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SONG XXXIII. RADDLE-NECK'D TUPS.
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SONG XXXIII. RADDLE-NECK'D TUPS.

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

47

My grandmother told me last winter,
But hoped I'd her dotage excuse,
They were by a democrat printer
Call'd “Raddle-neck'd Tups” and not blues.
Not blues, &c.,
My name is Timothy Careless,
I sprang from a vagabond Jew,
I'm subtle, blood-thirsty, and careless,
Exactly the thing for a blue.
To fighting I am but a stranger,
Its consequence I never knew,
I take to my heels when in danger,
And just skulk away like a blue.
My thoughts in succession are evil,
My clothes are both ragged and few,
Last week I shook hands with the devil,
And then volunteer'd for a blue.
Like him that leads up our banditti
To Beelzebub I will be true,
I'll show no love, remorse, or pity,
And that's just the part of a blue.
'Tis true we're the slaves of oppression,
The sensible slaves to subdue;
While curs'd villany rides in procession,
Protected by hell-hounds in blue,
The poor must all be kept under,
Held down as it were with a screw,
The rich with impunity plunder,
And boast of assassins in blue.
The fate of the swine we'll determine,
Repeated insults they shall rue,
They think us detestable vermin,
More fitted for halters than blue;
When tyranny offers a bounty
The Norfolk-street feats we'll renew,
And slay all the pigs in the country
That grunt at us, butchers in blue.
If I be convicted of murder
A jury will pull me clean through,
They'll say “twas maintaining good order,”
And tell me I am a true blue.

48

Mad Cerberus was our commander
When Sorsby and Bradshaw we slew,
We took him for great Alexander,
He played such exploits in his blue.
But ah! if the French should invade us,
How must we approach Pichegru?
In Wharncliffe our chief man parade us,
For none durst be seen in his blue.
B---s---t in the hole of some badger,
I would raise an uncommon stew:

49

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