we haste,
Their breath blows the coals of desire.

Again, and again, and again Beauty sips;
What feelings these pressures excite!
When fleeting life's stopp'd by a kiss of the lips,
Then sinks in a sigh of delight.

MORAL.

Whilst our glasses we kiss, and we frolick at ease,
Of Happiness ne'er may we miss;
May we live as we list, may we kiss whom we please,
And may we still please whom we kiss.

BARTLEME FAIR.

[_]

Tune,—Young Strephon he went t'other day to the Wake.

While gentlefolks strut in their siver and sattins,
We poor folks are tramping in straw hats and pattens,
As merrily Old English ballads can sing—o,
As they at their opperores outlandish ling—o;
Calling out, bravo, encoro, and caro,
Tho'f I will sing nothing but Bartleme Fair—o.

Here first of all, crowds against other crowds driving,
Like wind and tide meeting, each contrary striving;
Here's fiddling, and fluting, and shouting and shrieking,
Fifes, trumpets, drums, bag-pipes, and barrow-girls squeaking.
My rare round and sound, here's choice of fine ware—o,
Tho' all is not sound sold at Bartleme Fair—o.

Here are drolls, hornpipe dancing, and shewing of postures;
Plum-porridge, black-puddings, and op'ning of oysters;
The tap-house guests swearing, and gall'ry folks squawling,
With salt-boxes, solos, and mouth-pieces bawling;
Pimps, pick-pockets, strollers, fat landladies, sailors,
Bawds, bailies, jilts jockies, thieves, tumblers, and taylors.

Here's Punch's whole play of the gunpowder-plot, Sir,
Wild beasts all alive, and pease-porridge hot, Sir:
Fine sausages fry'd, and the Black on the wire;
The whole court of France, and nice pig at the fire.
The ups-and-downs, who'll take a seat in the chair—o?
There are more ups and downs than at Bartleme Fair—o.

Here's Whittington's cat, and the tall dromedary,
The chaise without horses, and Queen of Hungary;

The merry-go-rounds, come, who rides? come, who rides?
Wine, beer, ale, and cakes, fire-eating besides;
The fam'd learned dog that can tell his letters,
And some men, as scholars, are not much his betters.

This world's a wide fair, where we ramble 'mong gay things;
Our passions, like children, are tempted by play-things:
By sound and by shew, by trash and by trumpery.
The fal-lals of fashion, and Frenchify'd frumpery.
Life is but a droll, rather wretched than rare—o,
And thus ends the ballad of Bartleme Fair—o.

RURAL FELICITY.

[_]

Tune,—On Market-day last, I remember the time.

Let court lovers pay adoration to crowns,
That man is a monarch for me,
Who chearful improves the few acres he owns,
Unenvying, industrious, and free.

At night, in high health, from his labour he rests,
His houshold sit round in a row,
Wife, children, and servants, domestical guests,
Such circles in town can ye shew?

He smiles on his babes, as some strive for his knee,
And some to their mother's neck cling,
While playful the prattlers for place disagree,
The roof with their shrill trebles ring.

Those Cynics who brood o'er a single life's spleen,
The offspring they have dare not own,
But happy-wed pairs can enjoy the fond scene
To you ye unsocials unknown.

His dame the good man of the house thus address'd:—
'Twas so with us when we were young:
Her hand within his he with gentleness press'd,
While sentiment prompted his tongue.

I remember the day of my falling in love,
How fearful I first came to woo;
I hope that these boys will as true-hearted prove,
And our lasses, my dear, look like you.

A tear of joy starting, he kiss'd from her cheek,
Love gratefully glowing her face,
Too full her fond heart, not a word cou'd she speak,
But, sighing, return'd his embrace.

'Tis by such endearments affection is shewn,
In silence more nobly express'd,
Than all the cant phrase, the Bon Ton of the town,
Where Love is a Monmouth-street guest.

Go on ye high births, and pretend to despise
Those scenes which to you are unknown;
But laugh not too long, rather aim to be wise,
And compare such a life with your own.

Vain jesters be mute, I'll a sentiment give,
A toast which esteem will not scorn;
May they who can taste them, Love's kisses receive,
And Tenderness meet a return.

THE TOPER.

[_]

Tune,—Shanbuy.

Ye lads of true spirit pay courtship to claret,
Releas'd from the trouble of thinking;
A fool long ago said, we nothing cou'd know,—
The fellow knew nothing of drinking.

To pore over Plato, or practise with Cato,
Dispassionates, dunces might make us;
But men now more wise, self-denial despise,
And live by the lessons of Bacchus.

Big wigg'd, in fine coach, see the Doctor approach,
And solemnly up the stairs pace,
Gravely smell on his cane, apply finger to vein,
And count the repeats with grimace.
As he holds pen in hand, Life and death's at a stand,
A toss-up which party will take us;
Away with his cant, no prescription we want,
But the nourishing nostrums of Bacchus.

We jollily join in the practice of wine,
While misers 'midst millions are pining;
While ladies are scorning, and lovers are mourning,
We laugh at wealth, winching and whining.
Drink, drink, now 'tis prime, toss a bottle to Time,
He'll not make such haste to o'ertake us;
His threats we prevent, and his cracks we cement,
By the styptical balsam of Bacchus.

What work there is made, by the newspaper trade,
Of this man and t'other man's station;
The Ins are all bad, and the Outs are all mad,
In and Out is the cry of the nation.
The politic patter which both parties chatter,
From bumpering freely shan't shake us;
With half pints in hand, independent we'll stand,
To defend Magna Charta of Bacchus.

By your motion well tim'd, you're charg'd and you're prim'd,
Have a care!—Right and left, and make ready—
Right hand to glass join—at lips rest the wine—
But be in your exercise steady.
Our levels we boast, when our women we toast,
May graciously they undertake us;
No more we desire, so drink and give fire,
And volley to Beauty and Bacchus.

THE TIMES.

[_]

Tune,—Once on a time, 'twas long ago.

Good people all both great and small,
And eke, and aye, and also;
Pray lend an ear, and you shall hear,
And then I need not bawl so.
There was a time, when times were good,
The ancient Bard in rhyme sings;
So use time well, 'tis time we should,
We should so, did we time things.

But out of time and out of tune,
We helter skelter go forth;
Sometimes too late, sometimes too soon,
Good lack-a-day, and so forth.
We give great folks the greatest crimes,
They can afford to father 'em,
But so impartial are the times,
We're guilty, omnium gatherum.

Fox-hunting, boldly bucks embrace,
But sportsmen of discernment,
Abroad will chuse a Nabob's chace,
Or hunt at home preferment:
To hunt the Statesman, who's in play,
When Patriots cast-about, Sir,
A pension stops the hark-away,
And so the field's flung out, Sir.

In such place-tempting times as these,
Upright be our intentions;
Ill fare the loon who first took-fees,
And him who first paid pensions.
Yet sinecures we'll not abuse,
Nor their illustrious givers,
We quarrel now, 'cause we can't chuse
Who shou'd be the receivers.

Dear Englishmen and country-folks,
Don't give yourselves uneas'ness,
Nor mind the flouts, the shouts, the jokes,
But only mind your bus'ness.
Wou'd one mind one, the kingdom through,
And work within his station,
At home he'll find enough to do,
And not undo the nation.

So to conclude, and make an end,
Of this nice-diction'd ditty,
Indeed 'tis time, the times shou'd mend,
In country, court, and city.
For our good Queen our song we'll sing,—
May she ne'er wake nor sleep ill;
And next, my lads,—God bless the King,
And all his faithful people.

AD INFINITUM.

[_]

Tune,—Which nobody can deny.

Since Life's but a jest, let us follow this rule,
There's nothing so pleasant as playing the Fool;
In town we may practice, as well as at school,
Which nobody can deny.

The world turns about, the same things o'er and o'er;
We fool it; our forefathers fool'd it before:
They did what we do, which our sons will encore,

Life's but a half holiday, lent us to stare;
We wander, and wonder, in Vanity's fair;
All baby-like bawling for each bauble there.

If denial shou'd follow a lover's request,
Like a tooth-cutting child, he's a troublesome guest,
Till the chit by his deary is hush'd to her breast.

When discontents dare against court-service riot,
The Minister, nurse-like, prepares proper diet;
They've pensions for pap, then the urchins are quiet.

We, children-like, covet the glitter of gay things,
Make racquet for ribbonds, and such sort of play-things:
Which we cannot have tho'—without we can say things.

But before we can say, we should see how things go,
If the market is high, or majority low,
Then, just at the selling-price, give Yes, or No.

We take, or are all in our turns taken in;
The world, to be sure, 'tis a shame and a sin,
Might soon be much better,—but who will begin?

Each age has its folly, ours is dissipation,
Enfeebling—but why all this dull declamation?
If weaken'd, we'll drink to the strength of the nation.

Allowing things wrong, Sir, which way shall we right 'em:
'Tis Taste to hear good things, 'tis tasty to slight 'em:
It was, is, and will be so, ad Infinitum.
Which nobody can deny,

THE RAREE SHEW.

[_]

Tune,—Now we're free from College Rules.

The town's a raree-shew, some say,
A rare shew for projectors:
What pity 'tis, we spoil the play
For want of better actors.
But sometimes in, and sometimes out,
'Tis so upon all stages;
Folks will not mind what they're about,
But only mind the wages.

Among the imitative arts,
Chief is an actor's science;
Expressive heads, and feeling hearts,
With nature form alliance.
Behind the scenes, tho' Party rage,
Caprice, and Adulation,
With Slander—but we know the Stage
Shou'd represent the nation.

A representative indeed!—
As players make believe, Sir,
In this world's drama, to succeed,
'Tis as you can deceive, Sir.
You may be caught, by face or dress,
Before you come to know folks;
But then the counterfeits confess,
They're all—but only shew-folks.

Most aim great characters to hit,
Pride spouts as public spirit,
Pert Dullness is mistook for Wit,
And Silence want of Merit.
Some study the Informer's arts,
Then Power their side espouses;
Some play the pimps, and flatterers parts,
In hopes to have full houses.

We title this same droll we shew,
The Humours of the Nation—
Extremely high, extremely low,
Endemic Dissipation.
The World!—What by that word we mean,
Is self and self's disguises;
A busy, lazy, lottery scene,
Where Folly fills up prizes.

Whate'er we think, whate'er we say,
Whate'er we are pursuing,
Is o'er and o'er the self-same play
Of doing and undoing.
Life's vegetation ripes and rots,
'Till dust to dust returning;
So let us sprinkle well our spots
And drink from night to morning.

THE CONNOISSEUR.

[_]

Tune,—Masks all.

To excel in Bon Ton both as genius and critic,
And be quite the thing, Sir, immense scientific;
On all exhibitions give sentence by guess,
With shrugs and stolen phrases that sentence express.
Sing tantararara Taste all.

The money you squander your judgment confirms,
You need not know science, repeat but the terms.
The labour of learning belongs to the poor,
Do but pay—that's enough for a true Connoisseur.

As to Shakespeare, or Purcell, why you may allow
They were well-enough once—but they will not do now.
Admit Newton's clever, just clever,—that's all;
And formerly, faith, we might fancy White-hall.

When lord of the feast, 'midst your parasite group,
You're the slave of conceit, and low forgery's dupe.
All artists (but English ones) praise and procure,
By your band of bear-leaders you're dubb'd Connoisseur.

For words, when you're lost, fill the blank with grimace,
And pantomime scorn by your power of face.
If Merit dares speak, and he's known to be poor,
Knock him down with a bett, then your triumph's secure.

With high-varnish'd masters, and bronz'd bustos grac'd,
Your house, like a toy-shop, is lumber'd in taste,
All, all are antiques, Ciceroni procures,
For who dares deceive such compleat Connoisseurs?

The worth of a man, say the wise, is his pence:
'Twas said so, and so it will centuries hence.
Then money's the thing; the grand pimp that procures,
Full work for the wits, when she forms Connoissuers.
Sing tantarara taste all.

HERE GOES.

[_]

Tune,—To sigh or complain.

Come care-curing Mirth from Wit's bower forth
Bring Humour, your brother, along,
Hospitality's here, and Harmony near,
To chorus droll Sentiment's song.

In comedy trim, Joke, Gesture, and Whim,
With trios will keep up the ball;
By order of Taste, we open the feast
Of Friendship in Liberty-hall.

Who'll president be?—Unanimity, see
He's order'd to sit as our host;
My lord Common Sense, with pains and expence,
Introduc'd him to give out the toast.

Tho' scandal we hate, only good we hold great,
Nor any for title's-sake praise;
Unworthy's that name, no merit can claim,
But what genealogies raise.

In this Anno Dom. we would felicity see,
I'll demonstrate how easy we cou'd:
Change fault-finding elves to mending ourselves,
Then things might soon be as they shou'd.

Some wives read their mates, curtain-lecture debates,
And wonder they're not understood;
The husband's perplex'd, and the lady is vex'd,
'Cause every thing's not as it shou'd.

If pension, or place, is the gift of his grace,
Refusal wou'd be over-nice,
Plumb-pudding on board, and press'd by my lord,
Who wou'd not come in for a slice?

Corruption's the cry, opposition runs high,
Yet who can help laughing to see,
Tho' Faction's so big—Amboo Tory and Whig,
In one part both parties agree.

For the kingdom of man, division's the plan,
By the laws of the Cyprian court,
The ladies must yield, when our standard we weild,
And what we advance they support.

For a bumper I call,—Here's the Sovereign of All,
The spring from which all honour flows,
From thence we all came, so we go to that same,
Here's to it, and to it, Here goes.

DICK AND DOLL.

[_]

Tune,—I'm like a skiff on the ocean toss'd.

As one bright summer's sultry day,
For sake of shade I sought the grove
Thro' thickset-hedge, on top of hay,
I met with mutual love:
A youth with one arm round his pretty girl's waist,
On small swelling breasts he his other hand plac'd,
While she cry'd Dick be still,
Pray tell me what's your will?

“I come (quoth Dick) to have some chat,”
And close to her's, his lips he squeez'd;
“I guess (cries Doll) what you'd be at,
“But now I won't be teaz'd.”
She strove to rise up, but his strength held her down,
She call'd out for help! and petition'd the clown,
“O Dick, dear, let me rise,
“The sun puts out my eyes.

“I'll tear your soul out!—Lord! these men,
“If ever—well—I won't submit.—
“Why? what? the devil!—Curse me then!—
“You'll fling me in a fit.”

Down, like a bent lily, her head dropp'd aslant,
Her eyes lost the day-light, her breath became scant,
And, feebly, on her tongue
Expiring accents hung.

The chorus birds sung o'er their heads,
The breeze blew rustling thro' the grove,
Sweet smelt the hay, on new-mown meads,
All seem'd the scene of Love.
Dick offer'd to lift up the lass as she lay,
A look, full of tenderness, told him to stay;
“So soon Dick will you go?
“I wish—dear me!—heigh ho!”

Vibrating with heart-heaving sighs,
Her tucker trembling to and fro',
Her crimson'd cheeks, her glist'ning eyes,
Proclaim'd possession's glow.
Dick bid her farewell, but she, languishing, cry'd,
As wanton she play'd by her fallen shepherd's side;
“A moment! pray sit still,
“Since now you've had your will.”

“Lord! (cries the girl) you hasty men,
“Of love afford but one poor proof;
“Our fowls at home, each sparrow hen,
“Is ten times better off.—
“No! that you shou'd not, had I known your design,
“But, since you've had your will, pray let me have mine;
“So, once more, e'er we rise,
“Do, dear Dick, save my eyes.”

A SIMPLE PASTORAL.

[_]

To a very simple Tune of—Christmas now is coming.

Aurora, lady gay, hides her face in blushes;
Budding, blanching May, whitens hawthorn bushes.
See the clouds transparent,—see the sunshine rising;
London rakes, I warrant, wou'd think this surprizing.

See the sturdy swains, trenching-ploughs are holding:
Some on pebbly plains, last night's pens unfolding.
How the swine-yards woo!—how the herds are lowing!
While the pigeons coo, barn-door fowls are crowing.

Here are Flora's dressings, air-fill'd perfume here is,
Here Pomona's blessings,—here the gifts of Ceres.
Hark! the tinkling rills,—and the bubbling fountains;
Cascade o'er the hills,—tumbling down the mountains.

See! at welcome wakes, shew-folks fire-eating;
While, with ale and cakes, Jack his Girl is treating.
Hark! the distant drum,—lasses all look frighted;
But, when soldiers come, girls how you're delighted!

Night her shutters closing, all the village still is,
Save where, unreposing, Captain calls on Phillis:
While she lets her spark in, shooting stars are sailing,
Farmer's dogs are barking,—comets dreadful trailing.

For to scholars thinking, omens must be telling;
Whether worlds are sinking, or if waists are swelling.
But, my lads and lasses, mind a friend's advisings,
Let us fill our glasses—to our falls and risings.

THE CABAL.

[_]

Tune,—Long time with the Graces fair Venus, &c.

Why shou'd you, lov'd Sensible, shou'd you be pale,
The portrait of Grief you appear;
You look like yon lily that droops in the vale,
With my lips let me wipe off that tear.

Disdain a reply to Malignity's tongue,
Let Patience to Clamour submit;
It is better that Slander shou'd say you was wrong,
Than that you the wrong shou'd commit.

The Atheist, if really such madmen exist,
Belief will delirious decry,
In Infidel doubtings pretend to persist,
What they cannot conceive they deny.

Thus some of your sex, old and ugly, will rail,
Like Atheists all goodness they doubt,
Insisting men may o'er all beauties prevail,
Because themselves could not hold out.

You must pardon the cry, think not strange what I say,
They mercy from you must receive;
Be it known to your tenderness, 'tis the world's way,
Who injure will never forgive.

Smile, smile, and smile on, let day beam on your face,
To oblivion be Obloquy hurl'd;
By the best you're belov'd, thou fair figure of Grace,
So laugh at the rest of the world.

THE QUESTION.

[_]

Tune,—To please me the more, and to change the dull scene.

Suppose Twelve has struck, wherefore pray all this fuss?
Next time 'twill strike less, what are hours to us?
Let the sun rule the day, and the moon mark the night;
Without rules, or schools, sure we know when we're right.

The inf'rence from hence which I draw, but first drink,
A bumper's the best preparation to think:
I infer, nay affirm, and with me you must join,
Life's not life without love, love's not love without wine.

This truth I'll maintain, thus maintaining my post,
And give in this bumper a truth for my toast.—
I'm sure to be pledg'd by each lass-loving youth,
Here's a brusher, my bucks, to the fam'd naked Truth.

At first we are into this world pull'd and teaz'd;
At our getting, Papa and Mama may be pleas'd;
But as to us babes, Nature's multiplication,
Begot for diversion, we're born in vexation.

We are fools in green youth, mankind ripe into knaves,
Grey heirs turn to money, or mistresses slaves;
To our burial from birth, passive objects of Fear,
Keep the door shut, and don't let that Scrub slip in here.

Let Ill-will abuse us, Hypocrisy bawl,
Vain-zeal the cry join, we join laugh 'gainst them all:
Self-denial may sermonize, Temperance teaze,
We live as we like—let them live as they please.

Our voyage is Pleasure, Hope hoists up the sail,
Our pilot is Instinct, Desire the gale;
To Beauty we're bound, we've Bacchus on board,
Our guns by Love loaded, Enjoyment's the word.

THE SONGSTER's HORN-BOOK.

[_]

Tune,—Ally Croker.

Great A was alarm'd at B's bad behav'our
Because he refus'd C, D, E, F, favour;
G, got a husband, with H, I, K, and L,
M, marry'd Mary, and scholars taught spell.
A b c d e f g h i k l m, &c.

It went hard at first with N, O, P, and Q,
With R, S, T, single and also double U.
With X and Y it stuck in their gizzards,
Till they were made friends by the two crooked Izzards.

This A, B, C, tho' so little it is thought about,
Each change in the world, by its power has brought about:
'Tis the ground-work of Wisdom, of Science the key, Sir,
What can a man know, who don't know A, B, C, Sir?

Some fiddlers, in dress, pretend to ape their betters,
They had better mind their Horn-book, and study all their letters;
Their knowledge now no farther goes, from A B C, Sir,
To the four more letters call'd, D, E, F, and G, Sir.

As to words 'tis not worth while to mind their precision,
If we thro' the Gamut can run a division;
The annals of England, to our shame, will tell ye,
That Newton was nothing to fine Farinelli.

How ravishing that swell! what sweet symphonina?
What Cantabilis? what taste? Ah cara divina!
O chi gusto the voice of Signior Sustinuti,
Miltonic the language of Tace titti tutti.

As insects will cluster round pots full of honey,
Imported illiberals swam for our money:
Sense is scar'd off by sound, and trash over taste glories,
Only shew 'tis succeeds now, O Tempora, O Mores!

This A B C excuse without Ceremoni,
My hoarse voice and harmony is not Unisoni:
If you censure my singing, for censure is free, Sir,
As a songster, remember, I'm but in A B C, Sir.
A b c d e f g h i k l m, &c.

COMMON SENSE.

[_]

Tune,—One morning, young Roger accosted me thus.

One night having nothing to do—nor to drink,
I began a new practice, and that was to think;
What my subject shou'd be, kept me some time in doubt,
I consider'd, at last—what we all were about.

Such frauds and such fractions, such follies, such fictions,
Such out-of-door clamours, and in contradictions;
What must this be owing to? why? or from whence?
What is it we want?—why, we want Common Sense.

O yes! who can tell us where Common Sense dwells?
Does it burnish gold roofs, or strew rushes in cells?
Does it beam in the mine? does it swim in the sea?
Does it wing the wild air? does it blossom the tree?

If folks wou'd accept Common Sense as their guest,
With Meum and Tuum at home they'll be bless'd:
Not lunatic lacqueys run mad up and down,
Nor mind any business but what was their own.

But which is the way to find Common Sense out?
She feasts not on turtle;—cuts in at no rout?
Get the tub cynic's lanthorn, we won't mind expence,
But look by its light, 'till we spy Common Sense.

If chance she is seen, tho' for fear we mistake her,
She's natively neat, like a lovely young Quaker:
Pure Beauty, despising false Drapery's aid,
And Common Sense scorns all pedantic parade.

Let us first call at Court, but, perhaps, we intrude,
'Twas told so by Miss Affectation, the prude;
There Fashion forbids the free use of the mind,
What can Common Sense say in a place so refin'd?

Then at Church! to be sure, Common Sense there succeeds,
Unless Superstition should choak it with weeds:
And tho' Infidelity dares a pretence,
She's easily vanquish'd by plain Common Sense.

When I mention'd the Church, you expected at least,
In the common-place mode, some stale joke 'gainst a Priest;
That a laugh I shou'd raise, at the Clergy's expence,
But he who wou'd wish it, must want Common Sense.

As to Trade, no accounts can be well kept without her,
Yet stock-jobbers say they know nothing about her;
Bear witness 'Change-alley—the Omniums declare,
Common Sense shall for ever be under Par there.

Come, I'll give you a toast, if I give no offence—
Here's the sensitive Plant, and the Root Common Sense.
Here's Love's magic Circle, which all senses binds,
And Delicate Pleasures to Sensible Minds.

A FORE-CASTLE SONG.

[_]

Tune,—How happy cou'd I be with either.

Do you see, as a sailor, I'll heave off
A bit of a song in my way,
But, if you don't like it, I'll leave off,
I soon can my bawling belay:
Odd Lingos Musicianers write in,
Concerning Flats, Sharps, and all that;
We Seamen are sharp in our fighting,
And as to the Frenchmen, they're flat.

Outlandish folks tickle your ears
With solos, and such sort of stuff,
We tars have no more than three cheers,
Which French folks think music enough,

Through Canada loudly 'twas rung,
Then echoed on Senegal's shore,
At Gaudaloupe merrily sung,
And Martinique chorus'd Encore.

At Havre we play'd well our parts,
Tho' our game they pretended to scoff,
For trumps we turn'd up English hearts,
They threw down their cards and sheer'd off:
They have met with their match now they feel,
Their shuffling and cutting we check;
They were lurch'd at Crown Point, and lost Deal,
And faith they got flamm'd at Quebec.

Our music gave French folks the vapours,
It took an odd turn on Conflans;
We knew they were all fond of capers,
So set up an old English dance:
'Twas Britons strike home that we sounded,
By the strength of that tune they were trounc'd,
The Tididols looking confounded,
While Hawke, faith, their feather-heads pounc'd.

Our instruments always do wonders,
From round-tops we give serenades;
Our Organs are twenty-four pounders,
Our Concerts are brisk cannonades:
For cooks, thof' the French folks are neater,
Our messes they never can beat,
Our dishes have so much saltpetre,
And as to our balls they're forc'd-meat.

God bless our King George, with three cheers, Sirs,
And God bless his Consort, Amen.
In past times we've drubb'd the Mounseers, Sirs,
For pastime we'll drub them again:
There's one thing I have more to say,—Tho'
Beyond seas, my boys, we'll o'ercome,
If you'll give Old England fair play tho',
And keep yourselves quiet at home.

THE WHIM.

[_]

Tune,—If I ever shou'd know, and that knowledge impart.

That the world is a stage, and the stage is a school,
Where some study knaves parts, and some play the fool,
Was said, and again so we say;
For as the world's round, and rolls round about,
Old fashions come in, and new fashions go out,
As vanity dresses the play.

Do not seriously think of these whimsical times,
But sing or say something in whimsical rhimes,—
The world's but a whim, and all that;
I mean not the world which revolves on the poles,
But the animal world, that's made up of odd souls,
The sons and the daughters of chat.

For a new exhibition their portraits we'll plan,
And pen and ink likenesses sketch if we can,
Where all may their semblances see;
Tho' folks of fine breeding, immensely polite,
Their own faces finish, with rouge and flake white,
So leave no employment for me.

Let us tenderly take off those masks, and their cures
Attempt, by exposing such caricatures
In Impartiality's hall;
But if the gall'd sinner shou'd wince at a line,
And cry, “Curse the fellow!—the picture's not mine,”
The prime-serjeant painter I call.

Come, Satyr, assist me, my project is new.—
The demi-beast, grinning, his range of reeds blew,
And this was his symphony's song:—
“Shou'd I sing of these times, or in prose or in verse,
“Weak things, but not wicked ones I shou'd rehearse,
A medley betwixt right and wrong.

“This æra is much too insipid for me,
“Futility's only in practice I see,
“Unworthy one stroke of my Iash;
“The fashion is Folly, let Folly go on,
“To shew Sense subsides, and true taste to Bon Ton,
“And Genius is banish'd for Trash.”

Disdain frown'd his brow, redd'ning Rage his eyes cast,
Contempt o'er his countenance spread as he past,
No more Dissipation he'll school.
We'll be quite the thing then, as life's but a toy,
A bubble in which we can enly enjoy
The pleasure of playing the fool.

THE SCURVY.

[_]

Tune,—E'er Phœbus shall peep on the fresh budding flow'rs.

Eve tempted to err, ill betide the sad time,
Ye modern wives pity her fall,
Since we her sons suffer for grandmamma's crime,
The Scurvy has tainted us all.

To curb the contagion which putrifies here,
In vain have the faculty try'd;
Its pestilent symptoms offensive appear
In vulgar eruptions of pride.

For all pride is low, 'tis a cancerous brain,
A poorness or foulness of blood;
The want of sound sense renders wretches insane
Who are lifted above what they shou'd.

Epidemic prognostics appear in each state,
Where Meanness in office is plac'd,
Who scurvily ape the odd air of the great,
And fancy ill breeding is taste.

But when their high mighty superiors approach,
The malady takes a new turn;
As abjectly then the base scurvy things crouch,
As before they were bloated with scorn.

With artists the scurvy of envy appears,
When comates they coldly commend;
Nay, oft it breaks out in illiberal sneers,
And poisons the fame of a friend.

Shou'd Genius a visit to Greatness presume,
He's scurvily offer'd a chair;
Disdain marks the things in the visiting-room,
Who wonder the fright shou'd come there.

Be proud, if you please, ye gay groups of conceit,
Still flatter, be venal, and vain;
We know what ye feel, what ye pay for each treat,
And we know too—Ye dare not complain.

With unmeaning gaze pamper'd Wealth wheel'd along,
With the scurvy of vanity swell'd,
Took the snuff of contempt at the more worthy throng,
By whom he's with pity beheld.

Come, meek-ey'd Humility, lend me thy hand,
Humanity deign me thy aid,
Instruct me, that I may myself understand
Not to scorn those my Maker has made.

THE DEMIREP.

Or, I KNOW WHO.

[_]

Tune,—Tho' Austria and Russia, France, Flanders and Prussia.

Cleopatra the gay, as old stories declare,
Put Mark Anthony oft to the rout:
That the lover was fond, and the lady was fair,
No modern among us will doubt.

But yet I insist
Our own Times are the best.
Antiquity! what can that do, Sir?
Cou'd Livia, or Lais,
Faustina, or Thais,
Compare to the fine—I know who Sir?

Let placemen receive, and let patriots oppose,
And raise unforgiving dissentions;
A mistress's arms is the post I wou'd chuse,
A bottle and friend are my pensions.
Preferments at court
Are ministers sport,
When they see what to gain them folks do, Sir,
They may boroughs command,
I wish only to stand
As member for fine—I know who, Sir.

Possessors, assessors, envelope the mind
With ethics of old Aristotle;
The lesson of nature, to tutor mankind,
Is—beauty sublim'd by a bottle.
The best in the College,
Who boast of their knowledge,
The science supreme never knew, Sir,
Unless they can prove,
That a lecture of love
They have had with the fine—I know who, Sir.

You this or that system embrace or reject.
As philosophy's fashion is ruling;
But look in her face and you'll find an effect
Beyond electricity's fooling.
Though sparks there arise,
What are they to her eyes?
And as to what touching can do, Sir,
It is all but a joke,
When compar'd to the stroke
That is given by fine—I know who, Sir.

The atoms of Cartes Sir Isaac destroy'd;
Lebnitz pilfer'd our countryman's fluxions;
Newton found out attraction, and prov'd Nature's void,
Spite of prejudic'd Plenum's constructions.
Gravitation can boast,
In the form of my toast,
More power than all of them knew, Sir;
What fellow, or soph,
Will in tangents fly off
From the center of fine—I know who, Sir.

Ye sensible socials who dare, now and then,
To laugh at some folks in this nation,
'Tis beauty which sculptures us blocks into men,
To beauty then make a libation.
Poor lovers may prize,
Lips, legs, arms, and eyes,
Such piece-meal pretensions won't do, Sir!
No part shall be lost
When I mention my toast,—
“Here's the whole of the fine—I know who, Sir.”

MAY.

[_]

Tune,—A beautiful face, and a form without fault.

Bleak Winter is drove, by warm winds, to the North,
And Spring's early pencil gay colours the earth;
Each blossom expands its pied leaves to the day,
Creation's new cloath'd in the livery of May.

As thus, in soliloquy, rambling along,
I look'd tow'rds the wood, there I heard a sweet song;
The leaves gently fann'd to and fro' by the breeze,
The air a soft symphony play'd through the trees.

As a hound after hair the long meadow o'er leaps,
It was something like love which gave speed to my steps;
I beat through the thicket, upon the game sprung,
And too soon had a view of the syren who sung.

Oh! how my heart beat, how alarm'd was my pride,
To behold a young rustic fix'd close at her side;
They toy'd and they prattled, 'twas innocent play,
Their rosey cheeks spoke all the warmth of new May.

The lad and the lass look'd like Eden's first pair,
And I, scowling, stood just as Satan did there.
Her tenderness hateful, his fondness as bad,
But their give-and-take kissings,—O God!—I grew mad.

I turn'd from the sight, then return'd in despair,
And pretended a cure by despising the fair;
On both bestow'd curses, went raving away,
But I stopp'd at each step, nor cou'd go, nor cou'd stay.

Home heavily sighing, I halted along,
Each bird jarr'd my head with its out-of-tune song:
The late pleasing landscapes appear'd in decay,
The scene to December was chang'd from new May.

In my books I expected some nostrum to find,
But learning to love has small share in the mind.
No morals I met there the wonder cou'd work,
But instinct suggested—to draw a long cork.

As sorrow is dry, the best thing I cou'd do,
To make my cure perfect, was—drawing out two:
So wine before wenching hereafter I'll say,
For wine's good in all months, as well as in May.

THE BRITON's WISH.

[_]

Tune,—Daniel Cooper.

Wou'd you know the way that Eve
In Eden was caught tripping,
Arch Satan 'twitch'd her by the sleeve,
And shew'd a golden pippin;

Tempted by the glitt'ring charm,
'Twas said she ill-us'd Adam,
And ever since the same alarm
Bewitches Miss and Madam.

The dad of Danae was a dolt,
To lock a woman's will in;
A guinea shower burst each bolt,
Miss op'd her lap for filling.
Ask beauties, who for chapmen wait,
What 'tis they chiefly wish for,
They'll own, though most men take their bait,
'Tis only gold they fish for.

But why shou'd women bear the blame,
When men, both out and in, Sir,
Will gamble at the golden game,
Nor care they how they win, Sir?
Arts, Science, Office, Trade, confess
Mean mercenary dealings,
All reas'ning bipeds, more or less,
Shew selfish fellow-feelings.

Election agents truth disgrace,
They've made this an unsound age;
To brothels brought fair Freedom's face,
And, Pandar-like, took poundage.
But henceforth Britons may we shew,
In bribes no more our trust is,
But nobly indepent go,
And only vote for Justice.

O Thou! from whom each blessing springs,
Earth, seas, and skies director,
To whom we owe the best of kings,
Be his, be our protector.
The tyrant, arm'd with terror's scourge,
Awes subject slaves t'approve him,
But free-born Britons bow to George,
For in our hearts we love him.

Dear Liberty, celestial Fire,
Remain here unconsuming;
May that spark catch, from Son to Sire,
From age to age illuming:
For this is ev'ry Briton's song,
This all we wish to be boys;
Let life be short, let life be long,
But let that life be free, boys.

MUTUAL LOVE.

[_]

Tune,—As Chloe on flowers reclin'd, &c.

On a brook's grassy brink, in the willow's cool shade,
The primroses pressing, a damsel was laid;
She smil'd on the tide that roll'd limpid along,
Beholding herself, to herself sung this song.—

The 'Squire's fine Lady last night he brought home;
What! tho' in such gay clothes from London she's come,
Had I costly fashions as well shou'd I seem,
For fairer my face is, if Truth's in this stream.

Thro' church-yard, on Sunday, as slowly I tread,
While gaping louts, grinning, on tombstones are spread,
I hear how they praise me, I keep on my way,
And, down-looking, seem not to heed what they say.

Sometimes Lords and Captains, all over perfume,
Will stop me, and telle me, I'm Beauty in Bloom:
That I rival the rose,—that I'me whiter than snow:
I simper, and simply say—Don't jeer one so.

They've press'd me, they've promis'd, nay offer'd me gold,
Sometimes (I assure them) they've strove to be bold;
They've talk'd of my treasure, they've call'd it a gem,
To be sure so it is, but it is not for them.

No! no! 'tis for him, and 'tis only his part,
Who's the man of my hope, and the hopes of my heart;
Who friendly instructs me, who fondly can play,
And his eyes always speak what his wishes wou'd say.

The ranging bee sweets from the honey-cup sips,
As sweet I taste love from the touch of his lips;
Oft my cheek on the fleece of my lambkins I rest,
But cold is that pillow compard'd to his breast.

'Tis here for my fair one!—her Lover reply'd,
O'er the hedge as he leap'd, and light dropp'd at her side;
She started! a moment life's bloom left her face,
But quick 'twas recall'd by the warmth of embrace.

She, languishing lay in Love's tenderest scene,
And question'd the rambler where 'twas he had been?
Why so he wou'd fright her.—She'd scold him she vow'd,
But a kiss was his plea, and that plea was allow'd.

'Till by kisses o'ercome, to his transports she yields,
The lanscapes were lost, and forgot were the fields;
Each felt those sensations susceptibles prove,
Who, mutually melting, exchange mutual love.

A TIME FOR ALL THINGS.

[_]

Tune,—I am a young Damsel that flatters myself.

All things have their time by the Hebrew King's rule;
What pity a Wise Man wou'd e'er play the Fool;
Yet weak was that Sage, who when long past his prime,
Attempted with beautiful girls to keep Time.
All was Vanity then, and Vexation his text,
To be sure he was vain, and his women were vex'd.

On his own Times how wisely King Solomon spoke,
But Wisdom, in our Times, is rather a joke:

Who's to blame? 'tis not clear, whether we or our guides,
But equally things are ill-timed on all sides;
Like witlings, who sacrifice all to their fun,
We our errors enjoy, and rejoice we're undone.

There's a Time to be right, for some time we've been wrong;
There's a Time for a speech, and a Time for a song:
As to song-making, somebody told me the way,
Since I nothing cou'd do, how I something shou'd say:
A wish still to do, has my doings out-sped,
And all I have left, alas! lumbers my head.

Superannuate socials, like me, leave the lass,
Pursue the sole sport which we're fit for,—the glass;
Be not bubbled by self, nor be Flattery's dupes,
Nor attempt at intrigue when ability drops:
At impotent keepers we've pointed with scorn,
Avoid the same vice,—be not laugh'd at in turn.

Turn'd the corner of Forty, 'tis time to give way;—
But Women to Wine change, and still we've our day:
Doctor Bibbibus says, whether Flask or Scotch Pint,
As oil to the head, wine the soul will annoint;
Embrace then the bottles, hug closely your quarts;—
May we have in our Arms what we love in our Hearts.

THE VETERAN.

[_]

Tune,—Give us Glasses, my Wench.

Turn'd of Forty!—what then?—why 'twixt that and Threescore,
All the days of our lives let us live:
We only ask health, not a moment hope more,
Than what Nature undoctor'd will give.

Non sum qualis eram, in schoolmaster's lore,
Is, our cake we can't have when 'tis eat;—
Do not turn to past views, but new ground gallop o'er,
Nor pull up, for 'tis time enough yet.

Ulysses at Forty Queen Circe embrac'd,
When older Calypso cou'd move:
Ætherials pronounc'd him a man to their taste,
He had health, understanding, and love.

The boys of this time ne'er to manhood arise,
As shrubs cannot strengthen to trees:
Affectation Ability's vacuum supplies,
E'er of age, they are old by disease.

Insipid emaciates each public place throng;
As trinkets on watch-chains are worn,
By fine women's sides, shewy, ratt'ling along,
The fops are for fashion-sake born.

Those mode-made-up things, flutter lifehood away,
Abortions of what Britons were:
Perpetually talk, tho' they've nothing to say,
Their looks are but Vacancy's stare.

As nothing they think on, so nothing they do,
But only rise up, and lye down;
Inexpletive paths Dissipation pursue,
And hue and cry life thro' the town.

In the pause of Embrace practis'd Beauties aver,
That Wit keeps Desire alive;
No wonder they sensible Forty prefer
To Folly and faint Twenty-five.

No Chronics my mascular bulwarks invade,
Within, prima via is right:
Constitution I never a bankrupt have made,
So can pay Beauty's bill upon sight.

It is true, we are told,—old companions we've been:
Yet sound in our heads and our hearts,
Let Wine, Wit, and Women, but open the scene,
We still can go on with our parts.

While prompted by natural vigour to play,
We act thus, encore and encore;
The warning-bell rung, we've no business to stay,
Valete, the farce faith is o'er.

A NEW ROAST BEEF.

[_]

To the Old Tune.

Now Old England's Flag is Commander in Chief,
With Monsieur our Monarch turn'd o'er a new leaf,
Down, down with French dishes, up, up with roast beef.
O the Roast Beef, &c.

In flat-bottoms, flyly, those schemers were coasting,
They threaten'd invasion, but spite of their boasting,
No ribs of roast beef had they; but a rib roasting.

While good English beef, and good English brown beer,
Please our tastes, and each day on our tables appear,
What more can we hope for, or what can we fear?

The Spaniards once strove, by the strength of their guns,
To make us keep Lent, and to turn our girls Nuns,
But we still roast our beef, for we basted the Dons.

At Minorca, indeed, tho' I speak it with grief,
Our garrison fainted for want of relief;
They grew out of hopes, as they grew out of beef.

But at Minden, well fed, why, we there faced about,
Right and left, van and rear, foot and horse, put to rout;
They wou'd be in our beef—but, avast, they were out.

To plunder our cupboards, France sent the Brest fleet,
We a belly-full gave them without any meat;
They then sold their plates, 'cause they'd nothing to eat.

We came, saw and conquer'd, the French lillies droop,
Louisbourg, Montreal, Martinique, Guadaloupe,
Their towns we toss'd up, just as they swallow soup.

By the strength of our beef we our bulwarks maintain,
As Liberty's first-born, and Lords of the main;
And those deeds are witness'd by France and by Spain.

All Knights, by their titles, in heraldry shine,
Nay, writers romantic have stiled some divine,
But what are their Sirs to Old England's Surloin.

Let us honour this dish, 'tis in dignity chief,
For garnish will give it the noblest relief:
Here's Liberty,—Loyalty,—Aye,—and Roast Beef.
O the Roast Beef, &c.

THE PIPE OF LOVE.

[_]

Tune,—Bless'd Age of Gold.

One primrose time, a maiden brown,
Wishing for what we will not say,
By side of shepherd sat her down,
And softly ask'd him, wou'd he play?
Mild shone the sun through redstreak morn,
And glist'ning dew-drops pearl'd the grass;
The rustic, stretch'd beneath the thorn,
Grinning, reply'd—I'll please thee, Lass.

All on the green field's turfy bed,
Smiling, the fond one fell along;
The thick-leaf shade her face o'erspread.
While, lisping, she began this song:—

“'Tis love which gives life holydays,
“And Love, I'll always take thy part;
“My shepherd's pipe so sweetly plays,
“It finds the way to win my heart.

“The ladies dress'd with silks so fine,
“In golden chairs to visits go;
“On costly dishes they can dine,
“And ev'ry night see ev'ry shew:
“Yet, if 'tis true what I've heard speak,
“Those high degrees lead lonely lives;
“Husbands are wilful, husbands weak,
“And seldom pipe to please their wives.”

Blue brok the clouds, the day yet young,
The flowers fragrant fill'd the breeze;
Wanton the lass, half whisp'ring, sung,
Yes, shepherd,—once more, if you please.
Awaking from embrac'd delight,
She heard her dame, and dar'd not stay;
They kiss, they part, but first—at night,
She charg'd him, come again and play.

His teem to geer, home hy'd the loon,
The love-cheer'd lass blithe bore her pail,
And thus she gave her ditty tune,
Tripping it deftly down the dale:
“Tho' organ-pipes play music fine,
“And founsain-pipes folks run to see;
“Tho' thirsty souls love pipes of wine,
“The pipe of love's the pipe for me.”

NOT AS IT SHOU'D BE.

[_]

Tune,—If e'er I incline.

A coxcomb once said he had Bet's maidenhead,
But 'twas false, as I told Mr. Wou'd-be.
His doctor declar'd, impotency debarr'd,
The fribble was not as he shou'd be.

As beauty is us'd, so Britannia's abus'd,
How many loud coffee-house praters,
Will boast of the weight which they have in the State,
And wou'd be the nation's dictators.

Such creatures pretend they can England befriend,
So attract or distract all about them;
That, pon onner, they know how, when, what, and also,
And the ministry can't do with out them.

When candidates bow, patriotic they vow
To honour, esteem, and adore us;
But chose, they change soon, they are taught the court tune,
And chant in majority's chorus.

Reproach, if you please, may impertinent tease,
Rememb'rance attempt to awaken;
But th'answer is this, I thought things amiss,
I really, my friend, was mistaken.

His market is made, we all live by trade,
So buy or sell, Sirs—chuse you whether;
Rich and poor tis the same, 'Change-alley's the game,
A job! a sad job altogether!

Our animal stuff is not made of bomb proof,
When temptation's artillery assails;
As the batt'ries begin, we're betray'd from within,
The flesh over spirit prevails.

Corruption!—that's hard—but, from birth to church-yard,
What are we? but rotting along:
Folly moulders our clay, each vice has its day,
But—good-night—for I've done with my song.

BEAUTY AND WINE.

[_]

Tune,—Attend all ye fairs, I'll tell you the art.

One day at her toilet as Venus began
To prepare for her face-making duty,
Bacchus stood at her elbow, and swore that her plan
Wou'd not help it, but hinder her beauty.

A bottle young Semele held up to view,
And begg'd she'd observe his directions—
This burgundy, dear Cytharea, will do,
'Tis a rouge that refines all complexions.

Too polite to refuse him, the bumper she sips,
On his knees, the buck begg'd she'd encore;
The joy-giving goddess, with wine-moisten'd lips,
Declar'd she wou'd hob nob once more.

Out of window each wash, paste, and powder, she hurl'd,
And the god of the grape vow'd to join;
Shook hands, sign'd and seal'd, then bid Fame tell the world,
The union of Beauty and Wine.

A LOVE SONG.

[_]

Tune,—Genteel is my Damon, engaging his air.

Let him fond of fibbing invoke which he'll chuse,
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, or madam the muse;
Great names in the classical kingdom of letters,
But poets are apt to make free with their betters.

I scorn to say aught, save the thing which is true,
No Beauties I'll plunder, yet give mine her due;

She has charms upon charms, such as few people may view,
She has charms,—for the tooth-ach, and eke for the ague.

Her lips;—she has two, and her teeth they are white,
And what she puts into her mouth, they can bite;
Black and all black her eyes, but what's worthy remark,
They are shut when she sleeps, and she's blind in the dark.

Her ears from her cheeks equal distance are bearing,
'Cause each side her head should go partners in hearing:
The fall of her neck's the downfall of beholders,
Love tumbles them in by the head and the shoulders.

Her waist is—so—so, so waste no words about it,
Her heart is within it, her stays are without it;
Her breasts are so pair'd—two such breasts when you see,
You'll swear that no woman yet born e'er had three.

Her voice neither nightingales, no! nor canaries,
Nor all the wing'd warblers wild whistling vagaries:
Nor shall I to instrument music compare it,
'Tis likely, if you was not deaf you might hear it.

Her legs are proportion'd to bear what they've carry'd,
And equally pair'd, as if happily marry'd;
But Wedlock will sometimes the best friends divide,
By her spouse so she's serv'd when he throws them aside.

Not too tall, nor too short, but I'll venture to say,
She's a very good size—in the minddling way.
She's—aye—that she is,—she is all, but I'm wrong,
Her all I can't say, for I've sung all my song.

HAT's THAT TO ME?

[_]

Tune,—The dainty dames who trip along.

The blue clouds from the skies are fled,
And vapours cap the mountain's head;
The lord of day resigns his reign,
While twilight ushers in her train.
But, what's all this to me?

By shepherds whistl'ing o'er the wold,
The tink'ling flocks are drove to fold;
Her brimming pail the milk-maid bears,
And hears her love, or thinks she hears—
Yet, what's all this to me?

From reeking pools the steams ascend,
Tall leafy trees their shades extend;
Evening appears in matron grey,
And puts to blush the rakish day.
Still, what's all this to me?

The flow'ry beds have lost their bloom,
The verdant grove's conceal'd in gloom,
The landscapes die upon the sight,
And chilly spreads the veil of night.
Well! what's all this to me?

Though dismal birds begin to prowl,
The flitting bat, the hooting owl;
And glow-worms glimmer feeble rays,
The link-boys of the lightfoot fays.
Why, what's all this to me?

Yes, yes, in truth, for when 'twas dark,
A light I 'spy'd, and bless'd the mark;—
I hemm'd, and quick the casement op'd,
How leap'd my heart, my search was stopp'd.
And, that was much to me.

“Hist, (cries my fair one) softly creep,
“The old folks are both fast asleep,
“Lord! how our house-dog makes a din!
“But I'll steal down, and let you in.”
Now, what do you think of me?

When safe we met, few words were said,
For fear by voice to be betray'd;—
So what was done I will not say,
'Twas Love look'd on, and bid us play.
But, what is that to thee?

Love's raptur'd rites are secret joys,
Profan'd by sots and babbling boys;
But we initiates never boast,
Fidelity's our general toast.
Here's that my friend to thee.

THE SENTIMENT SONG.

[_]

Tune,—Sing Tantararara Toast all.

Dinner o'er, and grace said, we'll for business prepare,
Arrang'd right and left in support of the chair,
We'll chorus our song as the circling toast passes,
And manage our bumpers as musical glasses.
Sing Tantararara Toast all.

To your lips, my convivials, the burgundy lift,
May we never want courage when put to a shift—
Here's what tars dislike, and what ladies like best;—
What's that?—you may whisper, why 'tis to be press'd!

Ye fowlers who eager at partridges aim,
Don't mark the maim'd covey, but mind better game;
'Tis beauty's the sport to repay sportsmen's trouble,
And there may our pointers stand stiff in the stubble.

To game we give law, and game laws we have skill in,
Here's love's laws, and they who those laws are fulfilling,
But never may damsels demur to our sport,
Nor we suffer nonsuits when call'd into court.

As the Indians are warring, our game we must flush,
On our breasts, as we lye, we present through a bush—
Here's the nest in that bush, and the bird-nesting lover:
Here's Middlesex bush fighting,—rest and recover.

Asthmatical gluttons exist but to eat,
They purchase repletions at each turtle treat;
Love's feast boasts a flavour unknown to made dishes—
Here's life's dainty, dress'd with the sweet sauce of kisses.

Fair befall ev'ry lass, fair may fine ladies fall,
No colour I'll fix on, but drink to them all;
The black, the brunette, and the golden-lock'd dame—
The lock of all locks, and unlocking the same.

More upright fore-knowledge that lock is commanding,
Than all other locks, aye, or Locke's understanding:
That lock has the casket of Cupid within it,
So—Here's to the key lads,—the critical minute.

Lads pour out libations from bottles and bowls,
The Mother of All-Saints is drank by All-Souls.—
Here's the Down Bed of Beauty which upraises man,
And beneath the Thatch'd-House the miraculous can.

The dock-yard which furnishes Great-Britain's fleets,
The bookbinders wifes manufact'ring in sheets,
The brown female-reaper, who dares undertake her?
And the wiffe of Will Wattle—The neat basket-maker.

Here's Bathsheba's cockpit where David stood centry;
Eve's custom-house, where Adam made the first entry;
The pleasant plac'd water-fall 'midst bushy park;
The nick makes the tail stand, the farrier's wife's mark.

That the hungry be fill'd with rich things let us say:
And well pleas'd the rich be sent empty away.—
The miller's wife's music;—the lass that's lamb-like;—
And fence of the farmer on top of Love's dike.

But why from this round-about phrase must be guess'd,
What in one single syllable's better express'd;
That syllable then I my Sentiment call,
So here's to that word, which is. one word for all.
Sing Tantararara Toast all.

THE DAMN'D HONEST FELLOW.

[_]

Tune,—Old Woman at Grimstone.

As a choice-spirit bred, so I'll choicely behave,
My bucks, I'm damn'd honest and free;
As to rules, thy're for fools; I'll be nobody's slave;
The Minister must do for me.

If he does not, nor cannot, for that's all the same,
But leaves me to sink or to swim;
If he won't do for me when I send in my name,
Why, damme, then, I'll do for him.

If George did but tip me a place, or a post,
If I didn't clear all, I'll be curst:
I'll take care that nothing shall never be lost,
Of myself tho', I'll take care the first.

The Government's tools to a man I wou'd shift,
Corruption's the nation's disgrace;
The Treasury's Lord, why I'll turn him adrift,
And whip myself plump in his place.

The national debt I'll wet-spunge it away,
The sinking fund that I wou'd drown;
And when we bold Britons have nothing to pay,
Why then all our money's our own.

As to Scotchmen, I'll scotch them all off, never fear,
They are Jacobites all to a man;
Pray tell me what business have such fellows here?
I'm a Briton, and hate ev'ry clan.

They have nothing to do with our meat and our drink,
I grant you they're clever, but still
We're ten times as clever, if we wou'd but think,
And one time or other we will.

Like foxes I'll hunt Presbyterians to church,
For, zounds! we'll be all orthodox;
The subsidy Princes I'll leave in the lurch,
And stock-jobbers set in the stocks.

My friends I'll provide for, and thus I'll begin;—
Arch-Bishop of York shall make room,—
His pulpit I've promis'd to my whippers-in,
And Lord Chancellor's seat to my groom.

My grand buck at drinking shall Admiral be;
I've judgement in all I design:—
He surely must prove best commander at sea
Who's best at an ocean of wine.

Now, as to land-service, Excise I'll disband,
And I'll banish the Watch from the street;
Betwixt York and Lunnon no turnpikes shall stand,
And I'll burn the King's Bench and the Fleet.

As to smugglers, why curse on the Custom-house tribe,
Of placemen I'll soon make an end;
I'll hang the first fellow I find take a bribe,
Except 'twas a buck,—and my friend.

So now for a toast—stay—what toast shall we have?
Why Liberty—can we say more?—
And he who won't pledge it I'm sure is a Slave,
And a slave is a son of a whore.

A wife to be sure! that's the fashion in town,
And fashion for wives to make free;
But I won't be humm'd, I'll have none of my own,
What friends have will always serve me.

So here's to that girl who will give one a share,
But as for those jilts who deny,
So cursedly coy, tho' they've so much to spare—
But drink, brother bucks, for I'm dry.

LIBERTY-HALL.

[_]

Tune,—Derry down.

Old Homer! but with him what have we to do?
What are Grecians, or Trojans, to me or to you?
Such heathenish heroes no more I'll invoke,
Choice Spirits, assist me, attend hearts of oak.
Derry down.

Sweet Peace, belov'd handmaid of science and art,
Unanimity, take your petitioner's part;
Accept of my song, tis the best I can do—
But first, may it please ye—my service to you.

Perhaps my address you may premature think,
Because I have mention'd no toast as I drink;
There are many fine toasts, but the best of 'em all
Is the toast of the times; that is Liberty-Hall.

That fine British building by Alfred was fram'd,
Its grand corner stone Magna Charta is nam'd;
Independency came at Integrity's call,
And form'd the front pillars of Liberty-Hall.

This manor our forefathers bought with their blood,
And their sons, and their sons sons, have prov'd the deeds good;
By that title we live, with that title we'll fall,
For life is not life out of Liberty-Hall.

In mantle of honour, each star-spangled fold,
Playing bright in the sun-shine, the burnish of gold,
Truth beams on her breast; see, at Loyalty's call,
The Genius of England in Liberty-Hall.

Ye sweet-smelling courtlings of ribband and lace,
The spaniels of power, and bounty's disgrace,
So supple, so servile, so passive ye fall,
'Twas Passive-obedience lost Liberty-Hall.

But when Revolution had settl'd the crown,
And Natural Reason knock'd Tyranny down,
No frowns, cloath'd with terror, appear'd to appall,
The doors were thrown open of Liberty-Hall.

See England triumphant, her ships sweep the sea,
Her standard is Justice, her watch-word, be free;
Our King is our countryman, Englishmen all,
God bless him, and bless us, in Liberty-Hall.

On vere is des All—Monsier wants to know,
'Tis neither at Marli, Versailles, Fontainbleau;
'Tis a palace of no mortal architect's art,
For Liberty-Hall is an Englishman's Heart.
Derry down.

AMELIA.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Lasses who drive from the smoke of the town.

One eve from whist-table Amelia withdrew,
Join'd our group, and she begg'd we'd explain—
Why year after year, by Wit's common-place crew,
We are told life's so short and so vain:
With a look that spoke more than all Cicero said,
To me flew her order—I bow'd, and obey'd.

“Our sex, my fair curious, are Vanity's fools,
“On Bubbles of Self-love we soar;
“However a patron may pension his tool,
“Dependency dodges for more:
“The gross of Mankind are such near-sighted elves,
“As trash they behold all the world,—but themselves.

“Illib'ral Ingratitude always will scold,
“Expectancy's ever in pain;
“Abuse gives her tongue, and you need not be told,
“The most worthless are always most vain:
“Like pure silent streams, Merit keeps in its place,
“Approach Dunce's torrent, Froth flies in your face.

“When you bless the day, with your figure and face,
“Insensibles seem to admire;
“By Love's Electricities—Beauty and Grace,
“Ev'n Dullness is struck with desire:
“Life's not worth without you, one half day's expence,
“'Tis a world without sun, and a soul without sense.

“O! wou'd ye, Ineffables, wou'd you endure,
“To bestow upon man a new birth;
“Your forms are specifics to furnish the cure,
“And eradicate Folly from earth:
“To you, as our sovereign, we offer our hearts,
“And only are happy when you take our parts.”

THE HUMBUG.

[_]

Tune,—The man who is drunk is void of all care.

That living's a joke, Johnny Gay has express'd,
Fall de roll, toll loll.
In earnest we'll make all we can of the jest;
Loll de roll, &c.
A load of conceits, a long life we are lugging,
Which some are humbugg'd by, and some are humbugging.
Fall de roll, &c.

His Honour with consequence charges his face,
Bows round to the levee, and ogles his Grace;
Then whispers his friend, Sir, depend on my word,—
But if you depend, you're humbugg'd by the Lord.

Says Patty the prude, and she wide spread her fan,—
Me marry! What? I go to bed to a man?
I detest all male creatures! my God!—I shall swoon!
She did—and was brought to-bed, faith, before noon!

To London Pa sent her, when bloom was regain'd,
Invi'late her maidenhead there she maintain'd;
For a virgin was wed, she knew how to be mum,
So gain'd a good husband, her husband a Hum.

Miss nicely observ'd, wastly wulgar's this word,
Immensely indelicate, monstrous absurd:
Yet last night, dear Miss, when you thought yourself snug,
You confess'd—without loving—life's all a humbug.

The wanton wife often, too often, I fear,
Proves words to be facts when she calls her spouse Deer;
And enjoys the sweet chat as stol'n pleasures she hugs,
How cunningly now she her cuckold humbugs.

But husband at home, as few marry'd men wish
Fall de roll, toll loll.
To dine ev'ry day on the very same dish,
Loll de roll, &c.
Makes a meal with her maid, the thing publickly known is,
A tete-a-tete feast, call'd the Lex Talionis.
Fall de roll, &c.

DOODLE DOO.

[_]

Tune,—Ev'ry where fine Ladies flirting.

Younglings fond of female chaces,
Mount on hopes in Wedlock's races,
Some for fortune, some for faces.
Doodle, doodle, doo, &c.

Oh! th'extatic joys which flow, Sir,
When two souls congenial, glow, Sir,
This above, and that below, Sir.

Each 'gainst each, like wrestlers, twining,
Each with each engagement joining,
Now resisting, now resigning.

When imparadis'd they're pairing,
Ev'ry nerve stretch'd to its bearing,
Hardly knowing what nor wherein.

Fainting, panting—pulses thrilling—
She—obedient waits, and willing,
But he's out of breath with billing.

Fain the fair wou'd fondly dally,
Looking love—but he don't rally,
Rather seeming—shilly shally.

Kissing, smiling, she cries—so! so!
Go, you naughty creature, go! go!
While he yawns out—ah! ah!—oh! oh!

This, indeed, too oft the case is,
Men will furious fall on faces,
Then fall off into disgraces.

All the work they make with wooings,
Couplings, changings, cursings, cooings,
Are but doodling doodle doings.

Falling back, then falling to, Sir,
We like babies, beauties woo, Sir,
Love is—Cock a doodle do, Sir.
Doodle, doodle, doo, &c.

THE COMET.

[_]

Tune,—Shou'd I once become great, what a business 'twou'd be.

Had I old Homer here, I wou'd make that wretch see,
(Quoth Venus) whom 'tis he abuses;
What business has any verse-monger with me?
Their prudes let them stick to,—the Muses,—
And so I was wounded by rough Diomede?
A pretty dress'd up sort of story;
See Jupiter smiles—but papa, now, indeed,
'Tis not for your honour and glory.

Why will you permit these mortality frights,
What Olympus has plann'd to review?
Don't suffer such reptiles to creep out at nights,
T'observe what we deities do.
Immensely impertinent 'twas, you must own,
My transit to see, and expose it;
Because, 'tother day, I just drove out of town,
Their spectacles peep'd in my closet.

A moment Jove laid his bright dignity down,
And let Laughter illumine his face;
To his daughter reply'd—Cytharea, a frown
Becomes not the Empress of Grace.
Those atoms of clay which you see to and fro',
Skip about on yon globular crust,
Like the blue on a plumb, are but insects you know,
A mere animalculous dust.

Those emmets, tis true, scientifical prate,
A race of half-reasoning elves,
Who all can account (as they think) for my state,
Yet know not the state of themselves.
They pretend to examine eternity's rules,—
The cause of all causes dispute;—
I'll shew you these arrogant earth-worms are fools,
And thus all their systems confute.

Away, at his word, the vast Comet rush'd forth,
And swift through immensity blaz'd;
Yet Attraction went on, though it girdl'd the earth—
On earth, how the star-peepers gaz'd.
Each circl'd, and circl'd a scheme of his own,
And reason'd about, and awry;
In derision, a moment, Immortals look down,
'Twas a jest for the Sons of the Sky.

Be humble, ye beings of feeble threescore,
Shall finites,—infinity scan?
The best of us only are men, and no more—
And, at best, only think what is man?

A contrary mixture of pity and scorn,
Pride, servility, sorrow, and mirth;
In a moment he's made, in a moment he's born,
In a moment again he is earth.

Sons of Error; for that's all the birthright ye share,
As ev'ry day's actions make known;
No longer let Vanity gaze into air,
But think of itself and look down,—
Yet hold!—let us think,—to look down did I say?
I did so,—and so seize my cup,
Come, do as I do, and I'll shew you the way,
The best way, my lads, to look up.

THE BLOOD.

[_]

Tune,—The Tars of Old England.

Ye learn'd of the age, each artist, each sage,
Ye speakers at fam'd Robinhood,
Describe, or decline, or derive, or define,
What the character is of a Blood?

Maccaronies so neat, pert Jemmies so sweet,
With all their effeminate brood;
Free-Masons so shy, choice spirits so high,
Are kick'd out of doors by a Blood.

If making a bet, or if taking a whet,
Or if beating the rounds he thinks good,
Who dare to oppose, will be pluck'd by the nose,
With a—Dam'me Sir, a'n't I a Blood?

If the constable queer, and the watch should appear,
His riots to quell, if they could,
Without compliment, out of window the're sent,
And that is fine fun for a Blood.

He laughs at Old Nick, calls religion a trick,
And his arguments can't be withstood;
'Tis a bett or an oath, but most commonly both,
As to Reason,—What's that to a Blood?

As we have but our day, even Bloods must decay,
He would keep it up still if he could;
But his manors foreclos'd, and his honour expos'd,
He must dye as he liv'd—like a Blood.

To retrench would be base, to repent a disgrace,
So he acts just as geniusses should;
By a med'cine of lead, warm apply'd to his head,
He cures the disease of a Blood.

DO THE SAME.

[_]

Tune,—How d'ye do?

Mark Anthony gave up the world for a girl,
And he who would not do the same is a churl.
Do the same! that's the thing;—do not think me to blame
If a bumper I drink, will not you do the same?

But what do you think that I mean by all this?
Why evil to them who imagine amiss.
Hit or miss, luck is all; are the lucky to blame?
No no, do but win—we would all do the same.

The dainty-fed dame, in unpinn'd dishabille,
To the swain of her sighs upon tiptoe will steal;
Voluptuously welcomes the sense-piercing kiss,
And gives up her soul to the dangerous bliss.

While soft broken murmurs betray her delight,
The rustling leaves play through the still of the night,
As if to her tremblings they kept time and tune:
Above mildly shone, in pale splendor, the moon.

Lady Luna down looking, the luscious scene sees,
Withdrew her beams, blushing, from silver-topp'd trees;
In a cloud veils her face, crying out, fie for shame.
To Endymion drives off,—and with him does the same.

'Tis Hypocrisy's humour, the Ton of the Times,
To lay on our neighbours the load of our crimes;
The failings of friends we to Slander proclaim,
But sink our own sinnings,—won't you do the same.

Reason ne'er had the head-ach, no toasts he'll approve;
Reason ne'er had the heart-ach—he ne'er was in love.
But poor honest Instinct, he's always to blame,
For he'll drink and he'll love, and—why we do the same.

My country! my country! that phrase cannot fail;
Tis the bait voters bite at, the tub for the whale:
Distinction, on each side, is only a name;
For this side, and that side,—both sides do the same.

Let us, without blaming or this side or that,
Only keep to our own side, and mind what we're at.
I would be at something, but what, I won't name,
Yet to toast it I'll teach you, and drink to the same.

Your sentiment, Decency, give it to me,—
The Quakers Address, Friend, I drink unto thee.
So here's to't, and to thee; and pray who's to blame?
Why him—can you find him? who won't do the same.

LOVE AND WINE's PARTNERSHIP.

[_]

Tune,—No more let us trouble our heads 'bout the State.

It was as one morning on Ida Jove shone,
All frantic the Queen of Love flew in,
Her arms she expanded, embracing his throne,
Saying, Sire, oh save me from ruin!

100

For Justice Dione to Jupiter prays,
They abandon my Temples and Shrine, Sir,
That sot and his sots, have extinguish'd my blaze,
And drown'd Beauty's Altars in wine, Sir.

By Styx, but 'tis false, jolly Bacchus reply'd;
Such slander I'll never endure, Ma'am:
Love's pains to asswage men that many things try'd,
In me only met with a cure, Ma'am.
Your ignorant urchin, your booby, is blind,
And scatters his arrows at random;
The Heart they mislead, and they madden the Mind;
'Tis Wine which alone can withstand 'em.

Where is it? th'Olympical Grand called out,
Young Semele bumper'd Champaign, Sir,
Full nimbly the Genius brush'd it about,—
Quoth Monarchy, I'll drink again, Sir.
So laying his lightning's artillery down,
His tresses imperially shaking,
To Venus put on a majestical frown,
Saying, Certainly you are mistaken.

Mistaken, Papa?—Miss pray hold your tongue,
You'd better.—Jove thunder'd to Venus,
'Pon 'Onner (she pertly reply'd) you are wrong,
Celestials be judges between us.
Go Mercury, summon the States of the Sky.
Thus order'd Lord Chancellor Jove, Sir,
At Ida's Exchequer this suit they shall try,
Decreeing for Wine or for Love, Sir.

Their Worships went first on the Cyprian cause,
Unarray'd, Beauty figur'd before 'em;
What licking of lips, what hums, and what hahs!
What peeping there was 'mong the quorum!
The Patron of Vines saw 'twould go for the wench,
Unless that a dust he could kick up,
Tipp'd Hermes the wink, and they bumper'd the bench
'Till the court only chorus'd a hickup.

101

With eye-lids half-clos'd, one attempted at speech,
But wind over-charg'd his expression.
My opin—nin—nin—nin—but bump on his breech
He squatted, and snor'd out the session.
Apollo, was chairman, in full buckl'd wig,
For that day, being Juno's physician,
Smelt cane, strok'd his chin, us'd hard words, and look'd big,
As became his Right Worship's condition.

The statutes, quoth he, the statutes at large,
Aye and small too, declare coram nob.—
But head was too heavy to hold out the charge,
It dropp'd, and down fell his full bob:
An emblem of what often happens below,
Stupidity office disgraces;
For Folly has friends, and too many we know—
And we know the wise folks too want places.

Now Bacchus and Venus agreed 'twixt themselves
Altercation hereafter to smother;
At Dulness to laugh, though 'mong dignify'd elves,
And friendly assist one another.
But now mind the moral: 'Tis clever to think,
And think too about something clever;—
Since Wine makes us Love, and since Love makes us drink,
Here's Drinking and Loving for ever.

COURTSHIP.

[_]

Tune,—To all ye Ladies now at Land.

Let others sing of flames and darts,
And all Love's lullaby;—
Of crying eyes, and cracking hearts—
The deuce a bit will I.
If you are willing, I'm so too,
If not—why there's no more to do.
With fa, la, la.

102

Should you expect, in Sorrow's guise,
I'll wear a woeful face,
Such maudlin mumm'ry I despise,
Mine is no lovesick case—
'Tis but my whim, e'en make it thine,
Then whim to whim, and yours to mine.

Or if you think in golden rain,
Like Jove, I'll pave my way,
Such expectations are but vain,
I've only this to say,—
You've something which I would be at,
I've something too;—so tit for tat.

Your taste, your talk, I may admire,
And praise, with truth, your face;
Your sparkling eyes that speak desire,
And give expression grace.
Yet there's a—but I'll not be bold,
Nor say, what's better took than told.

Well kens the lass what I would win,
And well I ken the road;
He that is out would fain be in—
A patriot a la-mode.—
As you're my sov'reign grant me grace,
I only ask a little place.

Least said, they say, is mended soon,
With you I'll not dispute;
Ill tastes the long requested boon
'Tis sweet, when short's the suit.
Then grant, with grace, the grace I sue,
Or let me, without grace fall to.
With fa, la, la.

103

GOD SAVE THE KING!

[_]

Tune,—While Waves rebound from Albion's shore.

Ye hardy Sons of Honour's Land,
Where Freedom Magna Charta plann'd,
Ye Sovereigns of the Sea;
On ev'ry shore where salt tides roll,
From East to West, from Pole to Pole,
Fair Conquest celebrates your Name,
Witness'd aloud by wond'ring Fame,
When! when will you be free?

Mistake me not, my Hearts of Oak,
I scorn with Liberty to joke,
Ye Sovereigns of the Sea:
No right I blame, I praise no wrong,
But sing an independent song,—
Since Ministers must be withstood,
And Patriots are but flesh and blood,
I dare with both be free.

While strange told tales from scribblers' pen,
Disturb the heads of honest men,
Ye Sovereigns of the Sea;
The trash of temporizing slaves,
Who earn their daily bread as knaves.
Heedless which side may rise or fall,
The ready money—that's their all.
Such fellows can't be free.

We meet for mirth, we meet to sing,
And jolly join—God save the King!
Ye Sovereigns of the Sea;
As honest Instinct points the way,
Our King, our Country, we obey;
Yet pay to neither side our court,
But Liberty in both support,
As men who should be free.

104

Assist, uphold your church and state,
See great men good, and good men great;
Ye Sovereigns of the Sea;
Shun Party, that unwelcome guest,
No tenant for a Briton's breast;
Forget, forgive, in Faction's spite,
Awe all abroad, at home unite,
Then, then, my friends, you're free.

Ye Sov'reigns of wide ocean's waves,
To heroes long enshrin'd in graves,
A Requiem let us sing;
I Alfred, Henry, Edward name,—
Then William, our deliverer came:—
May future ages Brunswick own,
Perpetual heir to England's throne,
So here's God save the King.

THE VISION.

[_]

Tune,—As I went o'er the meadows, no matter the day.

As home I return'd, it was late in the day,
Thro' Westminster-abbey, I knew was my way,
And there I beheld,—or believe that I saw,
A terrible spectre, with teeth wanting jaw;
The figure was frightful, as you may suppose,
His sockets were eyeless, and never a nose.

I, trembling, address'd him with—Sir, I presume
Your worship is walking from Nightingale's tomb?
As Milton observes, so he grinn'd for a smile,
And, stalking off, beckon'd me down the dark isle;
But, faith, I won't follow,—and loudly I spoke,
Then took to my heels, and I tumbl'd—and 'woke.

My joy cou'd you guess, when, recover'd, I spy'd
My girl sweetly sleeping, and warm by my side;
Such lips! such a neck! then her cheeks had a hue
Like roses just moist with the summer morn's dew:

105

I press'd her close to me, nay, held her too tight,
For faith I was scarcely escap'd from my fright.

Awaking, she tenderly call'd out,—My dear!
What ails you? you shake so, you're not well I fear!
What pleasure this is tho', quoth me to myself,
To have love alive here, instead of that elf?
With rapture I fell on the dear creature's face,
With rapture the fond one return'd my embrace.

Let fribbles with beauty as fribbles behave,
And Pedantry boast, he is no passion's slave;
Let Pride, folly-teeming, lure dress-loving elves,
To scorn the enjoyment of all—but themselves:
Such things we despise, and them only approve,
Whose hearts esteem ripens from friendship to love.

TRANSIT OF VENUS.

[_]

Tune,—Had I but the way to turn some things to gold.

Astrologers lately a bustle have made,
How round the sun Venus cou'd dance it,
With optic, catoptric, dioptric parade,
To spy how genteel was her transit:
Between you and I, tho' 'twas mal a-propo,
T'examine a fine woman's actions,
For were we to look among ladies below,
What frays it wou'd make? and what fractions?

Good-lack, how they look'd at this wonderful sight—
A wonderful sight! but what is it?
When all came to all, and when all came to light,
Love's regent, paid Neptune a visit:
Bedew'd by the salt-water spray as she rose,
To Apollo her beautyship run ,
Intending to dry her Olympical cloaths,
So stood between us and the sun.

106

While pointing your glasses, and winking each way,
Inquisitives, what did you see?
Does th'Empress of Joy, now, friends, honestly say,
Wear garters above, or 'low knee?
A fig for the farce of your schemes and your scrolls,
Eclipses indeed ye may shew,
But as to each orb which high over us rolls,
Not an inch past your noses ye know.

Into ditch Thales fell, with his telescope geer,
At midnight wou'd stargazing roam,
When brought back bedaub'd, all his spouse said was, Dear,
You had better observe things at home:
If husbands who ramble, this maxim wou'd mind,
And put it but once to the proof,
Observe things at home; go but home and they'll find,
At home they had business enough.

Run pro. ran, for the rhime sake.

MARIA.

[_]

Tune,—Ianthe the Lovely, the joy of the plain.

One day, by appointment, Maria I met,
That day of delight, I remember it yet;
As the meadow we cross'd, to avoid the town's croud,
The sun seem'd eclips'd by a black spreading cloud:
Escaping the shower, to barn we fast fled,
There safe heard the pattering rain over head.

Some moments I suffer'd my fair to take breath,
Then, sighing, she cry'd, “Lord! I'm frighted to death;
“Suppose, nay, now, by any one I should be seen?
“Nay, nay, now,—nay, pray now—dear—what do you mean?
“Had I thought you wou'd be half so rude—fye! for shame!
“I wish I'd been wet to the skin e'er I came.

“You will have a kiss, then!—why, take one or two!
“I beg you won't teaze me!—Lord! what wou'd you do?

107

“You'll tear all one's things—I ne'er saw such a man!
“I will hold your hands tho'!—Aye, do if you can:
“Is this your love for me?—Is this all your care?
“I'll never come near you again,—now, I swear!

As she push'd me away, love explain'd by her eyes,
Resistance was only to heighten the prize;
Her face chang'd alternate, from scarlet to snow,
Her neck rose and fell fast, her language was low:
Such beauty! but more of that scene was not shewn—
For Decency here bid her curtain drop down.

The storm being over, all sunshine the air,
When instant rose up, the yet love-looking fair,
Crying, hark! there's one listens—do look out, my dear,
I must be bewitch'd, I am sure, to come here,
My things how they are rumpled!—Lord! let me be gone;
What have you been doing? and what have I done?

Into this fatal place, I most solemnly vow,
I innocent enter'd—but am I so now?
I'm ruin'd,—I never myself can forgive—
I'll leap in the brook,—for I'm sure I can't live!—
If I do, my whole life will be wasted in grief,
Unless here to-morrow you'll give me relief.

ADMINISTRATION.

[_]

Tune,—In this mirror, bucks, behold.

See this bumper, bucks be gay,
I scorn all imposition;
If you'll pledge my toast you may,
'Tis Courtship's coalition:
When two parties close embrace,
And separation smother,
He is upright in his place,
And downright is the other.

108

Whether 'tis to rise or fall,
Yet still his time improving,
In the the cockpit at Whitehall,
The best of measures moving,
Outs will sometimes Ins become,
'Twixt both sides bold he ventures,
Pushing things with vigour home,
Administration enters.

Certain of a strong support,
Each op'ning he embraces,
All the time he stays at court
His friends preserve their places:
The members he depends upon,
When plac'd in proper station,
The Star above the Garter won
At Beauty's Installation.

In Love and State exact the same,
Respecting mankind's wishes,
All the cupboard's key wou'd gain
To plunder loaves and fishes:
Placemen England have disgrac'd,
The daily papers tell us,
Howsoe'er you have been plac'd,
Non placets will be jealous.

Ministers may places fill,
I buy none, nor am selling;
A thatch'd house underneath the hill
Is what I chuse to dwell in:
Tho' it has no high-rais'd roof,
Yet prospects can command, Sir;
Not so low, but room enough
For me upright to stand, Sir.

On the hill, along the dale,
I sometimes turn a rover,
Then within the mossy vale
I slily creep to cover:
There's the sport, and that's the spot,
'Tis Pleasure's wild plantation,
Lest the toast shou'd be forgot—
Here's Love's Association.

109

FAIR PLAY.

[_]

Tune,—When the Nymphs were contending for Beauty and Grace.

Friends, Britons, and countrymen, heed what you say,
Let Englishmen ever shew all folks fair play;
Look up, and reflect, e'er you dare to despise,
We are all sons alike of one Lord of the skies.

Does He give to the Savage, the Turk, or the Jew,
The Indian, or Catholic, less than to you?
But Prejudice blinds us, that mind-madd'ning Elf,
We all wou'd be wiser than Wisdom itself.

The unfeeling Base deny Sorrow a tear,
Vulgarities dare at Deformity sneer;
Tho' pity, 'tis true, but Observance will find
The term Vulgar takes in two-thirds of mankind.

We wrangle, we ridicule, laugh, and despair,
Then rashly our, what we call, Reasons declare;
Illib'ral on customs and countries decree,
And sentence each being born 'tother side sea.

At Scotchmen we spurn, and at Irishmen sneer;
Partiality, prithee a word in your ear—
With looks of contempt other nations you view,
With equal injustice they thus deride you.

Hospitality, somehow, was banish'd from town,
Good-Nature enquir'd where Welcome was flown;
By Faction drove off, she returns here no more,
Contentedly settled on Ireland's shore.

For the Scots—if we suffer not Party to rate,
There are wise men among 'em; and good men and great;
Where e'er merit's found, give that merit its due,
To praise the praise-worthy, adds merit to you.

110

To Oblivion consign those distinctions of soil,
Distinction among men all born in one isle:
The same sea encircles our shores with its tide,
What Creation unites thus shall Clamour divide.

Here's to all the good fellows, in ev'ry degree,
Who dare do as we do, drink, think, and speak free;
And here's to those lasses who Liberty prove,
And pledge from their hearts this toast, Freedom in Love.

CIRCE.

[_]

Tune,—I have a Tenement to let.

Circe was a precious piece,
A plague upon the gypsey,
She dol'd out drink somewhere in Greece,
And made her tenants tipsey:
And then each filthy, swinish sot,
Engend'ring 'mong the devils,
Upon those obscene imps begot
A harpy spawn of evils.

The fiend Corruption, first brought forth
Dust-licking Adulation;
And second dæmon harrass'd earth
With Party's altercation;
The hag Deceit, a reptile bred,
Call'd Infamy, the pander;
A third and fourth were brought to-bed
Of Insolence and Slander.

So fertile were th'infernal race,
Each day new monsters prowling,
Ease Perjury with rank Grimace,
And Envy ever howling;
Servility with worthless Pride,
Debauch with poison'd diet,
Swoln Gluttony by Scurvy's side,
A faction form'd for riot.

111

A while these Implings croak'd about,
'Till start'ling Madam Circe,
She order'd all the Vermin out,
Nor to her own shew'd mercy.
Absurdity with Malice went,
Ingratitude with Lewdness,
Scurrility with Discontent,
And Ridicule with Rudeness.

Their bastard brood the Dæmons bore,
Along the mid-air flitting,
And found at last a welcome shore,
Where Bribery was sitting,
Ambition hail'd them on their way,
And gave them his directions;
His Agents took them into pay,
Then sent them to Elections.

CHASTITY.

[_]

Tune,—Good people I'll tell you no Rhodamontade.

I wonder, quoth Dame, as her Spouse she embraces,
How strumpets can look, how they dare shew their faces,
And those wicked Wives who from Husband's arms fly
Lord! where do they think they must go when they die?

But next day, by Husband, with 'Prentice Boy caught,
When she from the bed was to Toilet-glass brought,
Her Head he held up, with this gentle Rebuke—
My Dear! you was wishing to know how Whores look!

Turn your eyes to that table, at once you will see
What faces Jades wear; then, my Dear, behold me.
Your Features confess the Adulteress clear,
My Visage exhibits how Cuckolds appear.

112

You ask'd where bad Wives go? why, really, my Chick,
You must, with the rest of them, go to Old Nick!
If Belzebub don't such damn'd Tenants disown,
For bad Wives, he knows, makes a Hell of their own.

All the world wou'd be wed, if the Clergy could shew
Any rule in the service to change I for O:
How happy the Union of Marriage wou'd prove,
Not long as we Live join'd, but long as we Love

At his feet she sunk down, Sorrow lent her such Moans
That Resentment was gagg'd by her Tears and her Tones.
What cou'd Hubby do then? what cou'd then Hubby do?
But Sympathy struck, as she cry'd, he cry'd too.

Oh Corregio! cou'd I Sigismunda design,
Or exhibit a Magdalen, Guido, like thine,
I wou'd paint the fond Look which the Penitent stole,
That pierced her soft Partner, and sunk to his Soul.

Transported to doating! he rais'd the Distress'd,
And tenderly held her long time to his Breast;
On the Bed gently laid her, by her gently laid,
And the Breach there was clos'd the same way it was made.

THE SPECIFIC.

[_]

Tune,—Tho' I with one Love wou'd be always content.

Tho' News-papers puff ev'ry Nostrum to town,
What Nostrum is like the Grape's Juice?
No Chymical Liquor that turns red to brown,
No Beaume de Vie, nor Eue de Luce.
As to Rouge, the rank practice, alas! is so rife,
The Beauty of Health it consumes,
But Wine is the Volatile Spirit of Life,
And brightens our natural Blooms.

113

The Balsam of Honey a tickling Cough stops,
To Maredant the Scurvy submits;
There's what's his Name's wonderful Viperine Drops,
And Henry for Hysteric Fits;
But Physic, like Music, bears Fashion's decree,
Of Modish Distempers they tell us;
Licentiates, or not so, yet ev'ry M.D.
Pronounces us Narvous or Bilous.

Pour Wine into Wounds you'll be cur'd with a jerk,
Religious that text to pursue,
Whene'er my mind's wounded, I draw a long Cork,
Sometimes my Prescription is Two.
The Doctor's a Dunce, down the sink dash the Slops,
Those Pipes we are going to start 'em;
Just draw off a Glass, they are Bacchus's Drops,
The Mixture is Secundum Artem.

As to Cuckoldom—that is a hurt to the Head,—
If Wives will be Harlots why let them,
An Absorbent we find in a Bottle of Red,
An Opiate by which we forget them.
Philosophers say,—but a fig for their Saws,
Such water-chill'd Maxims disown 'em;
Their Efficinets I prove are deficient in Cause,
When I've my Scots Pint, Magnum Bonum.

Wine makes,—aye, what don't it? it makes right and wrong,
'Tis Love, Wit, and Truth's Ventilator;
At once it locks up the most voluble Tongue,
At once turns a Mute to a Prater.
If fond of a Fair, Wine this Magic will shew,
Make but, like an Artist, your Trial;
In her it will silence the nerves which say no,
And raise you above a Denial.

More or less to the Scurvy all Men are a prey,
Quoth this, that, and t'other Physician.
More or less we're all mad, I will venture to say,
And the world's in a scurvy condition.

114

Good Wine makes good Blood, and good Blood keeps us sound,
So Recepe tantum sufficit;
For Madness, my friends, since the Remedy's found,
Let none be so mad as to miss it.

The GRISKIN CLUB.

[_]

Tune,—A Toper I love as my Life.

Of Griskins I sing, they're a feast for a King;
Kings, Homer says, dress'd their own Messes:
Achilles, the hot, always hung on the Pot,
Patroclus he garnish'd the dishes.

By the Poets of old, Apicius we're told
Was an Eater among the Antiques;
Tho' his Taste it was fine, yet like us could not dine,
For no Griskins were cook'd 'mong the Greeks.

'Mong the Greeks? well I know, man, Apicius was Roman,
So no Critic's rod am a risking;
Not of Roman, nor Greek, but of Britons I speak,
And Britons who boast of their Griskin.

Trimalchio's Stuff, and the French Dartineuf,
Had almost good Eating abolish'd;
Sardanap'lus was great, and Lucullus could treat,
Yet never a Griskin demolish'd.

One Emp'ror took pains, to make Ragouts of Brains,
But how, was those Dishes compounded?
It was done long ago, for at present I know,
Our Cooks would be greatly confounded.

Come! Lads, hark away, hunt the Bottle to-day,
At night, Boys, to Beauty high over;
Be this understood, may our Griskins prove good,
When, as Grisks, we leap into Love's Cover.

115

BEEF STEAK CLUB.

[_]

Tune,—Since Artists who sue for the Trophies of Fame.

Draw the Cork, the Cloth's drawn,—a Toast to the King,
I presume it is meet, after meat me should sing,
For thus prescribes Galen;—“Life's Health to prolong,
“Take Dinner's digestive, a Glass, and a Song.”
To him the Diplomists their judgments resign,
So fiat mixturam, 'tis Music and Wine.

Old Homer, who, Shakespeare-like, all Nature knew,
Does honour to Beef, and to Beef-eaters too;
He sings, that the Greeks, by whom Troy Town was fell'd,
In fighting and eating, all Nations excell'd;
And he, for the Day, who was Hero in Chief,
Had a Double Proportion, or Premium of Beef.

It was Cacus (some say) tho' that's not Orthodox,
'Twas Milo of Crotos first knock'd down an Ox;
He invited all friends to his Beef-eating Wake,
But first, on Turf Altar, he offer'd a Stake.
The Ætherials regal'd on the odour that 'rose,
Says Epicure Jove, such a Club we'll compose.

Then call'd out for Vulcan, the God, limping, came,
And, ogling behind him, attended his Dame;
Each deity seem'd more inclin'd to her Mess,
Than to dine on the best dish Olympus cou'd dress.
Jove silance proclaims, his curls awfully shakes,
And on Ida establish'd a Club of Beef Stakes.

When Juno, that instant, a female peal rung,
In Jove's hand the Bowl shook, the Toast dy'd on his tongue;
But commanding a Cloud, like a Curtain to fold,
He embrac'd her within it, and silenc'd the Scold.
In practice, ye Husbands, put Jupiter's plan,
And keep your Wives quiet—as well as you can.

116

JACK TAR's SONG.

[_]

Tune,—A Begging we will go.

Come bustle, bustle, drink about,
And let us merry be,
Our can is full, we'll pump it out,
And then all hands to sea.
And a sailing we will go.

Fine Miss at dancing-school is taught,
The minuet to tread,
But we go better when we've brought
The fore tack to cat head.

The jockey's call'd to horse, to horse,
And swiftly rides the race,
But swifter far we shape our course
When we are giving chace.

When horns and shouts the forest rend,
His pack the huntsman cheers,
As loud we hollow when we send
A broadside to Mounseers.

The what's-their-names, at uproars squal,
With music fine and soft,
But better sounds our boatswain's call,
All hands, all hands aloft!

With gold and silver streamers fine
The ladies rigging shew,
But English ships more grander shine,
When prizes home we tow.

What's got at sea we spend on shore,
With sweethearts, or our wives,
And then, my boys, hoist sail for more,—
Thus passes sailors lives.
And a sailing we will go.

117

PREJUDICE.

[_]

Tune,—Without you will promise, nay, swear to be true.

Ingratitude's crime worse than witchcraft is nam'd,
A neglect to repay what we owe;
Of such an omission we must be asham'd,
I'm asham'd such omission to shew.

But when the alarm of an earthquake was spread,
All London seem'd running away;
Unsafe the fine gentleman fancy'd his bed,
And tumbl'd out, trembling, to pray.

No Sunday-throng'd routs then politeness disgrac'd,
But each to the Temple repairs;
The delicate, dress'd most immensely in taste,
Attempted to spell out their prayers.

Under beds, into cellars, up chimneys, in shoals,
As rabbits to burrows will fly;
The free-thinkers ran, they believ'd then in souls,
And blubbering,—begg'd not to die.

But when Apprehension had labour'd in vain,
And Safety stopp'd Penitent's din,
Religion was quitted, for seven is the main,
'Tis church time, my dear, we'll cut in.

Before that Rebellion at Culloden fled,
Pale Terror took towns in the South;
Laugh seem'd to want Mirth, nay, Debauch sneak'd to bed,
And Clamour was down in the mouth.

Then soldiers were welcom'd, as soldiers should be,
Nay, embrac'd, as the prop of the land;
And Englishmen grateful, from Prejudice free,
Shook bra' bonny Scots by the hand.

118

But since—may his Memory Britons preserve,
Who gave to Invasion Defeat;
In Peace we permit our own Soldiers to starve,
But can't bear a Scotchman should eat.

E'er Mahomet cou'd the Turk's Mission begin,
Arch Gabri'l came down as his guest;
He purify'd Mecca's Professor from sin,
Extracting a Speck from his breast.

That Spot we are born with, 'tis Jealousy's Core,
Mortality's Pain and Disgrace;
Pluck it out, and to hinder its hurting you more,
Emulation apply in its place.

FREEDOM.

[_]

Tune,—Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray.

Come Neighbours, Neighbours, drink about,
Have done with Party's pother,
List not, ye Lads, to Uproar's rout,
On one side nor on t'other.
The Winners laugh, the Losers rail,
Thus Faction ever dins, Sir;
Insanity tells Folly's tale,
The Outs will at the Ins, Sir.

Oh, Common Sense! once more descend
To save this Isle from sinking;
Be once again Britannia's friend,
And set her Sons to thinking!
No more by Knaves let us be school'd,
But teach us how to read 'em,
Nor let well-meaning Men be fool'd
By Privilege and Freedom.

Where's Freedom?—point out how and when
We have enjoy'd that Bounty?
When Magna Charta—aye, Amen,—
But tell me where's her County?

119

Why where our property's secur'd,
Where Liberty possessing;
Then, Brother Britons, be assur'd
The Game Act is a Blessing.

Lov'd Liberty! celestial Maid!
Which way shall we address thee?
You're England's Genius, it is said,
And Englishmen possess thee?
We boast too much about this fair,
For, nightly, tho' we toast her,
I wou'd not have you, friends, despair—
But, faith, I fear we've lost her.

Like Hamlet's ghost, 'Twas here! 'tis gone!
And only to be guess'd at;
As maidenheads, when lost and won,
Are what the winners jest at.
In vain the Goddess opes her arms,
No more her arms we're wooing;
Licentiousness has Harlot's charms,
Which tempt to our undoing.

Wit, Beauty, Sciences, and Arts,
Are all become dependant;
We're neither free in heads nor hearts,
We're slaves, and there's an end on't.
It was, and ever will be so,
Each fetter'd to some Folly;
And, all the Liberty we know,
Is—drink! and let's be jolly.

HONOUR.

[_]

Tune,—Confusion to him who a Bumper denies.

Our Reck'ning we've paid, here's to all bon repos,
The decks we have clear'd, and 'tis time we shou'd go;
A coach did you say? No! I'm sober and strong,
Waiter! call me a link-boy, he'll light me along.

120

Obsequious the dog with his dripping torch bows—
Your honour! poor Jack, Sir, your honour Jack knows.
For the sake of the pence thus he'll honour me on,
Gold dust strews the race-ground where all honour's won.

Hold your light up!—what half-naked objects here lye,
Thus huddled in heaps?—Good your honour! they cry;
To poor creatures, your honour, some charity spare;
Honour's phrase is Necessity's common-place prayer.

Young perishing out-casts thus nightly are found,
No parishes care, they're too poor to be own'd.
For he, in these times, wou'd be laughed to scorn,
Who distress wou'd assist, yet expect no return.

With courtier-like bowing the shoe-cleaners call,
And offer'd their brush, stool, and shining black ball;
Japanning your honour, these colourists plan,
And, really, some honours may want a japan.

To varnish the Taste is,—as cases from dust,
Each picture now glares with a transparent crust;
Nay, some ladies faces are colour'd like blinds,
While men use japanning which masquerades minds.

Of Honour, of Freedom, yet England can boast,
And Honour and Freedom's an Englishman's toast;
May Infamy ever Deserters attend,
But honours crown those who our honours defend.

FOOLS-HALL.

[_]

Tune,—The Sun in Virgin Lustre shone.

Old Homer nodded long ago,
And modern bards oft' sleep we know;
They doze to dream, and dream to write,
'Twas thus with me the other night.
Sleeping by all somnif'rous rules,
Methought 'twas in the hall of fools;
More properly the place to call,
The learned say, it was Fools-Hall.

121

There Billingsgate, with front of brass,
And Faction, rode on braying ass;
While scurril' Banter leer'd along,
With face buffoon, and loll'd-out tongue:
Riot there, with mouth stretch'd wide,
On a drunkard sat astride;
Spangled Lewdness op'd the ball,
And Nonsence echo'd round Fools-Hall.

Credulity, the dupe of lies,
Stupidity in Thought's disguise;
Dullness came in hood and cowl,
Solemn as the broad-fac'd owl;
Quirk and quaintness hand in hand,
In Lawyer's gown, and pleader's band;
On tiptoe Pride o'erlook'd them all,—
While Scandal flew about Fools-Hall.

Base Scribblers arm'd with white and black,
To shine or soil, to heal or hack,
With stone-blind Ignorance stood next,
And pedants tearing Shakespeare's text:
There Prejudice the day denies,
With hands held up before his eyes;
Pert Dissipation welcom'd all,
She kept it up within Fools-Hall.

With Vanity blind Zeal was pair'd;
Hypocrisy their profits shar'd;
Fraud, pimp-like, Superstition led,
But hood-wink'd to Imposture's bed:
Miss Affectation made the rout,
Debauch the sick'ning feast sat out:
While Doctors-waited Symtom's call,
Disease's vapours fill'd Fools-Hall.

The stupid heirs of much-muck'd land,
With wheezing gluttons throng'd the Strand;
Great sport they hop'd, they long'd to see,
Heedless what victim 'twas to be:
But wealthy dunces joke the best
On Merit, when 'tis most distress'd;

122

While sots, while coxcombs great and small,
Paraded, grinning, round Fools-Hall.

Plain Truth appear'd, but at the sight
They shriek'd, they cou'd not bear the fright;
The Cry confin'd him in the stocks,
And Virtue prov'd not orthodox:
Honour the parish pass'd away,
And Wit was gagg'd for Folly's play;
Deserted Beauty, mock'd by all,
The beadle's whip drove from Fools-Hall.

O'erwhelm'd with what I saw, I wept,
And, happily, no longer slept;
Malice, methought, had spy'd my tears,
Exposing me to Party's sneers,
Who hiss'd, and shov'd me thro' the throng;
I 'woke, as I was dragg'd along,—
Here's Women, Wine, and Health to all,
Who scorn the crouds which fill Fools-Hall.

POLITICS.

[_]

Tune,—'Tis a twelvemonth ago, nay, perhaps it is twain.

As an Englishman ought, I wish well to my King,
As an Englishman ought, for my country I'll sing,
And my mind I will tell, 'tis a kingdom to me,
By his Birthright a Briton dares think and speak free.

My Hearts of oak, stoutly you call out for Freedom,
And Liberty, Property,—really we need 'em;
But don't quite so loud, against brib'ry exclaim,
Rogues will buy,—but who sells, Sirs? then pray who's to blame?

Ye noise-making, sash-breaking, lacqueys of factions,
Ye insane disturbers, who're bit by distractions,
Think what you're about, when the loudest you bawl,
Not a man that you're mad for but laughs at ye all.

123

Who patriots were once, now are patriots no more,
And what has been, certainly may be, encore;
Nay, have not some bustlers confess'd their intentions,
They open'd their mouths until Mum popp'd in pensions.

To be wise is is the word; how that word comes about
Is,—the wise are those in, and the otherwise out;
So small's the distinction betwixt one another,
When Outs become Ins, then they're wiser than t'other.

The world has, without one exception, a rule,
The rich Man's a wise man, the poor man's a fool;
And foolish is he, faith, since money's the test,
Who attempts not to get what will get all the rest.

Attend and depend thro' the year, so you may,
And begin, waste and end the next just the same way;
As to promise on promise such schemes I condemn;
Folks will not serve us unless we can serve them.

Let us now serve ourselves, fill our glasses, fill high,
We'll laugh when we're pleas'd, and we'll drink when we're dry;
And we'll drink the King's health, 'tis the best toast of all—
Here's our Lord of the Manor in Liberty-hall.

A CARICATURE.

[_]

Tune,—T'other day as I sat in the sycamore shade.

Man's all contradiction, a medly machine,
Now this thing, and now he is that;
To-day all in spirits, to-morrow all spleen,
The next, knows not what to be at.

When in love,—how he labours the prize to obtain,
If luck'ly, he draws Beauty's lot,
He'll hate what he has, nay, possession's a pain,
And he's mad to have what he has not.

124

When the wind's in the East, sad and sick of his life,
As if under spell of Queen Mab;
He is always at home Sir John Brute to his wife,
Abroad, Jerry Sneak to his drab.

At the tavern he'll prove all religion is art,
And laughs at Eternity's doom;
But in bed, when alone in the dark, how he'll start
If a mouse only moves in the room.

He swears, aye, and loudly, that he will be free,
Nay, die, e'er his country disgrace;
Confusion to Ministers! drinks on his knee,
Then, rising, runs off for a place.

Wives, sisters, or daughters, wherever he stays,
A prey for debauch he intends;
Proper gratitude thus for his welcome he pays,
It is right to be fond of one's friends.

Shou'd pique prompt his spouse to retaliate in kind,
He'll bellow death, vengeance, and all;
My pistols bring quick!—but, quick changing his mind,
On his Proctor, imprimis, he'll call.

When maudlin at night, as 'tis nightly the case,
How loving the creature appears;
While drops from dim eyes trickle down his smear'd face,
And hickups keep time to his tears.

Foolish friendships he'll proffer, and fulsome repeat,
But the zeal of the night snor'd away;
For his interest, indeed, he to-morrow may meet,
If not, he don't know you next day.

Not the best of us all, not a man is exempt,
If ourselves we impartially scan;
We are objects for Pity, or else for Contempt;
Misconduct is master of man.

125

As against our own wills we are tumbled to town,
So reluctant again we go out;
In chacing and changing that will up and down,
We Wisdomites blunder about.

Still blunder we must, and we're born but to dye,
And as wise in the dark as the light;
But drinking, my bucks, all mistakes we defy;
Here's a bumper to prove ourselves right.

BEAUME DE VIE.

[_]

Tune,—Two Gods of great Honour.

Ariadne one morning to Theseus was turning,
When missing her man, to the beach down she flew;
Her cries unavailing, she saw far off, sailing,
His ship 'fore the wind less'ning swift to her view;
She tore her fine hair, beat her breast in despair,
Spread her arms to the skies, and sunk down in a swoon,
When Bacchus, 'midst Æther, begg'd leave of his father
To comfort the lady, Jove granted the boon.

Then gladly descending, her sorrows befriending,
His Thyrsis he struck 'gainst the big-belly'd earth,
When o'er the smooth gravel, in murmuring travel,
A spring of champaign at her head bubbled forth;
She, wak'd with the scent, gave her sorrow full vent,
Yet to drink was determin'd, exhausted by tears;
She tastes her champaign, licks her lips, tastes again,
And feels herself suddenly freed from her fears.

As still she kept sipping, her heart lightly leaping,
She look'd upon Thes. as a pitiful elf;
Wine turn'd her to singing, in hopes it wou'd bring in
A lover,—'twas lonely to drink by herself:
The God, her adorer confess'd, stood before her,
She hail'd the celestial, she welcom'd the guest;
Champaign stopp'd resistance, she kept not her distance,
But jollily clasp'd the young buck to her breast.

126

Each girl given over, betray'd by her lover,
To hartshorn, to salts, or salt-water may fly;
But we've an elixir will properly fix her,
If properly she'll the prescription apply:
The recipe's wholsome, 'tis Beauty's best Balsam,
For which we refuse though to pocket a see.
As gratis we give it, girls grateful receive it,
So here's to the practice of Love's Beaume de Vie.

THE NORFOLK FARMER.

[_]

Tune,—I'm marry'd, and happy, with wonder hear this.

When the early cock crows at the day's dappl'd dawn,
And soaring lark through the air trills,
E'er yet the warm Sun drinks the dews from the lawn,
Or vapours uncover the hills;
While ploughmen are whistling, as furrows they turn,
And shepherds releasing their care,
I rise to unkennel, at sound of the horn,
Or course, with my greyhounds, the hare.

In spring-time observing my husbandmen sow,
Then see how my yearlings go on;
Sometimes, riding round, mark my turnip-men hoe,
Or in barn what my threshers have done,
At home, with the parson, 'bout markets I prate,
His tythes, though I never delay;
We properly each should maintain in his state,
The vineyard-man's worthy his pay.

My milk-maidens, morn and eve, dairy-cows press,
For custards, cream, puddings, and cheese;
My daughters keep market in neat but plain dress,
And dame too—but 'tis when she'll please.
We never for master or mistressship strive,
But man and wife's lot share and share;
As Gratitude tells us, in Friendship we live,
Do so, ye Crim. Cons. if ye dare.

127

My poultry is all by my good woman bred,
My garden gives roots for my health,
For London my bullocks on best fodder fed,
Yet pinch not the poor for my wealth.
I've plenty of game in my copses and woods,
My flock on its thyme feeding thrives;
With fishes well stor'd are my ponds and my floods,
And honey from yon' row of hives.

What grateful return is to Industry made?
What reward have the bees for their toil?
We boast of our rights, yet, their rights we invade,
And seize on their labours as spoil.
But Justice to Power is only a name,
Great fishes devour the small;
Great birds, and great beasts, and great men do the same,
'Till Death, the grand robber, robs all.

Content spreads my cloth, and says grace after meat,
While Welcome attends at my board;
No outlandish mixture disguises my treat,
My wine my own orchards afford.
With a glass in my hand, to church, country, and king,
I drink, as a subject should do;
Perhaps my dame smiles, then one song I must sing,
So, Sir, if you please, pray do you.

THE AUCTION.

[_]

Tune—Pho! pox on this nonsense, I prithee give o'er.

I'll strive to sing something, yet would not do wrong,
Will you please to accept of a common-place song;
This world's like an auction for selling and shewing,
Truth, Friendship, and Gratitude,—going! a going!

They are going!—but how? not by hammer knock'd down,—
No, no! out of taste, they must go out of town.

128

Such stuff would our dear dissipation encumber,
They are shipp'd off for sea, and exported as lumber.

Preferment put up! who bids? I, I, I, I;
Such a noise it has made we the lot must put by:
At the name of Preferment if uproar is heard,
No wonder such clamour against the preferr'd.

Confusion, and eke Contradiction its mate,
Fill our heads with,—I don't know what politic prate;
As all to be in, suppose equal pretences,
Of Innings when baulk'd, they're out of their senses.

Yet, seriously, Sirs, this world's not so bad,
Some women are chaste, and some men are not mad;
But where do they live? 'tis not worth while to try,
They are such sort of folks other folks can't live by.

How easy is weakness by wickedness turn'd,
Unworthiness welcom'd, and worthiness scorn'd;
The female sex charge not with prostitute vice,
Mankind will be bought come but up to their price.

All men and their measures 'tis easy to see,
No parties, but parties of pleasure for me;
Let this side, or that side, or both sides be mad,
We know no distinction but good men and bad.

Will any here hesitate how they declare?
Or, toast the good people at home and elsewhere;
Their country, complexion, religion, or wealth,
We need not, but drink to the Honest Man's Health.

THE BOTTLE.

[_]

Tune,—On a Time I was great, now little am grown.

Push the bottle about, name the toast, and away,
With wine be our sentiments flowing;
We idly grow old while we drinking delay,
Be merry, my bucks, and keep doing.

129

Keep doing I say, fill it up to the brink,
'Tis a trouble to talk, 'tis a trouble to think,
'Tis a trouble—no, no!—tis a pleasure to drink.
Prithee ring, we must have to'ther bottle.

Our classic is Bacchus, his volumes prefer,
To all that's in old Aristotle;
But why, with quotations, should we make a stir?
We'll stir about briskly the bottle.
A fool once to find how the world could go round,
Leap'd into the deep where the puppy was drownd,
But deep had he drank, he the secret had found,
Such wonders are work'd by a bottle.

The sportsman arous'd when the horn harks away,
Shrill echo tantwivy repeating,
His warm wishing wife clings around him to stay,
But shouts put to silence entreating.
Yet what is his chace to the chace that we boast?
So, ho! here's a bumper, hark, hark! to the toast.
Hit it off, and be quick, lest the scent should be lost,
And we're cast in the chace of a bottle.

Let Heroes or Neroes run mad after Fame,
We're charg'd and rang'd ready for battle;
Let Placemen perplex, and let Patriots declaim,
Let both be indulg'd in their prattle;
But preachers o'er liquor we always confute,
Without 'tis the toast, at our meetings we're mute,
For what, with our wine, can be worth a dispute,
Except 'tis a short-measure bottle.

Shou'd sickness with sadd'ning captivity join,
The ancients I'll equal in thinking;
But all my philosophy shou'd be my wine,
Despair I defy when I'm drinking.
Stood Death like a drawer to wait on me home,
Or, bailiff-like, dare he rush into my room,
I'd try for one moment to tip him a hum,
While I bumper'd the last of my bottle.

130

THE MASQUERADE.

Or, LABOUR IN VAIN.

[_]

Tune,—Masks All.

Once Jupiter's lady, call'd Juno the scold,
At toilet imagin'd herself to look old;
In a pet put a veil on to hide her disgrace,
Then scheem'd how each beauty shou'd shadow her face.
Sing tantararara masks all.

First England review'd, there, amaz'd, madam saw
Many faces and forms without failure or flaw;
Then others discover'd whose features were spread,
All tasty, all pasty, with caustics of lead.

Those last pleas'd the Queen, who declar'd with a smile,
The Folly of Fashion should lead in this Isle;
The great gifts of Jove they were dup'd to despise,
And natural Beauty by Art they disguise.

'Tis an Empire, she said, of dress, drinking, and song;
Of bathing—because we are bit by Bon Ton:
Her scheme, she foretold, would succeed with the town,
For whatever's imported must always go down.

A card flew to Pan, who was skill'd in these matters,
To model some masks from the portraits of satyrs;
Of Proserpine ask'd Merry Andrew's shade,
Without a buffoon there is no masquerade.

Pale Miss Affectation was order'd, in haste,
To dress up the phantom, and call the thing Taste;
Then taught it to talk, just one phrase and no more,
Do you know me? it squeak'd, do you know me? encore.

'Twas the Thing, for 'twas foreign, it must be ador'd,—
It gagg'd depos'd Wit; when will Wit be restor'd?
When Englishmen—thus it was Truth bid me say,
Will shew to their own understandings fair play.

131

The world is no more than one vast masquerade,
Where, by best concealments, best fortunes are made;
But why should Plain Dealing pretend to complain,
Reformation to labour is—labour in vain.
Sing tantararara masks all.

THE MARQUIS OF GRANBY.

[_]

Tune,—Shanbuy.

Tho' Austria and Prussia, France, Flanders, and Russia,
Have heroes who claim an attention;
On the long list of Fame, as I look'd at each name,
A Briton I thought she should mention.
A man among men, who was worthy her pen,
Nor could she doubt who must the man be;
As I saw not the whole, she unfolded the scroll,
And on top stood the Marquis of Granby.

Old Time shook his scythe, as he tott'ring stood by,
His iron teeth dreadfully grated;
Yet the sad-looking crone clear'd his brow from a frown,
When Fame had my business related.
The cheeks of the churl, with a smile, seem to curl,
And cheerfully answ'ring as can be,
Say, single-lock'd seer, “Sir, this point's pretty clear,
“We all lov'd the Marquis of Granby.”

“By order of Fate I was bid to translate
“That hero to happier station;
“The trumpet of Fame shook the air to proclaim
“Her Granby's beatification.
“He shines now a star, near the planet of war,”
Illustrious soldier befriend us,
Be thy influence our shield, and, when dar'd to the field,
May thy martial spirit attend us.

132

Grief, away with your tears, see his lineage appears,
We remember those looks, and adore 'em;
They shall live in our love, and, my life on't, they prove
As brave as the brave man before 'em:
What more can we say? but the Granby's huzza!
Encore! loud and loud as loud can be;
To the brim fill it up, it is Gratitude's cup,
Off it goes, To the offspring of Granby.

CONCLUSION OF THE HUMBUG.

[_]

To the same Tune.

The sages of old, and the learn'd of this day,
Fa, la, la.
About life and living have said and will say,
Fa, la, la.
About and about it, about and about,
They ev'ry thing say, but can make nothing out.
Fa, la, la.

Rail on if you please, when the knowing-ones win,
Yet half the world strives to take 'tother half in;
But all schemes concluded, and loss and gain summ'd,
Both biters and bubbles are equally humm'd.

Let those who will hunt after fame, and such dreams,
Break their rest, necks, or hearts, in the chace of those schemes;
Shou'd they what they wish to be ever become,
They will find all they long'd for, alas! but a hum.

By terror of parents, or tempted by gain,
The lady resigns to some jessamy swain;
When husbands such delicate creatures become,—
When husbands! no, no! for 'tis there lies the hum.

133

When Beauty, all brilliant, shines Queen of the ring,
Such grace, and such taste, and such—oh! she's the thing!
How happy her husband!—he may be,—but mum,
For sometimes such happiness is but a hum.

What rout 'mong the rich at an only son's birth,
And what a parade when papa's put in earth;
Go cast up, who pleases, Felicity's sum,
From birth unto burial the total's a hum.

The Profit of life is out-ballanc'd by cost,
Fa, la, la.
Joy ever must be in satiety lost,
Fa, la, la.
It is,—it has slipp'd me, what 'tis I'd be at,
So a bumper I'll drink, there's no humbug in that.
Fa, la, la.

SLEEP.

[_]

Tune,—By the gayly circling Glass.

Sleep, thou leaden, lazy God,
What's thy balm for Sorrow's wound?
What thy restorative rod,
Can it render wretches sound?
Not thy wand,—no, no; 'tis wine,
Wine can all distress defy;
Ecce Signum, here's the sign,
Don't believe me, drink and try.

Let the restless Sleep invoke,
Sleep which cicatrizes Care;
Let—but, I say, Sleep's a joke,
Wine's the dose against Despair:
What we have been?—why, farewell!
What we might be!—we'll not think.—
What we shall be!—who can tell?
Here we are, and here we'll drink.

134

When my face deep wrinkles seize,
And my head with palsy shakes;
When the gout benumbs the knees,
And the voice, once manly, breaks;
When the sunken cheek shews pale,
And the hollow eyes blear dim;
When the ear and mem'ry fail,
And unnerv'd each wither'd limb.

Then repining, then I'll say,
Life, alas! is all a cheat!
When I've nothing left to pay,
Envious, then, abuse the treat:
Soon or late, but late's too soon,
Who will trust to-morrow may;
Thinking puts one out of tune,
Let us drink, my lads, to-day.

Day by day, and night by night,
Joyful jubelees we keep;
Life we measure by delight,
Tell me,—have we time to sleep?
Present time is in our power,
And the means that time t'improve;
Taste it, 'tis Enjoyment's hour,
Pledge me, lads, in Wine and Love.

Let the glass and lass be kiss'd,
Let not coyness chill the scene;
To excuse, or to resist,
Is high treason to Love's Queen.
Pouting lips, and panting breasts,
Pressing, mingling, murm'ring join;
Wine inspiring Beauty's guests,
Pledge me, lads, 'tis Love and Wine.

135

THE LONDON HUNT.

[_]

Tune,—Come rouse, Brother Sportsmen, &c.

Tho' far from field sports, we will field sports apply,
Hark! hark! social sportsmen, hark forward and try;
Nor think we want game, tho' we're settl'd in town,
It's follies are game, which we here will hunt down.

We break cover first, and throw off 'mong the great,
By babblers surrounded, call'd Flatt'res of State;
Whip them off, for they're vermin unworthy a chace,
Their Patron's dishonour, and bounty's disgrace.

Like pageants, the Nimrods of Nabobs behold!
'Midst all they have purchas'd by strange gotton gold;
Tho' large packs of livery couples they own,
When Conscience starts up, can they all hunt it down?

In French varnish'd chariots see Quacks draw along,
Like Death, looking down on their victims, the throng;
With tales of their med'cines each paper abounds,—
Hunt their nostrum;—no, no!—they wou'd poison our hounds.

Disappointment against the successful exclaims,
And Envy will always make Uproar call names:
Those pests of the public to Clamour make court,
To kennel such curs, for they only spoil sport.

The Outs 'gainst the Ins will for ever take aim,
And Ministers must be the multitude's game;
'Tis tempests and tides which preserve the pure sea,
We soon shou'd be stagnate if all shou'd agree.

Beat about for fresh sport, thro' yon' hall let us draw,
It abounds in black game, and that game is the Law;
Call the dogs off, I say,—there nothing to do,—
If you meddle with them, they'll soon turn and hunt you.

136

We're at fault, but whose is it? come, sportsmen, try back,
Hark to Honesty, that's the prime hound in our pack;
We are all sound and staunch, for a brisk burst prepare,
Talio! 'tis a bumper,—fill free and drink fair.

Here's the Queen of our Hunt, 'tis Britannia's our boast;
Old England for ever! let that be the toast;
See a fresh bottle starts, one view hollow;—huzza!
The Fox brush, and Beauty's brush, brush them away.

THE MAN.

[_]

Tune,—How pleasant the meads were, how joyful the scene.

It is he who's unaw'd by the sound of a name,
Yet harbours no hate in his breast;
What his betters may do he pretends not to blame,
As he hopes they do all for the best:
To the King he is just, to his country he's true,
And true to his friend and his glass;
A sportsman who always with spirit comes thro',
And ne'er baulk'd a leap, nor a lass.

No office he flatters, compounds with no cheat,
But ever takes Honesty's part;
Compassion awaits on his Justice's seat,
And Charity tenants his heart:
When a love-laden lass with contrition appears,
For girls are ensnar'd like the game;
His tenderness turns not away from her tears,
His pity prevents her from shame.

To Game-acts he fancies our Liberty yields,
So sets their inflictions aside;
Protection allows not to vermin in fields,
Which is to the free-born deny'd.

137

Suppose a young idler at birds shou'd take aim,
Or puss take, perhaps, in a snare,
Must Englishmen's birthright be forfeit for game,
And man made a slave for a hare?

If sticks from the hedge of his honour are found
In the lap of the big belly'd poor,
While sleet fills the air, and deep snows on the ground,
And Misery groans at the door;
Humanity tells him to seek out the cause,
Which prompted Distress to turn thief;
Convinc'd 'twas mere want, he awakes not the laws,
But stops future crimes by relief.

This, this is the Man, uncorrupted he stands,
To Baal who ne'er bow'd the knee;
Unmortgag'd, enjoys all his ancestor's lands,
And ever lived debtless and free.
Yes, yes, this is He, this the Man to my mind,
The Man who no party can snare;
Shall I tell you, my friends, where this Man you may find,
I wou'd—if I could but tell where.

MY NOSE.

[_]

Tune,—An Ass, an Ass.

While people call'd poets, in blank verse, or rhyme,
Pindarics or epics compose,
And celebrate heroes in sonnets sublime,
My subject is, simply,—my nose.

The large nose and long one, thereby hangs a tale,
A tail the old scholiasts suppose;
Ex noscitur naso—but proverbs may fail,
I find it, in faith, by my nose.

138

The boys of Conceit blushing Merit deride,
For coxcombs are Modesty's foes;
I challenge the sons and the daughters of Pride
To move such a muscular nose.

Prometheus, 'tis said, form'd our animal clay,
For quick'ning to Æther he rose;
I fear that some 'prentice, when he was away,
A little aside shov'd my nose.

I presume,—but perhaps, 'tis presumption to say,
I even presume to suppose,
I should set myself up in the song-singing way,
When I ought to set down with my nose.

My song therefore ends, now a toast with your leave—
May Wisdom our councils compose,
May Britons be friends, and forget and forgive,
And at Faction each turn up his nose.

SERIOSITY.

[_]

Tune,—This cold flinty Heart it is you who have warm'd.

White Winter has left us, with all its chill train,
And fruitful Spring puts forth it buds o'er the plain:
The birds their glad welcome by warblings express,
All Nature seems pleas'd at the change of her dress.

Let us take example, and merrily sing,
Each moment at midnight to us is new Spring;
Our green cover'd table, a garden for souls,
Our nosegays are bumpers we gather from bowls.

With daisies, with king-cups, the meadows are crown'd,
But blossoms from Bacchus our verdure surround;
Tis Life—and such Life too, which only Bucks know,
As for Death we can talk about him when we go.

139

When confin'd, no matter to us all the fun,
The smart things we've said, or the droll things we've done;
Future Fame's all a joke—I'm for Life's present treat,
What's to come may be queer, for To-morrow's a cheat.

'Tis certain that, one by one, all must resign
The post of true pleasure, Health, Women, and Wine.
Think, ladies, what Life is, and living improve,
To bilk the base worms, bestow Beauty on Love.

As we ought, we reflect on Life's pleasure and pain,
We have liv'd, drank, and lov'd, we'll repeat them again.
While Desires depend on Ability's aid—
But Faculty's failing,—here, Sexton, your spade.

I have acted from Instinct, I've liv'd upon Whim,
As to Prudence—I can't say I e'er drank with him;
With the Sun tho' I've drove round the bottle in tune,
And have labour'd all night with Queen Midwife the Moon.

As to sins,—why, repentance will shorten our score,
The lowest have hopes, and the highest no more;
We speak as we feel, and we act as we think,
And to men of such methods a bumper we'll drink.

Here's to those who, like us, affectations defy,
Not spendthrifts of life, nor like misers would die:
When call'd on to pay, calmly cast up expence,
And drink their last toast—A good journey from hence.

THE SQUABBLE.

[_]

Tune,—Push the Bottle about, &c.

On Ida one day, at Olympical feast,
The lass loving Jove was the host, Sir,
Who gayly proposing a health to the best,
On Venus he fix'd for his toast, Sir;

140

Each deity smil'd as the glass went about,
But, pettishly, Pallas her bumper threw out,
She spoke not, but seem'd by her manner to doubt
The justice of toasting Miss Venus.

Then Juno broke silence, and spoke by her power,
Her face looking pale like a spectre,
“The liquor was turning excessively sour,
“The toast gave a fust to the nectar.”
Minerva maliciously seconds Queen,
“I wonder, Papa, what it is you can mean,
“Sure other celestials are sweet and as clean,”
Though not quite so common as Venus.

Dear M'em, replies Demirep Dio, and bow'd,
Your breeding just parrs your good-nature,
But ask the gods round, and, Nem. Con. 'tis allow'd,
To all I'm superior in future.
To be sure you're a prude, and enjoyment to spite,
That ugly shield bear, as if lovers you'll fright,
Enough, they are scar'd when they've once had a sight
Of the old-maiden face of Minerva.

Her sov'reign and spouse haughty Juno may teize,
And bed-chamber women be rating,
And you, Miss Militia, as long as you please,
May listen to Sophisters prating;
But I, who am Empress of Love and its laws,
Who have immortals and mortals applause,
Whose beauties—but beauty (quoth Vulcan) has flaws;
When Mars knit his brow and look'd frowning.

Jove rose in a rage, as he rose though, he reel'd,
And hiccups gave out by the hundred;
Like artists on ice, to the right and left wheel'd,
By Styx then he swore and he thunder'd:
“Two to one, Madam Ox-Eye, is very foul play;
“Miss Brain-born I beg you'll dispatch and away,
“Or what Paris told me of both, I shall say.”
The goddesses went away grumbling.

141

Come, come! (says young Bacchus) pray, father, have done;
They are off; in the Milky-Way, walking,
We'll drink and be merry, the gossips are gone—
Of a song brother Phœbus was talking.
Apollo began, with the help of the Nine,
The ladies returning, good natur'dly join,
Such power has music when mingl'd with wine,
All friendly were fuddled together.

THE PORTRAIT,

Or, LA, LA, LA.

[_]

Tune,—Colin and Phœbe.

Ye bibbers who sip limpid Helicon's rill,
Ye lords of large manors on Parnassus hill,
Allow me, a scribler, to try at solfa,
And languish, in liquids, a love-song, la, la.

The grubber in kennels for old iron seeks,
A grubber for thoughts scrubs the streams of the Greeks;
With stumpy quils raking each classical spa,
To pick up some simile fragments, la, la.

I wou'd, if I cou'd, with the muses make free,
But which of those sisters will listen to me?
Attraction I want, their attention to draw,
As I'm old, they'll object, that it must be, la, la.

Ye ladies of Lapland who beesoms bestride,
Or, pair'd in witch whiskeys, aslant the moon slide:
If fiends, or if friends, you have harness'd to draw,
Let me be postilion, and trot on la, la.

Ground ivy has crown'd me instead of the bays,
Right Holland's inspires my rare roundelays;
Miss Soap Suds I sing, by poetical law,
To shifts more than shirts we are put, la, la, la.

142

Ye dabblers in distichs wherever ye snore,
On flock beds in cellars, or garrateers soar,
Arouze from your blankets, assist me to draw
My love's half, three-quarters, and whole length, la, la.

Her eye-brows are cross-bows, the bolts are her looks,
With which my poor senses are knock'd down like rooks;
Her cheeks—but who can a comparison draw?
Not carmine,—no, no; she has none! 'tis la, la!

Her lips! and such lips, and such kisses they gave,
That Prudence was gagg'd, and sent off as a slave;
They found in my mind's magna charta a flaw;
Non-suited my judgement, and cast me, la, la!

Her neck has great grace, after meat and before;
Her legs, but, alas! I must mention no more,
For Decency, lately, has kept me in awe,
So to say any more wou'd be, but paw, paw, paw.

A TOAST.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Lads who approve.

When running life's race, we gallop apace,
Each strives to be first at the post;
Mount Hope with catch-weights, for Fame's give-and-take plates,
And pray what is Fame but a toast.

The taste of our days is poaching for praise,
All men of their services boast;
The ladies by dress the same ardour express,
Each wou'd if she cou'd be a toast.

Both sexes agree, over wine to be free,
For Freedom's an Englishman's boast;
As freely we think, so as freely we drink,
And a sentiment give for a toast.

143

What is life? prithee say, but a glass and away,
While Health is our ruddy-fac'd host;
But when we abuse him, we're certain to lose him,
By taking too much of a toast.

These common-place rhimes suit common-place times,
Who now can of genius boast?—
Why, really, I think 'tis a science to drink,
And there's genius in giving a toast.

Even politics fail, altercation grows stale,
Of what now can either side boast?
No matter to us, all their farce and their fuss,
Deserves not the name of a toast.

The riots and routs of the ins and the outs,
Is only a newspaper roast;
Of cricket I sing, in and out there's the thing,
And there I'll attempt a new toast.

May our innings be long, may our bowling be strong,
Middle-wicket I chuse for my post;
Come, bumper away, 'twixt the stumps your balls play,
And win the game love—that's the toast.

THE WORLD.

[_]

Tune,—The Schemes of my Sex I abhor and abjure.

The world, and its works, which we grieve to forsake,
Are good or bad, just as we hit or mistake;
We write and we wrangle, make parties and plan,
As wise when we finish as when we began;
So let us laugh on, to be serious is sad,
A man in his senses wou'd now be thought mad.

Our senses are bubbles in Vanity's fair,
And men-children sillily make a shew there.

144

Each mounting his hobby-horse starts for the race,
Expects admiration, but ends in disgrace;
For so dissipation our training has scheem'd,
The more we're look'd into, the less we're esteem'd.

Behold the booth's shew-cloth to draw the crowd in,
The rustics are wrinkl'd with open-mouth grin.
Each muscle's in motion at Andrew's grimace,
Who tickles the throng 'till they push in for place;
Pray tell me what more is the world's present plan,
Than places to get in, and push who push can.

The shirtless untrowzer'd philosopher's saws,
Once obsolete Reason pretended were laws;
But Instinct turn'd rebel, so Instinct was try'd,
The Passions were jurors, Not Guilty! they cry'd.
Keep Sapience in schools, Folly now is the mode,
Truth's ways want repairing, I'll ride the new road.

My bottle's my hunter, I mount with a song,
And ti-tup about like a Sunday-hack throng.
Each raises his portion of dust for the day,
And he who's a buck here will dust it away.
We'll laugh at the dust which is made about town,
And up with our brushers, to brush the dust down.

BEEF AND A BUMPER.

[_]

Tune,—Accept of my ditty without finding fault.

Let those who have nothing to do but to hear,
And those who have nothing to do but to sneer,
Glean Scandal from Infamy's stubble;
Praise is but a vapour, and Censure the same,
Go ask of philosophers what they call Fame?
'Tis, Anglice, Vanity's bubble.

145

This scribbling, this pen-and-ink-itch is a crime,
Yet heaven forgive each poor sinner in rhime,
Condemn'd to the pennance of thinking;
For what are all similes to a sirloin?
The flowing of fountains to filling of wine?
Huzza! for good eating and drinking.

The Sapphics so soft, the Pindarics so rare,
The Epics, Iambics, and such sort of fare,
With many more names that are harder.
To turtle, what signifies tytire tu?
With classics I beg you'll have nothing to do,
But study the stile of a larder.

Parnassus and Pegasus cold Hypocrene,
Are words which I warrant give school-boys the spleen,
And as to the pedant Apollo,
Let him take his snuff, let his sisters drink tea,
No coxcombs I want, Sir, no old maids for me,
But Bacchus and Venus I'll follow.

The choice spirit Horace compos'd lyric verse,
Catullus and Ovid good scholars rehearse,
Cap, scan 'em, and conjugate clever;
My sentiments are for a sentiment toast,
And syntax abolish for bak'd, boil'd, and roast.
So BEEF and a BUMPER for ever!

SPRING.

[_]

Tune,—Come! pledge me, Love, &c.

Look round, my Love! how chang'd the scene,
So late white o'er with snow;
Now 'ray'd in flow'er enamell'd green,
How rich the medows shew.

146

The sun creative pow'r resumes,
And warms the breezy air;
The bursting buds expand their bloom,
While birds their nests prepare.

The herds and flocks on herbage feed,
Sweet Spring renews its pride;
The ice bound streams from fetters freed,
Now, tinkling, roll their tide.

On leafless boughs no candy'd frost
In icycles appears;
But as in grief, for winter lost,
Dissolving into tears.

Thus sordid senseless human kind
But mere existence prove;
'Till Beauty's sunshine ope's the mind,
And melts the mass to love.

For spite of Wealth or Power's controul,
Or all the Wise can say,
'Till Woman warms the frozen soul,
We are but clods of clay.

A WONDER.

[_]

Tune,—Since Life's but a Jest.

A wonder! a Wonder! a Wonder I'll shew,
You'll wonder indeed when this wonder you know;
We are wonderful high, and as wonderful low.
Which nobody can deny.

We always are wond'ring at ev'ry thing new,
The good things we wonder at, rich people do,
'Tis a Wonder indeed if such wonders are true.

147

Some wonderful folks make a wonderful rout,
While some blunder in, other folks blunder out,
We wonder what blunderers can be about.

One side says the times are so good they are glad;
The times, says the other side, ne'er were so bad;
No wonder if this side or that side is mad.

For the times, I some patriot changes propose,—
That our taxes be less, and we wear plainer cloaths
And that ev'ry wearer may pay what he owes.

Imprimis,—reflect on the taxes on wheels,
On cards, and the claret we waste at our meals;
These grievances each party equally feels.

To be sure we must own 'tis cursed provoking,
To see how some people their vices are cloaking,
While Virtue,—but, neighbours, don't think I am joking.

For my grandfather said, and his name's rever'd,
That his father's father had often times heard,
How Virtue, when he was a school-boy, appear'd.

She fled without leaving behind her directions,
'Twas in vain, she observ'd, to oppose such connexions,
As turtle-feasts, cuckoldoms, cards, and elections.

You may think me severe, but indeed you think wrong,
I promis'd a Wonder at first in my song,
And the Wonder is—How cou'd you listen so long?
Which nobody can deny.

THE PARADE.

[_]

Tune,—While others strive by pompous phrase.

Let those attend who seek the choice
Here, independent, we rejoice;
We look, we like, we meet, we part,
As instinct prompts the feeling heart:

148

While many groups miscall'd the great,
Surrounded by insipid state,
The health of Peace abuse.
In Party's tumult, Pomp's fatigue,
Place, Popularity's intrigue,
Life's social scenes they lose.

The danglers at a birth-night's glare,
As toy-shop figures, fin'ry wear,
Like winnow'd chaff shift to and fro',
In all the fuss and farce of shew:
As flies to sunshine spread their wings,
So up and down these idle things
In courtly sun-beams play.
The Nobles smile to see the train,
Which, with a blush, they must maintain,
To garnish Grandeur's day.

Daughters of dignity and grace,
Ye high-bred dames of haughty race,
What think you, 'midst our di'mond blaze,
Your crouded routs, and Gala days?
Tho' sordid Flatt'ry's servile grin
Extols your forms, is all within
Fit for Contentment's doom?
Sisters of Fashion laugh and love,
Tho' round you all the Graces move,
Yet how are things at home?

Your stucco'd cielings, emboss'd plate,
Your carpets, robes, and beds of state,
Where gold and silver cupids wove,
Exhibit artificial love.—
Can down, or fring'd embroidery's art,
Affection win or warm the heart,
Or strengthen vigour's stores?
Perhaps, 'midst all the waste of pride,
The Fribble yawns at Beauty's side,
Or sottish husband snores.

While we, as marry'd folks shou'd do,
On neat unvarnish'd Love fall to;

149

Satiety ne'er bids us roam,
We find Fruition's feast at home;
Beyond all mercenary charms,
Pure Inclination ope's her arms.
Give Cæsar Cæsar's due.
May Friendship fill the manly breast,
And Gratitude be Beauty's guest,
And each to teach be true.

THE FRIGHT.

[_]

Tune,—Ah! Chloe! transported, I cry'd.

One ev'ning alone in the grove,
Miss sat on the side of the green,
She wonder'd at what they call Love,
And what it was marry'd folks mean.
“All night how I tumble and toss,
“Yet neither want manner nor means;
“Alas! must I live to my loss,
“And wither-away in my teens?

Young Rhodophil ran up the slope,
As if he some sport had in view;
She trembl'd, betwixt Fear and Hope,
Irresolute what she shou'd do:
She saw him advance to her seat,
She saw him, but cou'd not away;
Love fix'd a large weight to her feet,
Curiosity told her to stay.

Desire gave grace to his tongue,
As lovers to lovers will speak;
Enamour'd, he over her hung,
Then bow'd down his lips to her cheek:
He knelt, she attempted to rise,
Tho' 'twas but a feeble essay;
The wildness he wore in his eyes,
So scar'd her, she fainted away.

150

TIME-KILLERS.

[_]

Tune,—How foolish weak women believe.

How weak is the wisdom of man!
How foolish the fancy of Taste!
Admitting that life's but a span,
That span must we wantonly waste:
About we dissatisfy'd move,
And ramble from climate to clime;
Yet neither enjoy nor improve,
But only, alas! to kill Time.

Ye husbands, rash dupes to excess,
Pretend to live damn'd honest lives,
Ingrates to the good ye possess,
You abuse both your time and your wives:
At midnight inebriate reel,
A prey to foul prostitute's lure,
O! think what Affection must feel,
What delicate wives may endure.

The gun-loaded Squire will toil
All day with keen Industry's care,
Incessantly anxions to spoil,
The innocent tenants of air:
Or after the fox bursts away,
Swift down the wind gallops along;
The mischiefs that chance in the day.
At night furnish fun for a song.

At toilets how beauties appear,
Like fowlers they arm and take aim;
High charg'd with curls, tier over tier,
And animal man is their game:
Sometimes with less dangerous arts
The fair, dissipations pursue,
If trifles did not take their parts,
With horrid Time what cou'd they do?

151

When fine women do as they please,
They hear not the nursery's din;
No husband's absurdities teize,
They fly such dull scenes to cut in.
Dear Bragg, Hazard, Loo, and Quadrill,
Delightful! extatic! immense;
With them each reflection they kill,
And escape all the trouble of sense.

Yet, lovelies, before 'tis too late,
While yet the pulse beats in its prime,
Consider that wrinkles await,
And make up your quarrel with Time:
Before 'tis too late, so will we—
Too long I've your patience be-rhim'd,
With Time may we henceforth agree,
And henceforth all things be well-tim'd.

THE FUNERAL.

[_]

Tune,—Came ye Careless, come and hear me.

See the pall-supporting bearers,
All in Undertaker's shew;
See the train of sable-wearers,
Acting ev'ry mode of woe:
Silent crouds the spot surrounding,
Call'd the Grand Receiver's Dome;
Dismal tolling tenor sounding,
Fellow mortals follow home.

List! oh list! ye state declaimers,
On whose words the many dwell;
Place-bestowing, Patriot-tamers,
Hark! oh hark! 'tis Grandeur's knell:
Heralds loud proclaim the honours
Which this once puissant past;
Tell his titles, count his manors,
Lord of only this at last.

152

View the tomb with sculpture splendid,
View the sod with briars bound;
There the farce of Finery's ended,
All are equal under ground:
Fashions there, there Envy's banish'd,
Beauties there can't plead their forms;
There Precedencies are vanish'd,
Offals all to odious worms.

Wise folks, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Britons sons, and Asian slaves:
Gloom no more the brow with sorrow,
Meet the moment, come what may;
If we're all to dye to-morrow,
Let us live, my lads, to-day.

We'll not lavish life's expences,
Nor be niggards when we pay;
Let us please, not pall our senses,
This is Reason's holiday:
Here, to dunces bid defiance,
Affectations disapprove;
Here's my Toast,—The Grand Alliance,
Friendship, Freedom, Wit, and Love.

THE COBLER OF CRIPPLEGATE.

[_]

Tune,—Had pretty Miss been at a Dancing-school bred.

Tho' a Cobler is call'd but a low occupation,
The practice of cobling is come into fashion,
From me up to those who wou'd cobble the nation.

Some say that Old England wants heel-piecing, true,
Our country's trod upon like an old shoe,
And may Heel-pieces want, aye, and Head-pieces too.

153

One, vamping our old constitution pretends,
And turn and translate it to serve self and friends,
All this is but botching to serve their own Ends.

Each roof in this island with liberty rings,
The good of their country each party-man sings,
The sense of that phrase is,—My country's good things.

If I, but how shou'd I the state have a hand in?
Good souls I'd be picking, the bad be disbanding,
And then we shou'd come to a right understanding.

Against want the cunning man wisely provides,
A storm-shunning shepherd beneath a bush hides,
So as the time change we are sure to change sides.

With my awl in my hand, I'll Old England defend,
Giving room to my betters, who've much more to mend,
May they soon become better, or soon have an end.

To those who are heedless what here may mishap,
Their hearts are as hard as the stone in my lap,
They're taking their swing, wou'd their swing was my strap.

I begin to wax warm, so I'll close up my seam,
Or else I cou'd hammer out such a fine theme,
It was about something I saw'd in a dream.

To my last I am come, and that shall not last long,
So this is the last of a poor cobler's song,
May they now be right who till now have been wrong.

MUM.

[_]

Tune,—Ye medley of mortals.

Ye gossips who blab out the secrets of state,
Ye tell tales who over the tea-table prate,
Ye boasters of favours from beauties o'ercome,
Be wiser, poor pratlers, henceforward be mum.
Sing tantararara mum all.

154

Ye wives who have husbands neglecting their duties,
That time give the bottle that's due to your beauties;
Would you cure them? take care when in drink they reel home,
To receive them with smiles, and resolve to be mum.

It is good to hold fast, to hold much, or hold long,
But the best hold of all is the holding your tongue;
Tho' wits by their words good companions become,
Can they get half so much as the man who is mum?

The servant who slily keeps silent will rise,
His ears he must doubt, nor give faith to his eyes;
Ask the fine waiting-maid how she rich cou'd become?
She will curt'sy, and answer, because I was mum.

But enough has been said, and enough has been sung,
Remember, dear friends, keep good watch o'er your tongue;
I have no more to say, to an end I am come,
My rhymes are all out, I must henceforth be mum.
Sing tantararara mum all.

THE PARENT.

[_]

Tune,—Away with the Strife, the Uproar of State.

A fond father's bliss to number his race,
And exult on the bloom that just buds on their face;
With their prattle he'll daily himself entertain,
And read in their smiles their lov'd mother again:
Men of pleasure, be mute, this is life's lovely view;
When we look on our young ones, our youth we renew.

Thus living we love, and thus loving enjoy!
No deceit here distracts, no debauches destroy;

155

From the May-morm of Youth unto Winter's white age,
Hand in hand, with contentment, we sing thro' life's stage;
When Death bids us stop, we end easy our song,
And give the Gods thanks that we've live'd well so long.

THE HUM.

[_]

Tune,—Push about the brisk Bowl.

Push about the brisk bowl, 'twill enliven the heart,
While thus we sit round on the—stay!
What business have I an old song to impart,
When I, Sirs, a new one can say, can say,
When I, Sirs, a new one can say.

What shall I first say, or what shall I first do?
What best will my bad voice become?
Why, faith, Sirs, I'll strive by my verses to shew,
That life is, alas! but a Hum.

Children weep at their birth, and old men when they dye,
At death the most happy look glum;
At our entrance and exit we equally cry,
Which proves our life's plainly a Hum.

Law and physic you see will make sure of the fee,
What advice to you gratis will come;
If poor, you are lost, tho' merit you boast,
For worth without wealth is a hum.

Acquaintance pretend that your fortunes they'll mend,
And vow to your service they'll come;
But be you in need, and you'll find that indeed,
Modern Friendship is merely a hum.

156

When some ladies kneel, small devotion they feel
(But let us be modest and mum)
At the altar they bow, but 'tis only for shew,
Religion with them is a hum.

We are hum'd from our birth, 'till we're hum'd into earth,
To an end of our jokes then we come:
Take your glass my brisk brother, and I'll take another,
And thus make the most of a hum, a hum,
And let's make the most of a hum.

SELF.

[_]

Tune,—I met with a Maiden one day at the Fair.

Says I to my tutor, Sir, what shall I do,
Shall I think to accumulate pelf?
Or learning or glory, which must I pursue
Converse, quoth the put, with yourself.

Myself I address'd, but self seem'd in a huff,
Replying, we ne'er shall agree,
For Drinking and Cards, Folly, Shame, and such stuff,
Had charg'd all their odiums on me.

Non est factum, says I, and resolv'd to be try'd,
Conceit bid me hope for some sport;
To sessions I ran, I had Laugh on my side,
Intending to hum the whole court.

But Reflection, a wretch who had no business there,
Nor Memory, yet wou'd come in;
Repentance bid Pleasure descend from the chair,
And order'd the cause to begin.

I begg'd a permission to call in my friends
To preve the defence I shou'd make;
Quoth Self as to Friendship he serv'd his own ends,
And only did things for my sake.

157

For his mistress in gaiety I was maintain'd,
For me he a madman has prov'd;
Tho' he may to hundreds affection have feign'd,
Yet me, and me only he lov'd.

In a pet I resolv'd not a witness to call,
The general issue my plea;
But challeng'd the court, judge and jury, and all,
That they were as guilty as me.

'Tis the loadstone of life, to that point the world turns,
For man is a miserly elf,
Who cries and laughs, loves and hates, flatters and scorns,
As Interest acts upon Self.

But now I'm awake—I that logic deny,
Which proves Self the ruler of man;
To a heart that can feel, weeping Beauty apply,
Let him think then of Self if he can.

'Till Woman has civiliz'd savage mankind,
We cannot susceptible prove;
But when her perfections have beam'd on our mind
We're brighten'd to Wisdom and Love.

Ye scoffers begone, ye ridiculous base—
To Gratitude first be my toast;
May Merit meet always with Friendship's embrace,
And each in each other be lost.

THE POINT.

[_]

Tune,—I will tell you what, Friend.

Since at last I am free, contented I'll be,
O'er briars barefooted to go;
Or lost in the rain, upon Sal'sbury Plain,
Or left without cloaths in the snow.

158

Or if I shou'd perch on top of Paul's church,
The hottest day, just about noon,
Astride the cross sat, without hood or hat,
I'd whistle off pain with a tune.

For now I am free, no low spirits for me,
I laugh at all crosses I find;
I think as I please, and reflect at my ease,
For Liberty lies in the mind.

To my Fancy I live, and what Fancy can give,
I enjoy, tho' it is but a dream;
Observe the world through, do others pursu
Ought else than a fanciful scheme?

Some fancy the court, some fancy field-sport,
The chace of a beauty some chuse;
The topers with wine, the misers with coin,
And poets are pleas'd with their muse.

La Mancha's mad knight, with wind-mills wou'd fight,
Like him our attempts are a jest;
With envy insane, and with projects so vain,
Each sneers at the schemes of the rest.

This extravagancy on Folly or Fancy,
Appears to be rather too long;
With something that's shrew'd, I wish to conclude,
And make this an epigram song.

In a point it must end, on a point I depend,
And like a staunch pointer I'll stand;
I appoint you to sing, I appoint you to ring,
And a Scotch pint of claret command.

TOM O'BEDLAM.

[_]

Tune,—Young Jockey he courted sweet Mogg the Brunette.

Bare-foot and head-bare, his blanket tight skewer'd,
Tom o' Bedlam paraded, erect as my lord;

159

The boys left their play, at his raggedness scar'd,
The mob, pity struck, at his misery star'd.
Girls laugh'd, and the fops, fashion form'd for the day,
Shrill screaming on tiptoe stole trembling away;
While infants crept close, in their mothers arms hid,
Tom, beauty-like mov'd, heedless what harm he did.

Where's the Devil? quoth Tom, where's the Devil I say?
Good folks have you not seen the Devil to-day?
A brother, just cur'd, cries—“Where Old Nick does dwell,
Come hither, I'll shew you;—look, there is his hell.
Behold those round pillars with ram's-horns on top,
A palace some call it, I say 'tis his shop.
Attendance, Dependance, there move round and round,
And where such a dance is, the damn'd must be found.

The fiend of revenge this vile torment made out,
'Tixt Hope and Despair, to hang souls up in doubt.
Expectation indeed may fill Vanity's head,
But poor must we live when by promises fed.
I honour the Great, who dare greatly behave,
I dissent not from pique, nor assent as a slave,
For Englishmen scorn base earn'd bread to receive,”
Such a damn'd life, quoth Tom, I'll be damn'd if I live.

That moment a Methodist came to the place,
Hair tuck'd behind ears, and Zeal's cant on his face;
He threaten'd, he groan'd, he grimac'd, and he whin'd,
The mad fellows mounted and seiz'd him behind.
The multitude question'd why he was us'd thus;
He has broke out, quoth Tom,—he's, you see, one of us.
To their hospital dragg'd him, he there was unloos'd,
Tom cry'd out—At Bedlam is Madness refus'd?

His comate reply'd—Brother Tom do not fret,
The world only works now for what it can get;
Such sad objects as we are, it cares not about,
What has Interest to do, with us two, in or out?
But this a decoy duck, who brings in great gains,
And tunnels his hearers by turning their brains.

160

If he's stopp'd, folks will follow some mischief as bad,
For one way or other, the world will be mad.

Here's a bumper, my boys, may we still find the way,
To speak what we know, and to know what we say.
Ye big wigs of Gresham some nostrum compound,
To keep our heads clear and preserve our hearts sound.
May Greatness and Goodness as partners agree,
May our sons, like ourselves, social sing, we are free!
And may we, self conscious, presumption despise,
Nor e'er be so mad as to think ourselves wise.

SEMELE.

[_]

Tune,—Hang whining and pining, &c.

Extinguish the candles, give Phœbus fair play,
The shutters unbolt, let us honour the day;
My lady Lucina we've drove from her post,
The Sun shines upon us, we'll give him a toast.

Says Caution, the neighbours are passing along,
They'll look thro' the sashes, and tell us we're wrong:
Remonstrance avaunt—what is all they can say?
But they've slept all night whilst we drank it away.

Ye tutors, disputers, ye dignify'd doctors,
Ye majors, ye minors, with prebends and proctors,
What sense is it, prithee, which tells us to think?
When all our seven senses declare we should drink.

Our patron is Bacchus, and Jove was his sire,
He was born in a burst of celestial fire;
Mamma begg'd the god wou'd come worthy her charms,
The light'ning of love prov'd too much for her arms.

From her, in a moment, the baby was snatch'd,
And into a buck by nurse Jupiter hatch'd;
Th'immortal to expiate Semele's rape,
Bestow'd on his foundling the gift of the grape.

161

Ye love-sick who live on the shine of an eye,
The red of a cheek, or the tone of a sigh;
Impress'd by the smiles or the frowns of a fair,
As weather glass shews variations of air.

In country or town you have, seen without doubt,
A dancing-bear led by a ring in his snout;
While pug plays his tricks if you shew him some fruit,
These emblems, ye ladies, will most lovers suit.

If girls won't comply why we never run mad,
But away to the next, as enough may be had;
If again we're repuls'd, we ne'er hang nor despair,
But in wine comfort seek, we are sure of it there.

Draw your bows, ye Crochetti, in music's defence,
With sound I'm for having a portion of sense;
Give me a bell's tinkle, a fat landlord's roar,
With a good fellow's bellow,—Bring six bottles more.

Six bottles! we'll have them, and bumper away,
We've drank up the night and we'll drink down the day;
Here's their healths who to wine and their words will be just,
Here's the girl that we love, and the friend we can trust.

CONTENTMENT.

[_]

Tune,—Ye Nobles who hurry through ev'ry gay Toil.

The poachers for fortune who damsels ensnare,
With dress and addresses deceive;
To lasses of wealth how those miscreants swear,
And, alas! how the lasses believe.

Nay, some ladies seem to expect being lost,
They trust whom they know are forsworn,
They listen to him who has ruin'd the most,
And hope to be ruin'd in turn.

162

Can this be believ'd?—no!—the song-maker jokes,
'Tis the tale of a slanderous crew;
A sigh!—then I fear that there may be some folks
Who are sorry to say it is true.

But when love for love is received on each side,
How tenderness smiles on the pair;
This, this is a triumph, and this is my pride,
I enjoy such a favourite fair.

No paint in her face,—no art in her mind,
Her thoughts are explain'd by her eyes;
From principle faithful, from gratitude kind,
And scorns the deceit of disguise.

All along on the slope, by the side of a stream,
Our hours we happily pass;
My head on her lap, while my love is her theme,
And my looks I lift up to my lass.

Enjoying the breeze from the fields of new hay,
We gather the summer's sweet pride;
Or point to the brook where the small fishes play,
And count them beneath the clear tide.

In rooms rich embellish'd with luxury's store,
Let wealth pamper'd Indolence yawn;
Let Wantonness act her deliriums o'er,
'Till dupes to her dungeon are drawn.

Let common-place fondness her blandishments spread,
And tempt by the tiolet's parade;
The squeeze, the soft sigh, wanton glance, and sly tread,
Are pantomime tricks of her trade.

I have try'd, and can tell,—I have frolick'd away,
And follow'd the fashion of Fun;
The same farce have acted that's play'd at this day,
And while the world wheels will be done.

163

GIVE THE DEVIL HIS DUE.

[_]

Tune,—To take in good part the soft Squeeze, &c.

There is one thing, my Friends, I must offer to you,
'Tis, Give to Old Nick what to Old Nick is due;
What he owes to us I can venture to say,
Like a dæmon of rank, upon honour he'll pay.

Tho' you smile at my system, and sneer at my song,
His worship's allow'd to be Prince of Bon Ton;
Now thus lies the bus'ness, Sirs, as we're polite,
And practise good manners, pray what is his right?

The Devil is in you's a phrase daily us'd,
Yet oft, by such language the Devil's abus'd.
Tho' some hollow hearts may have much room to spare,
The Devil himself wou'd not chuse to dwell there.

Some people affect with this world to be sick,
And give themselves up in a pet to Old Nick;
Devil fetch me! they cry, but if Satan they knew,
His Honour has much better bus'ness to do.

Tho' of Darkness he's King, he's a Prince of the Air,
And with his Infernalship we shou'd deal fair;
The chearful Day's rul'd by the Angel of Light,
And the Devil (Lord bless us) is Monarch of Night.

His torturing spirits around him await,
As watchmen attend on the constable's state;
Those imps of authority sally in shoals,
And pennyless strumpets drag in as damn'd souls.

The hell upon earth, and life's dev'lish disease,
Is poverty sinning, and seiz'd on for fees;
Deep in darkness that dross we call money was hid,
A proof that the use on't to us was forbid.

164

But Pluto, the Devil's old heathenish name,
Brought it forth from below, as a varnish for shame:
Persuasion, Temptation, attended the gold,
'Till all have been bid for, and few are unsold.

We are dev'lishly odd, in a dev'lish odd way,
Since bribe as bribe can, there's the Devil to pay;
The Devil of party makes damnable rout,
Tho' the Devil a bit can we tell what about.

May Satan seize those who by purchase deceive,
May they take the same road who such things receive;
But may we preserve honest men, tho' they're few,
Export all the rest, give the Devil his due.

PRESENT TASTE.

[_]

Tune,—Last night, in my dream, I beheld a brown lass.

One day, meeting Momus, it was upon 'Change,
Accosting the droll with—What news?
By the foot of Alcides (quoth he) it is strange,
That the English shou'd England abuse:
As locusts, in swarms, cross the seas for their prey,
As woodcocks first fleshless appear,
So shoals of important Illib'rals this day,
(Necessity's troop) landed here.

Not a stroller from France, not a vagrant from Rome,
Not a Swiss with a Marmozet shew,
But here men of science and breeding become,
Outlandish folks ev'ry thing know:
The rich will receive them as Flattery's imps,
Servility grins in their looks,
And British-born artists are elbow'd by pimps,
By hair-dressers, dancers, and cooks.

165

English Merit, in vain, may attempt at the lead,
All the wit: in the world we may waste;
But things from beyond sea are sure to succeed,
They hit the high fashion of taste:
To taste and to honour who has not a claim,
They are worn without any expence;
They are self-bestow'd gifts, they're Egotists fame,
They're knav'ry and dunces defence.

English might be allow'd in the rude days of yore,
Such vulgars we caant now endure;
There is something so soft in the sound of Signior,
And immensely polite in Meffieur:
How coarse sounds the Sandrys! in merit, indeed,
Those brothers embellish the age;
Can such a rude name now as Rooker succeed?
Besides he belongs to the stage.

All's vulgar and horrid, low, wretched, and flat,
Of us thus the connoissieur speaks;
But exquisite fine, 'tis immense, and all that,
When he talks about Gothics and Greeks.
Perhaps my address a presumption may seem,
And receiv'd by the rich as a sneer;
But with all you are worth, to be worthy esteem,
Do Justice to Genius born here.

NOBODY AND NOTHING.

[_]

Tune,—Gee-ho Dobbin.

A story or song, you have left to my choice,
For one I've no humour, for t'other no voice;
In attempting a tune I like Nobody bawl,
And as to a mimic I'm Nothing at all.

The wrinkl'd-cheek Critic, call'd 'Squire Syntaxis,
Pedantical speaking, wou'd bring into practice,
With classical gabble may wink and may sneer,
And beg I wou'd make the thing Nothing appear.

166

For schoolmasters conjugate derivate stuff,
I speak to be understood, that is enough;
The phrase of like Nobody they may condemn,
But as I sing Nothing, 'tis Nothing to them.

Now as to this Nobody I dare to say,
Altho' we see Somebody always in play;
And sometimes that something may somehow be shewn,
Yet Nobody only must many things own.

The public is pester'd with many gay forms,
Like butterflies, springing from grubs and from worms
Those well-dress'd necessities daily we view,
In Nobody's bus'ness with Nothing to do.

They've Nothing to think on, they've Nothing to say
Nobody's all night, and just Nothing all day;
At Nothing they laugh, and at Nothing they cry,
And Nobody cares how they live or they dye.

'Tis Nobody only can guess the game play'd,
When Nobody's by, betwixt master and maid;
Unless Indiscretion shou'd alter their plan,
Nobody knows Nothing 'twixt mistress and man.

The romp too ripe grown, unless gather'd a spouse,
Will fall, the first shake, from weak Chastity's boughs:
Dear Captain, she whispers, somebody will hear us,
Dear Miss, whispers he, there is Nobody near us.

But when she's betray'd by her passion, to shame,
And parents and guardians begin with their blame;
Who, I, Sir?—not I, Sir!—no! Honour forbid it,
If I am with child, it was Nobody did it.

The tread of Gallant by Cornuto is heard,
On tiptoe the lover from rendezvous scar'd;
Who's there? starts the husband, 'tis thieves that I hear,
But wife pats his cheek, and lisps, Nobody! dear.

Any-body may say, if they please, I am wrong,
Every-body find fault, if they please, with my song;
But careful lest Somebody we shou'd offend,
I with Nothing began, and with Nobody end.

167

WATER.

[_]

Tune,—The big-belly'd Bottle.

Oor chorus to Bacchus, to Bacchus we'll raise,
Long corks be my garland instead of the bays;
With Burgundy's blessings my temples anoint.
And toast the first toper who drank a half-pint.

My song is to Bacchus, the God of the Vine,
The engineer artist to spring Beauty's mine;
Without him Wit pines, and Love languidly fades,
Cold water has kept the Nine Muses old maids.

Quoth Temperance, Water's the med'cine of health,
And Water, quoth Prudence, will win a man wealth;
Tho' odd it may seem, as the story's not long,
Once Water help'd Bacchus, and thus says the song.

“It was when his harvest rejoic'd the parch'd earth,
“Beneath the first vine, Love on Wit begot Mirth;
“Yet Hate rais'd some rebels who broke from his sway,
“And, drunk with his bounty, deny'd to obey.

“He harness'd his tygers, he marshall'd his force,
“Silenus was sutler, Lord Pan led the horse;
“The Ganges they cross'd, came in front of the foe,
“And struck them all dead without striking a blow.

“'Twas Pan did the feat, cast them into a fright,
“He crept, like a fox, thro' their camp in the night;
“All the wine he drew off, while these Ignorants snor'd,
“And into the bottles foul ditch water pour'd.”

Each rebel next morn, rais'd the flask to his head,
But chill'd the first gulp, in an ague-fit fled;
Fled, trembling, from monarch to meanest mechanic,
From hence came the phrase, to put men in a pannic.

168

MEDIOCRITY.

[_]

Tune,—Attempt to be happy! but how can that be?

In a neighbourly way, with an honest man's fame,
Unoffending, I hope to succeed;
Attend if you please, if you're pleas'd with a name,
Imprimis, let Probity lead.

Be careful to keep on Humility's side,
Nor ever lose Gratitude's view;
Obey not the envy of Pique nor of Pride,
Nor pilfer from Merit its due.

Be assur'd that Esteem is a noble estate,—
Let not a fond smile make you proud;
Nor rail at men merely because they are great,
Be not dup'd by the roar of a croud.

Shun Flatttry's phrase, let not Promise allure,
Nor dangle for dinners in taste;
Forget not old friends, tho' perhaps they are poor,
Nor make new acquaintance in haste,

Oh! suffer not Interest, Friendship to wean,
Accept not Servility's treat;
Nor silently witness Iniquity's scen
But open at once on Deceit.

Remember yourself, spare the shame of your friend,
Nor carry your wit to excess;
With sprit the cause of the absent defend,
And shrink not your arm from distress.

Oppress not the low, nor be high people's slave,
Nor ever despair nor be vain;
Howe'er inconsistent the world may behave,
Mediocrity ever maintain.

His views let Ambition extend o'er the state,
Let Avarice gluttonize wealth;
No Nabobs I wish for, I wou'd not be great,
I only ask humbly for health.

169

How chearful, in health, will my latter days pass,
Unenvy'd, unenvying live;
With the friends I have prov'd, and my fav'rite lass,
And practice the precepts I give.

THE SWEETHEARTS.

[_]

Tune,—Derry Down.

Since the world is so old, and the times are so new,
And ev'ry thing talk'd of, except what is true;
Among other stories my fable may pass,
Of four or five sweethearts who courted a lass.
Derry Down.

The first was from France, a-lá-mode de Paris,
All fashion, all feather, bien Monsieur poudre;
He bow'd, he took snuff, cut a caper, and then
He bow'd, cut a caper, and took snuff agen.

A Dutchman advanc'd, when the lady he saw,
He drop'd down his pipe, and he waddl'd out yaw;
With hands hid in pocket, and unpolish'd leer,
As frogs sing in courtship, so croak'd out Mynheer.

From Connaught itself, faith, another beau came,
Macfinnin Macgragh Ballingbrough was his name;
He bow'd to the lass, and he star'd at Mounseer,
Clapp'd hand on his sword, and said, Ah!—Arrah, my dear!

The next a Mess John, of rank Methodist taint,
Who thought like a sinner, but look'd like a saint;
Clos'd hands, twirl'd his thumbs, moving muckle his face,
Then turn'd up his eyes as about to say grace.

170

A neat English sailor in holiday trim,
Who long lov'd the lass, and the lass had lov'd him,
Athwart them all stept, under arm toss'd his switch,
Squar'd his hat, op'd his pouch, gave his trowsers a hitch.

He along-side her fell, and he grappl'd on board,
She struck the first broadside of kisses he pour'd;
Then he tow'd her to church, and as to the rest,
What afterwards follow'd, is easily guess'd.
Derry Down, &c.

A LESSON OF LOVE.

[_]

Tune,—Go on, ye gay Wantons, &c. &c.

Ye Lexicon Critics, whose classical pride,
Plain sense and plain English, as moderns, deride;
Yet Woman, dear Woman! your minds could improve,
Turn students to her, take a Lesson of Love.

Ye rustics who burst from the arms of embrace,
To Beauty's prefer the rude joys of the chace;
So savage a practice no more you'll approve,
When once you have practis'd a Lesson of Love.

At midnight, ye topers, when bump'ring your toast,
Be careful of who, and to whom 'tis your boast;
If the tythe of those joys you pretend ye cou'd prove,
Wine wou'd not have power to wean you from Love.

Ye soldiers who rush thro' the rough work of war,
As Statesmen may scheme, or as Sovereigns jar,
Engagements more glorious at home ye may prove,
So set up your standards and list under Love.

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Ye busy in traffick, whose cent. per cent. lives,
Can estimate justly all worth—but your wives;
While th'interests of trade you so anxious improve,
You neglect their demands, and are bankrupts to Love.

The life of a man is Inquietude's reign,
Care, dullness, fatigue, disappointment, and pain;
But clasp the fond female, those ills she'll remove,
Such witchcraft has woman! such magic is Love!

SONG THE LAST;

Or, EPILOGUE.

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Tune,—Laura's Song in the Chaplet.

The Wits were wont, in ancient times,
To estimate their age by rhimes,
A ballad was their schooling;
We moderns may, perhaps, be wrong,
If not likewise, also a Song
May fit us for our Foolling.

Imprimis, there's the Men of State,
But, hold! I'll let alone the Great,
Lest I shou'd gain a schooling,
For Greatness was not form'd for sport,
Tho' some folks greatly make their court,
By greatly, greatly Fooling.

We play the Fool, we act the Wise,
We bare-fac'd walk, or wear disguise,
As hopes and fears are ruling;
And yet, with all our deep-laid wiles,
From John o' Nokes to Tom o' Stiles,
What is it all but Fooling?

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If men will think, if men will see,
That all this To,—or not to be,
Is as we're hot, or cooling
To-day on Expectation's wing,
To-morrow off, 'tis not the thing,
What is the thing?—why Fooling.

Fool on, fool on, for life at best,
Is but half-bred, 'twixt cry and jest,
As Chance, not Reason's ruling;
To Chance we owe our rights and wrongs,
To Chance I dedicate these Songs,
A Ballad-maker's Fooling.

G. A. S.

FINIS.