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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The Humours of the Turf.
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 | A collection of comic songs |  |
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)
| A collection of comic songs | |