A collection of comic songs written, Compil'd, Etch'd and Engrav'd, by J. Robertson; and sung by him At the theatres Nottingham, Derby, Stamford, Halifax, Chesterfield, and Redford |
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 | A collection of comic songs |  |
The Beggars' Imitations.
And I'll tell you the reason why,
A queen cannot swagger, nor get drunk as a beggar,
Nor be half so happy as I:—
(Speaking).
To be sure, they are obliged to support a dignified character—now
I can change my character as often as I please—though, I believe, I am generally
a soliciter; for I practice at the court of requests; and as to honesty,
why honesty is—
(Once through for chorus).
When I choose in that character to beg;
With knuckles held so flat, and t'other arm the hat,
And this way I hold up my leg—
(Speaking).
—Look down with an eye of pity on a poor unfortunate seaman—
“And my larboard leg on the glorious first of June.”
“Here, my good man, here's money for you; you are an honor to your country.” An honor! to be sure I am; but then my honor, like many other honorable gentlemen's, consists in—
Toll de roll, &c.In that I'm at home to a peg;
With a snuffle in my nose, I their feelings discompose,
And thus I contract up my leg.—
My good worthy christians, please to bestow your charity on an unfortunate young man. “Oh, what, you're unfortunate, are you?” Yes, please your honor, I lost my mammy and daddy when I was very young, and now I am forc'd to beg for my bread. “I'll give you something to cure you; here's a horsewhip for you, you scoundrel.” Oh, dear, your honor, consider me and my—
Toll de roll loll, &c.My conscience I leave behind;
Through the village I jog, led by a little dog,
And a lass I can see tho' I'm blind.—
(Speaking).
—Pity the sorrows of a poor old man—I am sixty-five, my good
worthy christians—may you never loose your precious eyesight.” Look,
Dolly, the poor man's blind.” “Blind! Lord bless you, it's all my eye and
On a couple of stools see us stand;
The people all croud, while she bawls aloud,
And I takes my fiddle in hand:—
(Speaking in a squeaking tone of voice).
Come, neighbours and friends, here's a
new song, entitled and call'd, I am a wild and roving boy,—Come, play up,
(Speaking in a gruff tone).
Stop, let's rosin first—
“I am a wild and a roving boy,” (Singing in a gruff voice).
“And my lodgings is in the island of Cloy;” (Squeaking).
“A rambling boy altho' I be,” (Gruff).
“I'll forsake them all and I'll follow thee.”
(Speaking).
There's a man wants to buy a ballad there—
“Were I a blackbird or a thrush” [Gruff]
“Hopping about from bush to bush,”
(Speaking).
Sing, Moll—
“Then all the world might plainly see,”
(Speaking Gruff).
It's a bad halfpenny, Moll.—
(Squeaking).
It 'ant a bad halfpenny—
(Gruff).
It is a bad halfpenny—I tell
you what, you had better be quiet, or I'll mill your eye.
(Squeaking).
Hark'e, fellow, I don't care for you nor your—
The common beggar spurns at our laws—
Tho' I reprobate the train, I wish to beg again,
To solicit your kind applause—
(Speaking).
And if you don't condescend to smile upon me, I must say that my
begging trade is no better than—
The Medley of Lovers.
The theme must be of love, and fair Maria's glory;
Since Adam's time, I guess, from clod up to the 'squire,
Bishops, methodists, and all sects, a pretty girl admire:
(Speaking).
To be sure, that is as natural as light—and certainly a good wife
is the greatest blessing a man can have—and even a bad one is—hold—I had
better not say too much about that—so I'll sing
John bow'd and star'd, and scratch'd his head, and look'd as lively as an ass;
I'm come to wed thee, lass—if you my tale won't listen to,
An old maid I hope you'll die, and terribly be wizen'd too.
(Speaking).
Come, thou may as well ha'me—thou shal't want for nought—
“I'm wasting away like a candle;
“In my heart there's a hole, it burns like a coal,
“I'm as thin as a water pump handle:”
And if you won't ha' me, I must sing—
loddi iddy, &c.With a tippet round his neck—oh, dear a' me! I vow to gad!
With pointed toe, and coat held up, as the maccaroni trade is,
A puff of wind might blow him through, tho' a favorite of the ladies.
(Speaking).
My dear Miss, I want to have some serious conversation with you.
When we are married, I shall take all the domestic concerns off your hands.
I shall dress the children, comb the lap-dogs, and get up the small linen myself.
“Well, Mr. Whifflle, and when we are married, what do you mean
to do with me?” Do, Miss—we'll sing—
Like a rat-trap, for a mouse, that to and fro is jumping;
Though he no bow cou'd make, nor ever doff his beaver.
(Speaking with a snuffle).
Yea, verily, damsel—
“Yea, silk hose and pumps on the pavement thou stood in,
“Has stirr'd up my blood as you'd stir up a pudding,”
Consent to be bone of my bone, and we'll sing—
loddi iddy, &c.From hunting—oh, what sport!—to present to her the game;
What maiden cou'd refuse? a hunter so bewitches!
(Spoken).
Besides, it's so very genteel
To spend all the winter long in boots and leather breeches.
(Speaking).
Hoicks! What do you think of me for a husband? I'm a tight
fellow—sound wind and limb! “What, Sir, do you speak to me as if I
were a horse?” What, you're skittish, are you? but if you won't go in a
snafflle, we must put you in a curb, and then you may sing—
Resolv'd to have some fun, the girl with others flirted;
Jack Bowling, from the wars, beat the enemy, od rot 'em!
Return'd just in the nick, and kick'd poor Simon's bottom.
(Speaking simply).
I don't care—I am meek and humble, and must take buffets.
They say as how my head's turn'd, because I makes sarments, and exposes
'em extrumpery. Ah, you may laugh; but you'll go to the devil for all that.
Oh! if you had heard us at our last love feast! every one of us singing—
I've been fighting for you, girl, in every tack and pass;
Her hand she gave him, then, and thus she did declare,
I am your's for ever, Jack—the brave deserve the fair.
(Speaking)
And shew me a braver set of fellows than our English Seamen—only
remember their conduct—how they've bang'd the Spaniards—belabor'd
the Dutch—and made the French sing—
The Crowing Song.
And fables we've sung to the tune of bow, wow;
But I'll fable mankind like game cocks that crow,
With their tuck, tuck, tuck, fal de ral, tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck,
Fal de ral, lal de ral, fal de ral, lal ral lal, fal de ral la.
And spurring cock critics who keep the mid-row,
And, gallery cocks, too, who loudly can crow,
With their tuck, tuck, tuck, &c.
Who flutter their wings, though half fledg'd, crow like men;
And our ladies, with merry thoughts, resemble a hen,
With their tuck, tuck, tuck, a ra tuck, &c.
The ladies admire, their smiles they bestow;
But a coxcomb's a bantam that scarcely can crow,
With their tuck, tuck, tuck, &c.
Sent a party of chickens to Egypt so wild;
They strove loud to crow, but their crowing was spoil'd,
And nought cou'd they say but bob, bob, fal de ral, &c.
And stretch'd himself out, and cried, chuck, chuck, coo;
And, lord how they star'd! when they first heard him crow,
With his tuck, tuck, tuck, &c.
The Spanish brood, too, are kept fast in their pen;
And French ships they've brought home, like chickens after their hens,
With their tuck, tuck, tuck, a ra tuck, &c.
And to each hearty cock that's deserving the name;
And long life to King George, for he's cock of the game,
With his tuck, tuck, tuck, a ruck tuck, &c.
Song—a Medley, John Bumpkin upon Drill.
Enters to the tune of the Duke of York's March.To raise new recruits with the sound of the drum;
Then rouse, hearts of oak! an example see here,
John Bumpkin on drill for a tall granidier.
(Speaking).
I think they'll mak summat o'me, at last—they ha' gin me this
fine red coit and splatterdashes, and sarjeant has undertain to drill ma himsen.
“Eyes right!”—Dang it, that's left; I want my arms chalking.—“Attention!”
Ecod, I'll be a coptain in less nor a year;
Rumtum de rumtum, &c.
I thought I never in my life heard music sound so sweetly;
With martial air, to win the fair, I look'd I don't know how, sir,
They laugh'd & cry'd, & sigh'd & die'd, when first I join'd the row dow, sir.
(Speaking).
Ecod, it were enough to make a cat laugh, to see sarjeant drilling
me—“Heads up! higher! still higher!”—What, mun I look always up a
this'en?—“To be sure you must.”—Why, then, gi's your hand, sarjeant:
good bye; for I shall never see yow any more—
Or shou'd she swound upon the ground, the devil a word I say, sir;
When I enter'd first my father curs'd, and call'd me simple tony,
With pig'd-tail tied, cock'd-hat beside, I'm quite a maccaroni.
(Speaking).
I shall ha' sweethearts enough, now, mun; for wenches, like
turkey-cocks, gobble at red rags—Nobut I shou'd do better if I cou'd but
turn my toes out; and this stock, it throttles one dandnationly. Serjeant
has found out a new way to mak one hould up one's head; for he stick a
pitch-fork under one's chin, and if you bob down, prongs goes up to your
ears, and you look like a man in a pillory—
In vain for some victuals you'll call;
But war gives the soldiers, in battle,
A breakfast of powder and ball:
It fills a man's stomach at once,
And soon puts an end to his pain;
And if once you shou'd eat this provision,
You'll never be hungry again.
(Speaking).
Why, our sarjeant has tou'd me, as how he has fought up to the
breeches waistband in blood; and once a red hot ball were coming plump
in his face, but he up wi' his sword and split it in two—Hold, mester sarjeant,
says I,—I think that's a—“Silence, you scoundrel! eyes right! Attention!”—
Prithee, never slink now the French are coming;
What need there more be said—it is a fine diversion,
And if you are shot dead, why, you're only in the fashion.
(Speaing).
If you cou'd nobut hear our sarjeant making a speak—“Gentlemen,
now's your only time—if any 'prentice has a bad master—if any man has a
bad wife—let him apply to me, at the sign of the pig and tinder-box; or at
Corporal Breakbones, at the hen's teeth and cat's feathers; or of Drummer
Crackskull, at the devil and bag of nails, they shall meet encouragement.
'Tis better, say, then cudgel play, and wins you mortal glory;
Loyal Hearts, stand the test, and shew your resolution,
And may the gallows catch the rest that strive to breed confusion.
It is my will the french to kill—I'll do't wi' all my heart—
Who knows? a recruit, may chance to shute, great General Bonypart.
(Spoken).
And, ecod, if I shou'd, they'd mak more fuss about me then they
do about young Roscus—and mayhap they'd ha' me painted and hung up at
alehouse door for a sign—then I shou'd say, attention! look at me for an
object—
The Drunken Bucks.
Among the fair, the black, the brown;
Can black an Eye, or break a crown,
With countenance so wise, sir:
A sup of drink will make you glad,
And cheer your heart however sad;
Too much, you know, will make you mad,
And close up both your eyes, sir.
(Speaking).
For my part, I likes a sup, it makes me so funny—I loves fun, and
likes to keep it up—Yesterday I drove a blind horse into a china shop—that
was d---d jolly—and last night I toss'd the waiter out of the window, and
bid the landlord charge him in the reckoning.
(Chorus to every verse).
Tipsey, dizzy, muzzy,Sucky, groggy, drinking port;
We bucks are always muzzy—
O, damme, that's your sort.
Though oft' they take a sup by stealth—
And Justice says 'twill hurt your wealth—
For this they get their fees, sir:
The Quaker, too, don't drink, he'll say,
Tho' by himself he'll suck away,
And sanctified cries yea and nay,
As muz'd as you see me, sir.
(Speaking).
I'll tell you what—I said one of the best things, last week, I ever
said in my life—it was a bon mot, or jew de sprit, or a rapartee, I don't
know which.—I'll tell you—I was in high spirits—so I stole a dog from a
blind man—for I loves fun—so then the blind man cried for his dog, and
that made me laugh—so says I to the blind man, hip, master, do you want
Or point in pantomimic way,
Upon my soul, she's rather gay,
Indeed she's mighty muddled:
When bucks are bub'd, they're in the sun,
So keep it up, for I loves fun,
And when a husband up is done,
The wife cries, “Deary's fuddled.”
(Speaking).
Now, my wife's one of the cleverest men in our parish—she always
makes her mutton pies of beef steaks; and she will have it, that the shortest
day is too long by a yard and a half; but I am so doatingly fond of her, if
she long'd for arsenic, I'd go ten miles but she shou'd have it.
Stand clear—make way—mind how you steer;
The lover, he sighs out, my dear!
I'm prim'd without much trouble:
Sometimes disguis'd, and sometimes mellow,
A bosky rocky chearful fellow,
And when I'm muz'd, the truth I tello—
I every thing see double.
(Speaking).
I went to see my brother Tom yesterday, and I never swore so
well in my life—I swore all my new oaths—it wou'd have done you good
to have heard me swear—So, Tom says, “Brother, brother, what will this
world come to?” Says I, the same place it set out from this day twelve-month.—“These
are very slippery times, very slippery times.”—They are
always so in frosty weather.—“I can't bear to see such times!”—Shut your
eyes then.
Since life's a jest, I ne'er repine;
The morning sun begins to shine—
We'll do some deed of wonder:
The Germans say they drink the most,
And France and Italy will boast;
Old England still will rule the roast,
And make 'em all knock under.
(Speaking).
I understands history—and I always lov'd Queen Anne, because
as how her name was Betty.—Where the devil's my bottle?
Bread and Cheese in a Linen Bag, and Pudding in a Lantern.
The poems' view of Shakespeare too,
Now please each beau and belle, sit.
(Speaking).
Aye, Shakespeare with his works astonish'd the world; for he
cou'd make you laugh or cry. He, like Ovid, Homer, and Virgil, wrote
for fame; now, I am like our modern authors, whenever I turn songsmith,
it is to get—
(Chorus to every verse).
Pudding in my lantern, pudding in my lantern,Bread and cheese in my linen bag, and pudding in my lantern.
Why, satire best will stand the test,
All my eye is modern love, sir.
(Speaking).
Love puts me in mind of honesty, for it is much talk'd of, and
little understood—An Englishman in love, amuses himself with the blue
devils, and an Irishman with black-strap; a Dutchman in love, is as cold
as a confectioner's ice-house, and a Spaniard as hot as a grill'd devil; a poet
in love, rhymes away his soul, a musician fiddles away his soul, a lawyer
pleads away his soul, and a love-sick doctor physics away his soul.—By the
bye, a doctor must be sick indeed, to take his own physic.—In love there is
nothing better to prescribe than—
A barber he by trade wou'd be,
So he their heads can cool, sir.
(Speaking).
I shav'd a parliament-man the other day—he slipp'd a Ten Pound
Note in my hand—I shav'd his rival the same day, and he slipp'd a Ten
Pound Note into my hand.—The first I shav'd heard of it, and next morning
when I shav'd him, he made his ten twenty, so I gave him my vote on the
hustings—the other star'd at me, and, whispering, said, “You know I
shav'd at your shop yesterday,” very true, sir, said I; but the other gentleman
shav'd twice: Bless your heart, I only shave for—
Nor lord nor king, cou'd envy bring,
Whilst his mill went clack clack clack.
(Speaking).
Now you say all millers are rogues in grain, and ought to be well
thrash'd; but I say, I am as honest as the world will let me be; and though
all is grist that comes to my mill, I never sack my neighbours' property.—“Come,
come, no lying, friend.” Upon my honor, no; unless it be to get
Upon my soul, they spend the cole,
But the skuttle they still wear.
(Speaking).
'Tis the fashion, now, for our beaux to dress in blue, and our
ladies in buff.—Observe a beaux with boots to his hips, like a gingerbread
cock and breeches at a fair—My dear madam, I love you; but I am half
seas over, and that's the reason I just now tumbled into the river.—I had
such fun with the mob—I pin'd one cracker to an old woman's wig, and
popp'd another into a fat man's pocket.—Away went the jasey! and the fat
man hop'd about like a dancing elephant.—Will you marry me? I'm the
man for you!—“Oh, dear, sir, you flurry me to such a degree!”—But let
me not be too severe upon matrimony; for english wives certainly are the
best in the word; bless their little hearts! I wish every one of them to have
With flowing bowl, each jovial soul,
Drink George and liberty.
(Speaking).
Our english tars say, roast beef and rule Britannia, are the best
tunes in the world; and that, while britons stick to one, the other is sure to
follow.—We ought to run some risk for our country—a country whose cause
is the cause of every one in it—viz freedom and a happy fire-fide; for without
these blessings not one of us cou'd enjoy—
Margery Topping.
But, love, to my sorrow, had nigh prov'd my ruin;
I died by inches, I look'd so shocking,
And all for the sake of Margery Topping.
Tol, lol de rol, lol de rol, la.
I sigh'd all the day, and I ne'er eat no supper;
My mammy cried, “Peter, pray mac thyself easy,”
But she was not Margery—oh, lack a daisey!
For if I shou'd get her, I knew that was the way;
So I powder'd my hair with our old dridging-box,
And I got a pig's tail, too—only see how it cocks.
If ever she thought it wou'd come to a wedding;
But she laugh'd in my face, and call'd me a ninny,
“Have thee,” says Margery, “No, not for a guinea.”
I'll e'en gang my ways, and go for a sailor:
So I got some paper, and I writ her a letter,
Saying, farewell, Madge, 'till thou loves me better.
And told me she'd have me, if I'd ease her fears;
So, I mention'd the parson, and bid her comply,
She blush'd—her eyes twinkle'd—she cou'd not tell why.
And all the folks throng'd, while Madge and I led the way;
The priest join'd our hands, all the folks standing by,
Lord, how sham'd was Margery, and how sham'd was I.
The neighbours throng'd in, and they long'd to be dancing:
The fiddlers struck up in the midst of the hall,
So, Margery and I open'd the ball.
The bridemaid were up stairs undressing the bride;
I runs up stairs to them, pops baidemaid out at the door,
Put the candle out, then—od rabbit it, I won't tell no more.
Cakes; or, my Eye and Peggy Martin.
Here are cakes—come, buy away, encourage little Jerry:
The world, you will agree, of things that's strange partakes, sir,
We're all one family, and like different cakes, sir.
(Speaking).
To be sure, there are your hot cakes, and your cold cakes; your
flat cakes, and your sharp cakes; your dry cakes, and your shy cakes; your
biscuits, and your avercakes:—For my part, I recommend every one of
you, to—
But if the truth I tell, It's all my eye and Peggy Martin.
Too puffy he's by half, and therefore call'd a cake, sir;
While, the miser, lackaday's! a gripe-cake, you may trust, sir,
And, the best that you can say, he's but a mouldy crust, sir.
(Speaking).
I met a miser the other day—“Harkee, fellow,” says he, “Are
your cakes made of the best flour?” Oh, yes, upon my honor, sir, says I.
“D---n your honor,” says he. “When I was in trade I had no honor.”
Egad, he had me there; however, I advis'd him, to—
But if honor is the stake, it's all my eye and Peggy Martin.
A bailiff, like a sea-cake, is d---d hard to digest, sir;
The doctor is an ill-cake, sure you will agree, sir,
For if he gives a pill-cake, he pockets snug his fee, sir.
(Speaking).
A german doctor came to attend my wife when she was dying.—“Ah!
ah!” says he, “Dis is very bad country for de health—de people
do die very fast here,”—Says I, doctor, I'll be oblig'd to you to tell me
the country where the people do not die, and I'll go there and end my days.
'Gad, I had him there.—Come, says I, doctor,—
For her to grieve or pine, is all my eye and Peggy Martin.
A coquet we'll call a sly-cake, that none wou'd wish to eat;
A soldier is a rum-cake, who frightens well our foe, sir,
And, pretty miss, a plumb-cake, a bride-cake we all know, sir.
(Speaking).
Few females, I fancy, but what are fond of a bride-cake; though
they all declare, “O dear! don't talk to me about husbands;—I hate the
nasty men!—I'm resolv'd I'll never be married!”—'Till somebody asks you,
says I.—That's right, miss, take my advice, and—
If you say you hate the men, it's all my eye and Peggy Martin.
And, beauty is a queen-cake, that drives him to despair, sir;
Of spices made so pat, a lawyer is a ban-cake,
His client is the flat, and, therefore, like a pan-cake.
(Speaking).
The law always bothers me—for it puts me in mind of a coffin—if
once you get in, you never get out again—therefore, sooner than meddle
or make, I wou'd advise you, to—
If lawyers tell a tale, it's all my eye and Peggy Martin,
May the devil that hard-cake, monopoly, once catch, sir;
In his oven, warm and deep, may he be bak'd secure, sir,
Whilst the wheat-cake may grow cheap, for to benefit the poor, sir.
(Speaking).
And there is not the least doubt of it, as long as we keep unanimous
at home; and shou'd our enemies choose to be troublesome, why, I'll
tell 'em this—
Wou'd tell great Bonapart, it's all my eye and Peggy Martin.
What's a Buck without a Tail?
Or a rolling kiddy,
A prettier boy you ne'er can know,
To be sure, I'm quite the tippy;
The beaux look back to 62,
With ladies to prevail, sir,
They sported ramalies for queues,
And never wore a tail, sir;
With scarlet small-cloaths, stockings blue,
Cock'd hat cou'd not prevail, sir;
For beaux, like monkey, 'tis most true,
Shou'd always flash a tail, sir.
Tol de radal, lol de radal, lol, &c.
The head-dress monstrous big was;
With fashions mix'd of old and new,
Their hair like bishop's wig was;
And, take a lady to a ball,
For fear each buck shou'd shock her,
Their hair was puff'd with marechlle,
And to their backs a knocker;
In large hats, then, they'd strut and stare,
The small ones had no sale, sir;
The ladies, too, wore their own hair—
Pray, how do you like my tail, sir?
Toll de radal, &c.
Long coat hung down so neat, sir;
Or, tuck'd up smartly to my rump,
I jigg'd about the street, sir;
Ten waistcoats then the go was;
Two story gig my ponies drew,
What a natty thing a beau was:
Nine yards of ribbon queu'd my hair,
With ladies to prevail, sir;
Let clowns and bumpkins gape and stare,
What's a buck without a tail, sir?
Toll de radal, &c.
How smart, how gay, how handy;
I'm quite the thing—pray, view my back,
I'm sure I'm now the dandy:
Long breeches, watches, boots, high hat,
Whose crown wou'd hold a peck, sir,
Short waistcoat, coat, thick stick—all that—
And a towel round my neck, sir:
I, in fashion, differ from the fops—
They, with ladies, sure, will fail, sir;
Who cut their hair to make 'em crops—
Pray, how do you like my tail, sir?
Toll de radal, &c.
Of joint shall put my nose out;
At shrug and grin I've got the knack,
And, see, I turn my toes out:
To flash my gig, then, who but I—
Gee up! my ponies' blood, sir—
That's your sort! the ladies cry,
Their eyes I dab with mud, sir:
A lady whispers to her mate,
That man, what can he ail, sir?
Dear me! look at his powder'd pate!
And twig his monkey tail, sir.
Toll de radal, &c.
I squeeze my chapaubras, sir;
At concerts, balls, the club, the play,
I stare and cock my glass, sir:
To d---n the actors I can see—
In the boxes kick up fun;
Whose that there acting? Is it Manly?
No, you fool—it's Jem Robertson:
Learn hence, ye bucks, that bucks wou'd be,
That crops are now grown stale, sir;
Then, dashing boys, take after me—
What's a buck without a tail, sir?
Toll de radal, &c.
The Pig-selling Jew.
On dish new-fashion goods vat I cry—
Non't you know, very well, dat a jew ought to sell,
Vatever a christian vill buy;
If itsh a long-tail pig, or a short-tail pig,
Or, a pig with a curling tail:
We're up to each rig, whether jew-pig or true-pig,
Or a pig without ever a tail.
(Chorus to every verse).
Whee, whee, whee, we,—Whee, whee, whee, we,Long-tail'd pig, short-tail'd pig—whee, whee, whee, we.
For, by gosh, it is comical, too;
De mistakes vat you meet, every day in the street,
Is as odd as pigs sold by a jew:
Oyster-girls you'll find, with knives to grind,
Sprats, Lobsters, and girls with milking-pail;
Rabbit-skins and fine beaux, mackerel and old cloaths,
And pigs without ever a tail.
They're up to a monstrous pretty rig, sir;
With hair-powder'd beaux, with their long small-cloaths,
You know, they are all guinea-pigs, sir;
New fashion so bewitches, soon our ladies will wear breeches,
And strut about as fashion may prevail:
Their beauteous tresses lop, and appear a perfect crop,
And, a crop's, you know, a pig without a tail.
Wid his head in a counsellor's wig,
And a clumsy old chap, in a light-horseman's cap,
A citizen fat as a pig,
With pheasant, partridge, widgeon, or quail,
Trullebubs and trash, turtle-soup and gravy hash,
He's a pig with all guts and no tail.
And nothing but words take place;
To the lawyer they'll go, and he'll cheat them, you know,
At the same time he'll look you in the face;
With term-fees und long vacation, affidavit, declaration,
John Doe and Richard Roe, never fail, sir;
Six and eight-pence may do well, he the oyster, you the shell,
Then you look like a pig without a tail.
Their fee, you know, they can't refuse;
The apothecary, then, is a necessary man,
Tho' the whole tribe are little else than jews:
For, the college affords such jaw-breaking words,
To send you home they scarce ever fail,
With bleeding and blistering, scarifying and glistering,
You look like a pig without never a tail.
And a barber's boy driving a gig;
See my lord and my grace, vaiting in Duke's Place,
And it is a jew selling pig;
If it please you vell, I don't care vat I sell,
Let smiles o'er your countenance prevail;
But if you grumble or squeak, why, off I must sneak,
Like a pig without never a tail.
Monsieur's Escape from Paris.
Now our nation's at war with old England's king;
But the mischief once made by our national elves,
I have left in the lurch to take care of themselves.
(Chorus to every verse).
With my danca la la, danca long merry ton,Danca long merry ton, danca la la.
On Bonnaparte we depend to get out of our trouble;
But, the English, by gar, are too wise to be cram'd,
For, you turn up your noses, and bid us be d---d.
Ve eat you all up, is ve vonce get to you;
But ve fear your big ships vil encourage de strife,
And leave the french armies to swim for dere life.
And he vish dat ve all vas drown in his dyke;
But for dykes and for ditches ve care not a bit,
If ve can but keep clear of dat deep English pit.
He cry to de captains, “Go, give dem a scold;
“Go, tell dem to stop all their ships, aud be civil,
“Or Nelson vill shew dem de vay to de devil.”
And give us poor Frenchmen von fit of de cholic;
So, I run avay, nor vil back again prance,
For de devil has put his black hoof into France.
And resolv'd dat all Frenchmen dere freedom shou'd have;
So de bastile vas burnt, and de slave vas set free,
All de prisons pull'd down, or you had not seen me.
Or me'd not have von chair or von stool for to sit on;
Sure, never a nation so happy vas seen,
With a king so belov'd, and a good little queen.
Where I dance and I sing, and I foot it away;
Then come to our shop, and hear poor Frenchman sing,
Success to your trade, and long life to your king.
Paddy Bull's Visit to Cousin John Bull.
I'll be after telling you, hear me or not,—
How your dear Paddy Bull a full fortnight was gone,
On a visit to London, to see cousin John.
(Speaking).
To be sure, I did!—Being tired of turf-digging, I wanted to better
my fortune; and who the devil can a man make free with, if he can't
with his own relations?—and sing,
For cousin Bull's family all are run mad;
Arrah! mad, did I say? but I mean no offence,
Though I ne'er was so bother'd with people of sense.
(Speaking)
There's your physicians and lawyers are men of sense—bad luck
to the law! for it always puts me in mind of a rainy day, nobody wishes
to be in it—and sing,
On the fifth day of May, in the year 95;
Next day I walk'd forth with my best garments on,
Clean powder'd and shav'd, not to shame cousin John.
(Speaking).
To be sure I didn't cut a pretty figure!—If my aunt the justice,
or my uncle the bishop had but seen me!—Arrah, be easy, now Paddy!
you know you never had a bishop belonging to the family.—Well, if he
wasn't bishop, he was parish clerk, and that's the same thing, you know.
And if you had heard him sing,
Began for to kick me about in the street;
“Take that, you spalpeen, for powdering your head,
“And so raising the price of our dumplings and bread.”
(Speaking).
Arroo! what the devil are you at? says I—by de powers of
Moll Thelly, if you do that again, I'll sing,
Determin'd from kicks my sweet person to save;
But, another mad set, 'cause my hair was so brown,
For a democrat d---d me, and then knock'd me down.
(Speaking).
And there I lay, sure enough, as stiff as a poker.—“Arrah! Paddy,
says they, “are you dead?”—No, my jewel, says I, I'm not dead, but
I'm speechless—Then, I sung,
Was to powder one side, and leave t'other without;
I then with both parties shou'd surely prevail,
So I left my front brown, and powder'd my tail.
(Speaking).
And, here it is, my jewels—now, only look at it—For every
body knows there is no pleasing the ladies without this.—And sing,
But I boldly reply'd, I'm an irishman, honey;
Then they thump'd me on all sides, before and behind,
My brown side and white, 'till I wish'd 'em all blind.
(Speaking)
By my soul, I was forc'd to take it all in good part—for what the
devil cou'd I do? for I had lost my shelaley, and I had nothing in my
hand but my fist—but I knock'd two in the gutter—There, says I, there is
washing and lodging for you, and sing,
And I soon left the country and all their queer jokes;
And now am resolv'd, and so is my wife,
To be a brave Irishman all my whole life.
(Speaking).
Ay, and return back to Dublin immediately, for fear I shou'd
end my life here; for that same thing call'd a gallows, is a disease very fatal
to our family; for there is about a dozen gone that way already.—If you
had heard them sing,
Moses in a Passion.
And every thing talk'd of except what is true;
Of Moses, the jew, my tale I'll disclose,
Who, a comical snuffle had got with his nose.
(Chorus to every verse).
To drown melancholy, and laugh at each folly,Mankind this grand object will still have in view.
His appetite keen, and to eat his intent;
Moses struts round the room—no prince was e'er greater,
And, snuffling, cries, come here, you rascal, you waiter.
“Our larder affords the best of good meat.”
Oh!—go—very well—Here! don't you mistake,
Go to the cook, and order me a pok'd eak.
With dish, piping hot, the landlord came in;
Slaps it down by his plate with gluttonous leer,
Moses starts up, and cries, why, what the devil have you brought me here?
You rascal, you lie—I said a pok'd eak;
“Ay, ay,—very well, I have made no mistake,”
You rascal, you lie—I said a pok'd eak.
Who, to explain what he meant, was sadly perplex'd;
Here, waiter, come here, you stupid dog you,
Pray, what do you call that thing that cries, cock-a-doodle do?
Oh, a cock, is it? and what do you call a cock's wife?
“A cock's wife, sir, you'll find, by most folks call'd a hen,”
And, pray, what do you call it before it's a hen?
And what do you call it before it's a chicken?
“An egg, sir,” says Tom, with a scrape of his leg,
Why, then, you stupid dog, all I wanted of you is a porch'd egg.
Which in doing, like Moses, I feel much perplex'd;
Though the tale is mere nonsense, don't be in a passion,
For, nonsense, you know, is the pink of the fashion.
The Contented Tar.
Who goes to sea no more—
For you see I've lost my leg:
I don't care a curse, it might have been worse,
I'm content, and there's an end;
And since 'tis so, e'en let it go,
I can't lift it 'gainst a friend.
(Speaking).
Nor wou'd I against an enemy, if it had not been to serve my king;
and had not a man better die fighting for his country, than stay lingering on
shore? and go out, at last, like the snuff of a candle, singing
While on dainties you are fed,
Yet chearful work and sing:
When fighting hard, upon the yard,
I fell, and broke my sconce;
A ball whiz'd by, but what care I,
Why, a man can die but once.
(Speaking).
And without a doctor or sexton; but they don't want no wipe
from me—for they send so many to their long homes, not to know how to
go contented there themselves—but whenever they go, I doubt they won't
sing
Something happen'd ev'ry minute,
At length they dous'd my glim:
Though I've lost my eye, why shou'd I sigh?
The sails of life are furl'd;
'Twas fate's decree, that I mayn't see
The treachery of the world.
(Speaking).
And why mayn't the same accident happen to Tommy Brown,
the taylor, in the corner? Why may not he slip his cable, and break his
back with taking the ninth part of a fall off his shopboard, into his own hell?
and if he shou'd, lord how he wou'd stare and sing
Fortune, I had cause to curse her,
Coming home, I lost my wife.
And, so say I, why, Doll, good bye,
The poor wench was very old;
Then, why take on, if so be she's gone,
I can never hear her scold.
(Speaking).
To be sure she was a tight hand at that work, and had an agreeable
way of throwing things at one's head; but, poor soul, I lov'd her so well,
that now she is gone, I can't help singing
Enough to blow the devil's head off,
I got spilt, and lost my leg;
With a timber toe, I'm forc'd to go,
Still man's but man, I say;
So, in this plight, if I can't fight,
I'm sure I can't run away.
(Speaking).
I'm now safe moor'd with a Greenwich pension.—Yet, still I'll
doff my hat, and beg you to look down with an eye of pity on a poor unfortunate
seaman; who begs only for your approbation to enable him to sing
Dr. Last, Sole and Body Mender.
I'm the man, as sure as a gun, sir;
Your pulses to feel, or mend a shoe heel,
I'm the son of the seventh son, sir:
Bleed and blister—gargle and glister,
Patients buried under the soddy;
Scarify, dilute—or make a new boot—
I can mend both your sole and your body.
Myself I always fresh rig, sir;
For, a doctor's sense, and consequence,
Lies in his cane and wig, sir:
With latin word a fuss—cook a saucepanabus—
I can break your teeth with words very oddy;
Paris come, paribend—lapstone and wax-end,
I can mend both your sole and your body.
And, by fees, I am scraping up the pelf, sir;
Tho' the physic that I give, the patient may outlive,
I shou'dn't like to take it myself, sir:
Make a mortar of the stew-tub—mix sal salpolyrrist and rhubarb,
As a medicine for the palsy, niddy noddy;
Damag'd welt and upper leather, I can always put together,
For I mend both the sole and the body.
However I might bolus and have pill'd him;
If a patient chance to die, he mustn't say 'twas I,
He must not say 'twas I that kill'd him:
An ague I can charm—knock a tooth out without harm,
But, zounds! how you'd caper, diddy doddy;
The ladies cry, in haste, “Let us fly to Dr. Last,”
He cures both the sole and the body.
The Sensible Family.
Still with her tongue she clatter'd on,
Not with her knuckle and bone,
But with her tongue she batter'd on;
With cuckold, ass, blockhead, and drone,
And such like words she rattled on
Not with her knuckle or bone,
But with poker and tongues she battled on.
(Speaking).
But, poor soul! she happen'd to die one day, and went out like
the snuff of a candle, singing,
(Imitating Punch, the first part of the tune for chorus).
She, like the other, wou'd rule again;
A beauty by most folks she's reckon'd,
Though her frowns soon made me cool again:
Her beauty and charms, I vow,
Wou'd move the heart of any man;
She's as fat as a pig or a sow,
With a face like a well polish'd warming-pan.
(Speaking).
A dropsy carried her off, poor soul! and she left me one child,
and a sensible boy he is—Going to stir the fire, the other day, he lays hold
of the hot end of the poker, and as soon as he found it burnt his fingers,
d---n me, if he didn't drop it immediately.—Oh! he's a sensible boy! and
he can sing,
My person neglected strong taken too,
But Dolly's charms made my heart tingle,
And, my vow, like pye-crust, was broken too:
Her face, I must needs say, was copper-brown;
To be sure she was rather lop-sided,
With a short and long leg that went up and down.
(Speaking).
Poor creature! she left me one child, and a clever lad he is; and
writes two charming hands—one he can't read himself, and the other nobody
can read for him—but still he contrives to sing,
They took a trifle maintaining too;
With Hymen again link'd in bands,
My wife look'd rather disdaining too:
Her cash, like trout, I must tickle,
She's brisk, and forswears melancholy too;
Tho her walk's rather rumbusticle,
And her name's Gimlet-ey'd Molly too.
(Speaking).
She left me an only daughter—and the parson of the parish took a
liking to her—and what do you think she did? she mended the parson's
black stockings with white worsted, and sent him hopping to church like a
magpye.—Oh! she's a chearful lass, and always singing,
And I trust I may have occasion to
Raise a new race of recruits again,
To keep us from foreign invasion too:
She's a sweet-temper'd creature, good lack!
With a title I hope won't degrade her too;
For having a hump on her back,
Why, you may call her my wife or my lady too.
(Speaking).
I have but one child by her, and a sharp lad he is—Turning the
corner of the street the other day, he ran full but against an attorney, and
d---n me, if he has been able to speak a word of truth ever since—Having
given you a full description of my wives and family, I wish you cou'd see
us all sitting in the chimney corner, on a winter's evening, every one of us
singing,
Tommy Strawyard's Dance at the Wakes.
And, away to the wakes let's hie;
For every lad has gotten his lass,
And a fiddler standing by;
For, Jenny has gotten her Jack,
And Nancy has gotten her Joe,
With Dolly and Tommy, good lack,
How they jig it to and fro'.
(Chorus to every verse).
Ritum, raddledum, raddledum—ritum, raddledum, ri,Ritum, raddledum, raddledum—ritum, raddledum, ri.
When I went to th'wake or fair,
Wi' a pair of new soal'd pumps,
To dance when I got there;
I'd ride grey nag I swore,
And were mounted like a king,
Cousin Dicky walk'd on a'fore,
Driving a pig tied wi' a string.
Wi' “Neighbour, how do you do?”
There were all the world at the fair,
And drunk 'till they were fou';
'Twas neither height! nor gee!
For, soon as I sold my cow,
The fiddler shog'd his knee,
And I danc'd my pumps clean through.
The fiddler plays it false,
And so says Hugh, and so says Suc,
And so says nimble Alce;
To right us, in a crack,
Belly to belly to belly, says he,
And then dance back to back.
To play for ale and cakes,
And kisses too, until they were due,
The maidens held the stakes;
The women then began,
To quarrel with the men,
And bad them take their kisses back,
And gi' 'em their own again.
And they tir'd the fiddler quite,
Wi' singing and playing, without any paying,
From morning until it were night:
They told the fiddler then,
They'd pay him for his play,
And each gave twopence,
(Speaking)
(Ey, they gave twopence a piece)
Astd I'll go wi' thee a mile,
She twinkled her eyes wi' a sigh,
As I handed her over the style;
Then I cuddled and kiss'd her face,
Were I much to blame?
Had you been in my place,
(Speaking).
(I don't mean you, I mean that sly-looking fellow in the corner).
The Humours of the Turf.
I sing of the turf, a much better rig;
The pleasure of driving to country races,
In curricles, coaches, a chaise, or a gig:
Find fault, if you please—mind what you're abusing,
Let the great roll along in their coaches and six;
What's all the world after, but winning and losing,
And each playing off all their slight-of-hand tricks.
(Speaking).
There you'll see Master Jacky—he'll tell you that he is the cleverest
whip going—that he can cut a fly's eye out at six yards distance—'Twas but
the other day, turning sharp round the corner, he upset an old woman and
her apple-stall—for he loves fun—and blow me tight into a gin-shop, if he
wasn't off before the old woman cou'd—sing
If you're young on the turf, I'd have you go back;
Or the knowing and deep ones will pocket your pelf,
Then you may go to the devil and shake yourself.
Gee up! as we pelt through the dust or the rain;
Some likely to fall, spur their horse, like a flat,
Leave the bridle alone, and hold fast by the mane:
Then he's back'd in ditch—the women all shrieking,
Whilst crouds upon crouds against each other drive;
Fifes, trumpets, and drums, and nut-merchants squeaking,
Like wind and tide meeting, each contrary strive.
(Speaking).
Do, my dear papa, drive a little faster, or we shall certainly lose
the first heat—Heat! ay, you're always in a heat, I think, says parson
Swallow-pudding.—I say, no but look, maister, at that long thin feller,
with black coat and small buckled wig.—Hip, holloo! who set you on
horseback, maister, and didn't tye your legs?—Who are you talking to, sir?
do you know we lawyers are men of consequence?—God bless your honor,
To copy his foible as matter of mirth?
When a gamester takes up the life of a lord,
What signifies title, sir? what are you worth?
When the Newmarket squad to the races go down,
They get news before the mail coaches come in;
By confederates and telegraphs station'd in town,
Plates, matches, and sweepstakes, who lose and who win.
(Speaking).
Off we set, by Jupiter, and for the first half mile you might have
cover'd us with a petticoat—We were neck to neck for two miles, as hard
as we cou'd lay leg to ground—I felt for him—found I had the foot—knew
my bottom—so I lay in the nick, under the wind—snug—whilst the other
jockey was digging and lapping—right and left—I left go—darted by him
like an arrow—took 'em all in—grip'd the gamblers—broke the blacklegs—I'm
the boy!—Never kill'd but one man, one woman, and one child in my
life—That's your sort! singing
By crossing and jostling much may be lost;
Pottatoes 'gainst diomond—I bet you, done! done!
I'll edge that bet off—I'm wrong side of the post:
The heat being over, the booths how they cram,
At the table EO this guinea I won;
Come, bring us more porter, more beef, and more ham,
Pray, sir, what's o'clock? Clock! zounds! my gold watch is gone.
(Speaking).
Hark you, you scoundrel, did you see any thing of my watch?
I can shell you a fery coot vatch. Did you vant any thing in my vay? buckles
or buttons.—I say, Moses, ha' you got any pork to sell?—Vat's dat to
you, you great pig blackguard?—Come, neighbours and friends, here's a
new song, entitled and call'd, the humour's of the turf.—I say, Moll, von't
you have a glass before you begin?—Walk in, walk in! shew 'em in there!
The greatest curiosity on the course, the live lion from Bengal in the East
Indies (yaw) only hear how he roars.—Stand back there, and make way
for that gentleman in the smock frock.—How do you like it, sir?—Why,
it's d---d stuff—There! there! only give it a character! (Yaw) Hear the
lion, how he sings
But accept this advice, ye who sit down to play,
He must have good luck, to be sure, that throws in,
The best throws o'th the dice is to throw them away:
Now, the race being over, away hurries miss,
Oh, dear, says mama, I've let my wig fall!
And I, says Miss Prue, have spoil'd my pelisse!
Let us now go and dress for the play and the ball.
(Speaking).
I say, Tom, that's a d---d fine wench.—Mem, if you are not
engag'd, I hope for the honor of your hand.—Oh, dear, sir!—Did you
ever see such a fright as that woman? and look at that man with his false
calves turn'd before.—only look, mama, at that impudent creature—I dare say
she han't sixteen, and yet she is ogling and leering at every fellow she meets.
Oh, fye for shame! fye for shame! what will this world come to?—Come,
come, sister, don't you forget when I found you behind the parlour door
with the captain.—Pshaw! brother, accidents will happen sometimes.
Pray, ma'am, what dance shall we call for? Why, call for
My song at an end, your hands give a smack;
I hope you won't censure a poor silly elf,
(Speaking).
(If you do, I might as well)
Rodger de Coverly.
Racking each poor simple noddy;
This impulse each briton obey'd again,
Stand firm, and be conquer'd by nobody:
The bantams exultingly crow,
With blows and thumps soon to crack our crown;
Serve their armies like bricks in a row,
Kick the first, and the rest will soon tumble down.
(Speaking).
Irish, Scotch, and Welch, all join in the glorious contest, whilst
every Briton sings
Like Punch with the devil, fight cleverly;
We'll shew you what Englishmen are,
And make you dance Rodger de Coverly.
Ka ba, wa wa, wa wa waw, eh, &c.
(Imitating punch for chorus).
They talk of invasion at random tho';
We'll fight 'em at home or afar,
Let em jaw, thof I don't understand 'em tho':
We sailors for fighting rank chief,
They neither can drive 'em nor lead 'em too;
For d---e, we feed upon beef,
And fight for our sovereign and freedom too.
(Speaking).
Who says we won't fight? And, I say, who says we can't fight?
Mayhap they think to find us off the watch! The British lion asleep in time
of danger—Avast! avast!—Let us only catch them within reach of our little
pop guns—Then
Shelaly's the word—whilst they sigh again;
Bad luck to the whole—and as for the rest of 'em,
To fight 'em wou'd prove all my eye again:
Shou'd we conquer, success to our capers,
But shou'd you be kill, with what pride again
And read how like soldiers you died again.
(Speaking).
For my own part I understand French perfectly well, provided
it's spoken in Irish; and when I was abroad, I chalenged a french corporal
to play at back sword with me, and I gave him a lick, and knock'd off his
head; and by the hokey, he never missd it 'till he went to put on his nightcap:
and that's the way I intend to sarve every mother's son of 'em. Then,
North Britons their courage will shew again;
Neptune ga' you command o'th' wave,
To lug back your insolent foe again:
With Andrew Feraras, so bright,
We cut and we slash aw before 'em too;
Ken ye well how a Scotchman can fight,
And then dance the reel Tullock Gorum too.
(Speaking).
Out a wa', mon! Ken ye we'll wha' did the wark at Egypt?
Wha' but the brave General Abercrombie—wha's name will be handed down
to a' posterity—and shou'd the French attempt to land here, we'll drive 'em,
like a countrymon o' my ain, wha went to steal apples fra' another mon's
orchard, and the mon speering him creeping through the edge, cried, whither
are you ganging?—“Back again.” says Sawney.—And that's the way
we'll serve them a'.—Then,
I appeal to your courage and sense again;
United, shake hands each like brothers too,
One and all join in England's defence again:
Our fathers' supported the cause,
Shall we lose it? never, no never, boys:
Stand firm to religion and laws,
King George and our country, for ever, boys.
(Speaking).
If the French seek our beef and pudding, we must try to cut their
fingers in the attempt; for however we may differ a little about politics, we
all unite in the common cause, and even our children sing,
A Medley Song.
Hush! every breeze; let nothing move; My Delia sings, and sings—
I did not much like for to go aboard of ship,
I lik'd—
All the charms, all the charms of—
The true last dying speech and confession, birth, parentage, and education, life, character, and behaviour, of—
Blush'd black as a crow, his fair lady did blush light,
The clock struck 12, they were tuck'd in bed,—
Says he, my dearest Nell o,
I'll kiss you here, by this good light,
Lord, what a—
Charming Clorinda—
More blithe than May-day morn,—
But she had a timber toe; but she had a gimlet eye; and she had—
Pretty damsels, ugly damsels, black hair'd damsels, red hair'd damsels, Six-foot damsels, three-foot damsels, pale-fac'd damsels, plump-fac'd damsels, Small-leg'd damsels, thick-leg'd damsels, dainty damsels, dowdy damsels, Pretty, ugly, black-hair'd, red-hair'd, six foot, three foot, pale-fac'd, plump-fac'd, small-leg'd, thick-leg'd, dainty, dowdy, all run, all run after—
Diddle diddle dumplings, my son John,
Went to bed with his breeches on;
One shoe off, and—
Oh, what pleasure will abound,
Oh, what pleasure will abound,
When my wife lies under—
Great George our king,
Long live our noble king,
God save the king.
Send him—
Bacon, beans, salt beef and cabbage, butter, milk, and—
Sing ka ba, ba ba, ba wa wow, eh. Shew 'em in there! Mr. Punch, what
is the matter with you? Do you know I once made 1000 Frenchmen run?
(imitating punch)
How run? After me, you fool, to be sure. Ba**a**w.
(imitating a lion)
Shew 'em in, there! Only hear the lion how he sings—
And he caus'd the bells to ring;
He kick'd out of doors—
Five-and-twenty parliament-men all on a row—there was Lord McIville and Mr. Whitbread, up to their elbows in suds; bucking away, trussing up—Ah, goody, goody, you and I are the only people that work hard for bread, all other work is merely fiddle faddle, diddle daddle, double simi dimi quibble, down below—It is my lady's birth-day, therefore, we'll sing—
And to each hearty cock that's deserving the name;
And long life to King George, for he's cock of the game,
With his tuck tuck, tuck, fal de ral, lal de ral—
tuck, tuck, tuck, fal de ral, lal de ral— (crow like a cock)
—fal de ral, la ral lal, fal de ral la.
| A collection of comic songs | |