Mirth and Metre :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bold as when the forest's lord,
Roused by departing day,
By force nor howling tempests aw'd,
Forth issues to the prey;
So goes the tar, by glory call'd,
By foe or fate so unappall'd,
The angry deep to try;
To conquer or to die!
But, as the lamb in rural shade,
On shore no thoughts his mind pervade,
But what with peace agree;
'Tis then his best delight to prove,
The joys of friendship and of love,
With sweet humanity!
Then comes the feast of a jovial soul,
To laugh and sing and drain the bowl,
And drink, with a gallant three times three,
“Britannia! George! and Liberty!”

The music of this and following Songs may be had at the various Music Shops in Town.

THE BONNY SAILOR.

In vain a flattering part you play,
My little heart to steal away;

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I can no more control it.
Your fruitless pleading then forego,
My heart I cannot give—no! no!
Because another stole it.
Ah! well-a-way! a heart I lack,

And some one is its jailor;
But I know who will bring it back,
My bonny, bonny sailor!

Then pr'ythee, sir, do cease to teaze,
You may perplex, but cannot please;
For fate, who can control it?
Ah, would I fain my hand bestow.
I have no heart to give—no! no!
Heigh-ho! another stole it.

Ah! well-a-way, &c.

THE SPORTSMAN.

A True sportsman am I, for the game once in view,
With unrestrain'd ardour the chace I pursue;
Dash fearless along, in despite of control,
Break down every barrier; game! game! to the soul!
Nor give my mark'd victim one moment's replevy,
With, to her! hark, forward, boys! yoicks! and tantivy!

A fig for the man who, embark'd in the chace,
To fear or impediment ever gives place!
A true sportsman, resolv'd, dashes thro' thick and thin,
He may be at fault, but he never gives in;
Nor allows the game started one moment's replevy,
With, to her, &c.

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LOOK YOU NOW!

There is a proferb ferry old,
Look you now! look you now;
If hur prudence must be told,
Look, &c.
This proferb is of golden rules,
Fery coot to caution fools—
“Never meddle with edge-tools.”
Look you now, &c.

There is a fable pat enough,
Look, &c.
A snake once lick'd a file so rough;
Look, &c.
So tore her tongue above, beneath,
Hur wish'd hur had not left the heath,
But “kept hur tongue between hur teeth.”
Look, &c.

A story fery coot I've heard,
Look, &c.
There was a Turk who wore a peard;
Look, &c.
'Twas all hur pride, till once a clown
Pull'd it so—when, with a frown,
The angry turk was knock hur down!
Look, &c.

RUSTIC PHILOSOPHER.

A Lord, tho' so great, half so happy mayn't be.
As a clodhopping country lad, like I;
No matters of steat
E'er addle my peat,
But I whistles, and whoop-ge-wo! I cry.

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Then cherry-cheek'd Patty, that lives i'the vale,
I help o'er the style wi' her milking-pail,
For I'ze summat like notion of Patty, it's true,
And I know what I knows, but—I munna tell you!
Fal de ral.

I'ze healthy and strong, and willing to work,
So when the lark rises, out trudges I,
The keaws up I call,
Or harness our Ball,
Then I whistles, and whoop-ge-wo! I cry.
Then I'ze fifty good shillings, my luck has been such,
And a lad mayn't be grinn'd at that's gotten so much;
Then Patty like notion of me's summat too,
And I knows, &c.

ADAM DOZEY.

My name's Adam Dozey,
So comic and cozey,
I'm clerk of the parish, what then?
If you ask me to drink,
I say, what d'ye think?
What, a parish clerk should say Amen!

For by goles and by jingo,
I do love good stingo,
It makes me so wond'rous merry!
So puts me in tune,
I could jump o'er the moon,
Then dance and sing, hey down derry.

Besides, I'm town-crier,
And that makes me drier,
So the fact, if I'm ask'd to drink, this,
As a sober clerk, tho'
I'd fain say, “O, no!”
As town-crier, I bawl out, “O, yes!”
For by goles, &c.

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LOVE'S BELLMAN.

Susan.
Be quiet, and let me alone, I beseech!

Cheatall.
Nay, carry no more this farce on,

Susan.
'Tis in vain, tho' all day you stand preaching—

Dozey.

—He preach?

He looks very much like a parson.

S.
I wish you was hang'd.

(To Cheatall.
D.
—Amen!

C.
—Sirrah, hark!
Why do you say Amen?

D.
—Because I'm the clerk.

C.
(To Sus.)
Would I'd ne'er seen that face, for my heart,
I've lost by it—

D.
Lost! what have you lost? here's my bell, and I'll cry it.
O, yes! O, yes!
Lost, when I have forget,
Mislaid, how I cannot swear;
Stol'n, I don't know what,
And stray'd, I don't know where!
Whoever finds it safe and well,
And brings it fair and true,
Shall have, how much I cannot tell,
Paid by I don't know who;
And no more will I cry this thing,
Nor they reward pay higher—
O, yes! O, yes! God save the king!

C.
And let us hang the crier.

C.,S.,D.,
The devil take your company.
(To Dozeyboard.
Do Dozey, keep us company,
We're all exceeding company.

C.,S.,D.,
With rage I shall expire,
Or else I must retire,
What more can you desire?

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D.
So let us sing, God save the king!

C.,S.,D.,
And let us hang the crier.
But never hang the crier.

HEAVE AND WEIGH THE ANCHOR.

In fortune's face let who will fly,
A tar must always thank her;
Not weigh a care, nor heave a sigh,
But heave and weigh the anchor.
Aloft or below,
While the breezes blow,
'Tis luff! belay;
Yo! ho! yo, yea!
Then he'll drink his grog,
Like a jolly dog,
And heave and weigh the anchor.

For Britain ev'ry thing he'll dare,
In Fame's best list to rank her;
In every storm his dearest care,
To bring her to an anchor.
Aloft or below, &c.

MAMMOTH AND BUONAPARTE.

Of all the sights in London town, that take the folk's attention,
The Mammoth is a wond'rous form, of monstrous huge dimensions;
'Twas brought from North America, and on it wags are smart, Sir,
For as it is a skeleton, they call it Bonypart, Sir.
Bow, wow, &c.

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This Mammoth any day you'll see, your course to Pall-Mall keeping,
And when you're there, you only need a shilling to pay for peeping;
Its fame reach'd France, and Bonyparte he wanted it to view, Sir;
Then let him come, and when he does, he'll pay for peeping too, Sir.
Bow, &c.

Like Bonaparte, there's few can make of Mammoth head or tail, Sir;
Some say 'tis this, some say 'tis that, and some say 'tis a whale, Sir:
And most folks, since the little man has such odd capers shewn-a,
They wish the Mammoth was a whale, and Bonyparte was Jonah.
Bow, &c.

To buy this Mammoth France propos'd, but Bonyparte he said, Sir,
“I'll have it as a lawful prize when England I invade, Sir;
'Twill all be fish that comes to net, then wherefore need we buy? Sir.”
Says John Bull, “if you do come, you'll have other fish to fry, Sir.”
Bow, &c.

The Consul cried, “Much may be said upon my plan intended.”
John Bull replied, “I'm apt to think the least said's soonest mended.”
Says Bony, “Tho' invasion is all hazard, I'll not lag, Sir.”
Cried John, “You'll win, if hazard you can play as well as brag, Sir.”
Bow, &c.

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Then little Boney, to look big as Mammoth, stretch'd his wizen, Sir,
And ordered all the English folks at Paris into prison, Sir;
But we'll return the compliment, if Bonyparte we meet, Sir,
And with a Habeas Corpus serve his worship from the Fleet, Sir.
Bow, &c.

ASS IN THE LION's SKIN.

In the fables of Æsop you'll read, if inclin'd,
A Jack-ass quite simple, like most of his kind,
The skin of a Lion once happen'd to find;
So to playing his tricks must begin;
Quite conceited, upon this expedient he hits,
Tries it on, and the skin rather awkwardly fits;
But he frighten'd the peasants all out of their wits,
Did the Ass in the Lion's skin.

Grown bold by their panic, he strutted about,
And all the old women he put to the rout,
Till a Lion he fancied himself without doubt;
Or else to a Lion a-kin;
But attempting to roar, of his trick for a tag,
He bray'd, and so let the cat out of the bag,
And got a good basting for playing at brag,
Did the Ass in the Lion's skin.

To the Corsican Chief, running fortune's strange round,
The consular skin of a Lion he found,
And manag'd to wear it; his wishes thus crown'd,
He thought all to him would give in,
But the bray for the roar, the deception now clears,
And he'll find among us, if he madly appears,
The Lion of England will soon crop the ears
Of the Ass with the Lion's skin.

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RECRUITING SERJEANT.

All day I've been tramping, with fife and with drum,
And looking to see if recruits would but come;
But in vain, for to list not a creature appears,
From the peer to the peasant, all turn volunteers.
Row, dow, dow.

I offer them money, but offer in vain,
They cry, “We're all soldiers for glory, not gain!”
A crown and a guinea I offer them down,
They the guinea refuse, but stand up for the crown.
Row, dow, dow.

To take money for 'listing, so little will suit,
They not only serve free, but give money to boot;
So the French may beware, and not here seek renown,
For if they don't knock under, why we'll knock 'em down.
Row, dow, dow.

AMAZONIAN CLUB.

OMNES.
Sure such a time was never known in history;
I hope our propositions will be pass'd nem. con.
For sure neither parliament, club, conclave, nor consistory,
Had such important matters to debate upon.

LADY PRESIDENT.
Ladies, this subject I of course must first be heard in,
But if you all together talk, I cannot get a word in.

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1 Lady.
What's the motion?

2
—Put the question.

3
—Read the resolution—

4
— What's the order of the day?

5
—About the constitution.

6
—I vote—

7
—And I move—

1
—I second—

Pres.
Second what, ma'am?

1
—The motion.

Pres.
—What was it?

1
—'Pon my honour I forgot, ma'am.

Pres.
The motion that I mean to put—

1
I second—

2
And I'm third on't.

6 or 7 Voices.
O, yes, we're all determin'd—

President.
Not to hear a single word on't.

OMNES.
Attention! the chair! hear! hear! we're all unanimous;
Then read the resolutions, and to vote proceed.

PRESIDENT.
Bonaparte, who turn'd Mahometan, and kept the Turkish ramazens,
Has sworn that he'll invade us, and Britain overthrow.
It surely then becomes us, who are true British Amazons—

1 and 2 Ladies.
There's not much doubt of that, as our husbands know;

Pres.
It behoves us, I say, that we stand up for the nation,
Then in honour of the petticoat, let's form association.

1
— I'm sure there's ne'er a lady here, will stick, if she is wise, out,

2
— And if the Frenchmen dare invade—

Omnes.
We'll surely scratch their eyes out!

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1
We'll awe the foe when our bold corps all martially array'd is;

2
No doubt of that, since no one can for conquest match the ladies.

Pres.
For Frenchmen then a button, since, unless they truth dissemble,
E'en Englishmen must own that the White Serjeant makes 'em tremble.

Omnes.
Then muster, then muster, let's all go volunteering;
A corps of British Amazons to camp repair.

BRITISH AMAZONS.

In Briton of old,
There were Amazons bold;
Boadicea, whose fame will long stand,
The Romans withstood,
And expended her blood,
In defence of the rights of this land,
She did,
In defence of the rights of this land.

Then fame too has seen,
How Third Edward's brave queen,
When (expecting of plunder large sums,)
He invaded this spot,
She took David the Scot,
As we'll take Bonaparte, if he comes.
We will,
We'll, &c.

Many more too had birth,
But none of more worth

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Than Queen Bess, can our hist'ry advance;
Who taught haughty Spain,
Their attempts were all vain,
And we'll teach the same lesson to France,
We will,
We'll teach, &c.

Then since Amazon means,
Women, (Peasants, or Queens,)
Who than life prizing honour far more,
Resist foes that invade,
May she die an old maid,
Who wouldn't belong to our corps.
Huzza!
Who, &c.

CHRONICLE OF COUNTIES.

If the Frenchman a landing should win,
In each county they'd find we're not slugs;
Then with the Land's End to begin,
In Cornwall they'd get Cornish hugs;
In Devon they'd dread Plymouth fort,
Find boxers in Somersetshire;
And in Dorset they'd meet pretty sport,
From the lads who drink Dorchester beer.

Herts and Wiltshire would teach 'em to fight,
In Bucks as sure game they'd be taken;
In Barkshire they'd find we could bite,
And in Hampshire they'd not save their bacon:
In Middlesex would they be popping,
Or Sussex, their ground they'd not keep;
In Kent we'd soon send them a hopping,
In Bedfordshire send them to sleep.

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In Essex their calveskins we'll curry,
In Huntingdon chase the freebooters;
And if they come sporting to Surry,
They'll find Surry rangers sharp-shooters;
Glo'ster, Wo'ster, and Monmouthshire, thro',
Or Oxford, they'll never find passes;
And a conflict they'll pretty well rue,
With the Warwickshire lads and their lasses.

They'll by Hereford cyder get sour'd;
In Northampton and Rutland lose battle,
In Suffolk they'll surely get scow'r'd,
And in Lincolnshire all be prize cattle;
In Leicestershire sheep with the tetters,
In Staffordshire ware that soon breaks,
In Darbyshire subjects for fetters,
In Shropshire mere Shrewsbury cakes.

Norfolk dumplings their taste wouldn't please,
And they'll prove, in despite of their splutter,
In Cheshire mere mites in a cheese,
While in Cambridge we'll churn 'em like butter;
There's Yorkshire, and counties about,
Too far North are for Frenchmen to win,
And the counties, whose names I've left out,
I'll be d—d if the French will get in.

PIPE ALL HANDS.

We three jolly tars be,
Such odd fish as tars seldom caught are;
A sort of amphiberous animals we,
Who live by land and by water.
On shore we drinks, fiddles, and dances away,
At sea fights all manner of force,
And as how that we conquers, one needn't say,
Because you know that comes of course.

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So let's be funny, never foggy,
Dance and sing, and all be groggy;
Pipe all hands, care's anchor weigh,
With a fol, lol, lol, and a yo! yo! yea!

DWARF.

I'm the little dwarf of the great Giant Grumbo,
My name's Whackum-Thwackum-Whi'hee I'hee-Hurlo-Thrumbo!
Master's hat is like an hackney-coach, his head is such a spanker,
A mainmast is his walking-stick, his tooth-pick is an anchor.
'Twas but last week, the thing much laughter would provoke,
He pocketed a waggon and eight horses, for a joke;
The driver miss'd the waggon, and inquir'd of all the people,
So my master by the waistband hung him dangling on the steeple.
Ho! he! ho! whi! he! he! tol lol.

Fee! faw! fum! goes the great Giant Grumbo,
Frightens Whackum, &c.
My master eat six aldermen, he would as I'm a sinner,
For his breakfast, and a whole corporation for his dinner;
Drinks like a fish, but swigging water i'n't his way,
For he tipp'd off a hogshead of brandy t'other day;
But the brandy had been smuggled, so my master, like a wise man,
To prevent an information, he swallow'd the exciseman.
Ho! he! ho! &c.

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TIPPLING WATERMAN.

I a tippling Waterman am, I declare,
And I drink like a fish, all the people they swear,
But against such a charge I beg leave to cry quarter,
For, d—m it, your fishes drink nothing but water;
Whole gallons I swig, 'till distilling apace,
In pints and in quarts they come out on my face.
Fol lol!

As a Waterman, when I see liquor afloat,
Is it strange that I wish to “row in the same boat?”
Or 'tween England and France, as I carry each rover,
Is't less so I now and then get “half seas over.”
Your fresh water sailors my plan may decry,
But salt water makes one so monstrously dry.

Another reason, why for drinking I wish,
Is, my mother she long'd for a bottle-nos'd fish;
Then my wife loves a drop, and you'll own, if you've candour,
“What's good for the goose, must be good for the gander;”
In defence of my cause, I've another good stay,
You know that a Waterman should pull away;
Fol lol.

THE PILGRIM.

Young Adela is a lady gay,
And born of high degree;
Her costly robes she threw away,
For a holy vow made she;
And drest in humble pilgrim's weeds,
Went Adela forth to tell her beads.

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Heigh! ho! ah, well-a-day!
Sighing and crying, O, weary is the way!

From gay Brabant fair Adela came,
Her lovers left behind;
Her bosom warm'd with holy flame,
Jerusalem to find!
And drest in humble pilgrim's weeds,
Fair Adela comes to tell her beads.
Heigh! ho! &c.

SONG.

A Master I have, on yon mountain he dwells,
And a wicked old devil is he;
A servant he has, who all other excels,
And that very good servant is me.
Hey, diddle, &c.

My master he is of assassins the prince,
But if he should hear me clack
About him, tho' the matter he mightn't mince,
I'm sure he'd mince me in a crack.
Hey, diddle, &c.

He kills in cold blood, it one's patience provokes,
Jews, Christians, and Turks, great and small;
So I fancy, like some of your monstrous great folks,
He's of no religion at all.
Hey, diddle, &c.

He look'd at me to-day like the fiend of ill-luck,
As if me and my arms, the whole tote,
He'd have swallow'd, and at it I don't think had stuck,
But I should have stuck in his throat.
Hey, diddle, &c.

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IRISH VOYAGE.

Mr. Leonard O'Leary's my christian surname,
And a long while ago from Kilkenny I came;
My friends and relations I gave them the slip,
And went as a bold horse-marine 'board a ship.

On a voyage of discovery we sail'd to our cost,
For we found on this shore that our vessel was lost:
I look'd for myself, grah! as soon as I cou'd,
And found myself sticking chin-deep in the mud.

The natives flock'd round me, and laugh'd every soul,
For I look'd all the world like a toad in the hole;
Says I, “Jontlemen, let compassion prevail,
And just pull out my head, for thereby hangs a tail.”

Against the big rocks the ould ship being stav'd,
Not a bit but what went to the bottom was sav'd;
Then no soul sav'd their lives, but myself and three more,
And they were found lying stone dead on the shore.

To live with the savages now was my lot,
And soon found a pretty snug birth I had got;
How d'ye think I came over each tawny fac'd rogue?
Why, English I taught with an Irish brogue.

SHEPHERD's BOY.

Young Perkins is a shepherd's lad,
Fal, lal, lack-a-daisy!
Highty! tighty! never sad,
Merry-mad cap, so was dad,
But now grown old, he says “tis bad!”
Fal, lal, &c.

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Harum, scarum! never cool,
Fal, &c.
Dad says, I'm beyond all rule,
Last April day was whipp'd at school,
But I made master April fool!
Fal, &c.

HONESTY.

Diogenes, who was a wag in his way,
Took a lanthorn and candle one sunshiny day,
For a man that was honest to search all about,
But before he could find one the candle went out.
Tol de rol.

He search'd among lawyers, but only could find
That law was expensive, and justice was blind;
“Enquire of our patients,” the doctors all said,
He look'd for the patients, but they were all dead.
Tol de rol.

So with every profession he found it parade,
Like the threats of our foes, Britain's shore to invade,
Let 'em come, they'll be welcome, my phrase do not huff,
For I'm sure their reception will be warm enough.
Tol de rol.

OLD MARGERY.

When I was little, as she is now,
Lack-a-day, well-a-day, marry go to!
Bottled ale wasn't half so brisk, I vow,
But what can Old Margery do?
Margery Trott was the name of my mother,
She ne'er was of spirits bereft;
And once I was like her, as one pea another,
But now I've got no spirits left—

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And at my time of day much spirits one's needing,
For life is a lamp that always wants feeding.
Heigh ho!

Dame Fortune often has given me a twitch,
Lack-a-day, well-a-day, marry go to!
Once I was taken up for a witch,
What could Old Margery do?
Counsellor Squab cried, “pass sentence upon her,
She's a conjuring witch!” what an elf!
“I'm no more of a conjuror,” I said, “your honor,
No more than your worship's own self.”
'Tis a troublesome life, so our fortunes to mottle,
Time's glass will run out, (drinks) and so will my bottle!
Heigh ho!

THE WOLF ROBBER.

My father stole mother from school,
My mother with him stole a match;
And you know very well the old rule,
That those who “harm watch, may harm catch;”
So my father a cunning man told,
A robber this stolen match would cross;
And my mother said, when a year old,
I look'd more like a thief than a horse.
Tol, &c.

To sell fish-hooks, my dad didn't scorn,
And that is the cause, I dare say,
I with fish-hooks for fingers was born,
For they catch all that comes in their way.
The parish collector was dad,
And by it got plenty of pelf,
So seeing the trade wasn't bad,
I set up collector myself.
Tol, &c.

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Long my trade pretty well I've pursu'd,
Sometimes banging, at other times bang'd;
And catch me they would if they could,
But faith, if they do I'll be hang'd!
Yet hanging's an odd sort of strife,
And perpaps it's prophetic of wreck,
That I've always been subject thro' life
To catching a crick in my neck.
Tol, &c.

MAGGIE O'THE HIGHLANDS.

Maggie o'the Highlands
Was unco' bra', unco' bra!
Maggie fra' the Highlands
Gang'd awa', gang'd awa'!
I loo'd her mair than ony,
Blythe was she as fairy queen,
Nane lilted half so bonny,
Or danc'd sa featly o' the green.
Tul, lul.

Maggie o'the Highlands,
She came ne mair, came ne mair;
Maggie's fra' the Highlands,
Ken ye where? ken ye where?
To me then a' she's dearer,
Her I seek wi mickle pain,
O, gin I aince mair speer her,
My dancing days will back again.
Tul, tul.

BRITANNIA.

Britannia is a noble ship,
Her colours are true blue,
Her hull is royal heart of oak,
And heart of oak her crew:

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Her riggings tight for every tack,
Her planks without a starter;
The gallant union is a' her jack,
Her sheathing Magna Charta.

How gallantly she bears her port,
The ocean's pride and dread;
The envied cap of liberty,
Adorns her glorious head;
Her pride is commerce to increase,
In war she is no starter;
But may she anchor soon in peace,
Secur'd by Magna Charta.

NEW BROOMS.

Brooms! brooms! who buys by brooms,
The money in no waste consumes;
My brooms are new, and, Sirs, I ween,
You'll all allow “new brooms sweep clean.”
Then, friends, for money quickly search,
I've hair brooms, heath brooms, brooms of birch;
And should the birch trade fail, 'twere odd,
If all who need it had the rod.

Brooms! brooms! why buys my brooms!
Brooms! brooms! 'tis no new trade,
What fortunes are by sweeping made!
The broom of law won't leave a rush;
The broom of physic makes you brush:
France taught with air-balloons to rise,
“To sweep the cobwebs off the skies.”
But let them sweep whate'er they please,
'Tis Britain only sweeps the seas.
Brooms! brooms! who buys my brooms?

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JOHN BULL.

John Bull is my name,
None my spirit can tame,
I'm upright and downright with all;
I laugh and grow fat,
Crack my joke, and all that,
And live at old Liberty Hall.

Some neighbours of mine,
At my freehold repine,
And envy my snug little box;
My house down they'd pull,
And cut up John Bull,
As if he was but a prize ox.

On our beef they'd incline,
Without welcome to dine,
But they'd soon find themselves quite mistaken;
For should they take French leave
To cut at our beef,
They'd find hard work to save their own bacon.

FAMILY PARTIES.

If all birds of a feather together should meet,
Och! surely the sight would divert you,
To see monkies and beauxs would be surely a treat,
Pack'd up in a family party;
Retailers of scandal, wid venom'd-tooth'd rats,
Crabb'd critics wid owls, politicians wid bats,
And twenty old maids wid a score tabby cats,
What a snug little family party!

185

Jack-asses and orators, all in big wigs,
Would be braying together so hearty,
Dancing bears, and play actors, and fine learned pigs,
Another tight family party;
Wid placemen and gamesters, all at the odd trick,
And death wid de doctors, monstrously thick,
Beside all de lawyers, along wid Ould Nick,
A monstrous fine family party!

Fine women together, would throng in a herd,
May de likes of 'em never desert you;
An may I make a bull in the shape of a bird,
But I'd like to make one of the party;
May beauty her blessings to honest men bring,
And peace in our island long make us all sing,
While Britannia, her sons, and their father the king,
Make a true loving family party!

THE CONGRESS.

Suppose ev'ry empire and state
In Congress were met, and should start,
As the theme of review and debate,
The projects of fam'd Bonaparte;
John Bull, as the speaker assign'd—
Yet, instead of the speaker, 'twere odd,
If Bony in coming don't find,
John Bull usher of the black rod.

Says Sweden, “my Charles was a mad one,
But Bonaparte's madder than he;”
Says Naples, “the Consul's a bad one,”
Says Holland, “he kom to make free;”
Says John Bull, “why, Dutchman, it's thus,
Of freedom he makes a great puff,
And it's known to both you and the Swiss,
That Bony can make free enough.”

186

Says Italy, “of him I'm sick;”
Says Portugal, “right he perverts;”
“Yet by him,” says Spain, “I must stick;”
Says the German, “he sticks in my skirts;”
Cries the Turk, “how in Egypt he'd brag,
His insolence I could scarce brook it,
There he bore an invincible flag;”—
“Yes, I know,” says John Bull, “for I took it.”

Says America, “he's a slave-driver;”
Says Russia, “he'll soon drive us all,
If we don't find some able contriver,
To quiet this Gorgon of Gaul;”
Says Prussia, “at all of us dashing,
What he wants tis quite easy to see;”
“Yes,” says John Bull, “he wants a good thrashing,
And, d---n him, he'll get it from me.”

THE SEASONS.

How chearful I be when I hear the lark sing,
As nature awakes to the morning of spring;
When I see my lambs frolic, and hear my kine low,
And swains carol, careless, a field as they go;
I whistle and sing, and with joy my heart swells,
While the tabor strikes up, or ding dong go the bells.

When summer advances, my pleasures increase,
As I reckon my gains from the newly-shorn fleece;
And list to my team, tinkling far thro' the glade,
While I rest after labour at eve in the shade.
I whistle, &c.

When autumn's rich store to my granaries come,
A welcome sincere crowns our blythe harvest home;
Winter winds up my song, social pleasures abound,
And the tale and the flagon go merrily round.
I whistle, &c.

187

RODERICK O'MAC-WHACK-FINUGINO.

I'm a Paddy, you'll hear by the sight of my brogue,
My name's Mr. Rod'rick O'Mac-Whack-Finugino,
I was born wid no shirt, in swate Balinahogue,
And christen'd by Father O`Dominie Dugino;
The reverend father was wonderful frisky,
He lov'd holy water—but mix'd it wid whisky,
And in pastoral zeal gave me this ghostly warning,

(Mr. Finugino, says he, take my word for it, and the word of a christian,)

“If you're drunk over night, you'll be dry the next morning.”

And, arrah, faith, that was my case now—but if I had known, I should have been so dry this morning, to be sure I wouldn't have drunk more last night—but that's all

Botherum! ditherum! noodledum! doodledum!
Patrick's day in the morning.

He told me a deal about pedigree, fait,
Said his blood was as thick as the best lord's in Christerdom,
(Thinks I, that accounts for your thick-headed pate)
So he told all his ancestors names, while I listen'd 'em;
He knew them all pat, save his father, poor elf,
Case his mother of him wa'n't quite certain herself,
And this on the subject was all I'could gather,

(My dear Roderick, would he say, I know, and you know, and all the world knows,) He must be a wise child who knows his own father;

Och! what a pedigree it was! it reached all the way from Adam and Eve in Paradise, to the Adam and Eve in Tottenham-court-road; and he drank so often, to refresh

188

his memory, that the devil a sup he left in the noggin for us. “Father,” says I, “what are you doing?” —“O, Mr. Finugeno,” says he, “you are bent upon getting drunk; and ant I, like a charitable Christian, and the keeper of your conscience, preventing you, by taking the sin upon myself? but you've no more gratitude than

Bother, &c.

The father for bull making had a strange whim,
And got great wid Miss Judy, the brat of O'Rollocher,
But Judy she made a complete bull of him,
Wid blinking ey'd, wooden-legg'd, Darby O'Gallocher;
But Darby thus prov'd he'd not not make him a beast,
Had Teddy been my child, said he, to the priest,
(For no soul than Darby cou'd joke more demurely),

“Father O`Dominic,” says he, “is'n't it naturable enough for a child to take after his own father?”—“To be sure,” says the priest. “Then,” replied Darby, “if the child had been mine,

He must have been born with a wooden leg, surely.”

“Mister Finugino,” says he, “you can't think how this proof of Judy's vartue eased my heart; Och, blood and ouns! the thought of it often made my head ach.” —“I don't doubt it,” says I. “For,” says he, “I was always the tenderest father; and, apropos, to finish the noggin, I'll give you a toast—“May the hard-hearted father never know what it is to have a child.”

Bother, &c.

RUSTIC COQUETTE.

Once a maiden went a maying,
Rosy cheeks, and sparkling eye,
Near the spot a shepherd straying,
Tun'd his reed so merrily;

189

With this maid he would be cooing,
Fal, lal, &c.
But she answer'd to his wooing,
Fal, lal, &c.

O, he vow'd her cheeks were blooming,
O, he swore her eyes were bright,
Lips were coral, breath perfuming,
And her skin was lily white;
Vow'd that for her he was dying,
Fal, lal, &c.
She to all his vows replying,
Fal, lal, &c.

Thus coquetting lost her lover;
Soon the hapless story spread,
Not a swain would now approve her,
Every maid but she was wed;
Maids be warn'd by her proceeding,
Fal, lal, &c.
Lest down stairs you should be leading,
Fal, lal, &c.

MARINER's COMPASS.

When a sailor goes to sea,
Merrily, cherrily, yo! yo! yo!
A weather the helm, or a lee,
He sings aloft, or below,
Rifol, derol, &c.
When a foe appears,
The deck he clears,
And, d---e, he comes it so,

(Putting himself in attitude of defence.)

190

Bold and bluff,
Till his man has enough,
And then it's yo! heave ho!
Fol, lol, &c.

When a sailor comes a shore,
Merrily, &c.
Stor'd with gold galore,
He's but an odd fish we know,
Rifol, &c.
But on shore as at sea,
If a foe there be,
D---e, he comes it so.

(Drawing his cutlass.)

Bold, &c.

When a sailor's spent his chink,
Merrily, &c.
As he can't stay a shore to think,
To sea again he must go,
Rifol, &c.
For his country's right,
Like the devil will fight,
And, d---e, he comes it so.

Bold, &c.

(Fires a pistol.)

SAILOR's JOURNAL.

I Unshipp'd from a board the Sky Rocket,
At seven P. M. and half past,
An odd guinea burnt in my pocket,
And, d---e, why that was my last;
To spend it at eight, and get groggy,
I swore; at half past eight thought as how
I wouldn't, because when I'm foggy,
I'm sartain to kick up a row.
Fol, &c.

191

At nine Betty Sly overhaul'd me,
The guinea, says I, get you sha'n't,
For tho' your true blue boy you call me,
The yellow boy, hussey, you want;
At ten a Jew wanted to bone it,
Says I, Smouchee, I won't buy your stuff,
And, d'ye mind, tho' pork you disown it,
You like guinea-pigs well enough.
Fol, &c.

At eleven I pip'd like a ninny,
To see an old tar in distress,
So I took and I gave him the guinea,
And, splice me, how could I do less?
At twelve sail'd to old Mother Crocket,
At whose house I'd thrown hundreds about,
But I hadn't a kick in my pocket,
So she soon enough kick'd me out.
Fol, &c.

The rain was most preciously pouring,
In a watch-box I look'd for a bed,
But the old woman in it was snoring,
So I kept the watch in his stead;
To me watching wa'n't a new notion,
Thro' many a terrible squall
For old England I've watch'd on the ocean,
And her watch-word is, “Liberty Hall!”
Fol, &c.

GOOD SHIP BRITANNIA.

Old England's a ship of the line, do you mind,
The Britannia; no force can withstand her;
Her old wooden walls defy quick-sands and winds,
And the king, heaven bless him, commander;

192

Lieutenants, you know, are your lords, and them there;
Then midshipman, many a grose on,
Are your big wigs and justices; then my lord-mayor,
Why, d---e, he must be the boatswain.
Then pull away, yeo! yea!
Merry push the can about,
Drink success to the good ship Britannia.

Chaplains, stewards, and cooks, you may very soon name,
And the mess just as easy be filling;
Of doctors and gunners, for they're all the same,
As they're both of them dabsters at killing;
But for lawyers one can't find a station so pat,
For their likes on board never caught are,
Except cat and nine tails, and if they an't that,
They must be sharks in the water.
Then pull, &c.

Prime min'ster is purser, and when the bag's full,
He empties it, state cares to soften,
And then, as ship-owner, his honour John Bull,
Must fill it, and that pretty often;
But his honour, John Bull, is as rich as a Jew,
And swears, to the length of his cable,
He'll stick to Britannia, and pray wou'dn't you,
Aye, d---e, as long as you're able.
Pull away, &c.

KNIGHT ERRANT.

This knight-errant trade sure never will cease,
Dashing and clashing away!
This knight, &c.
When, unless a man's fighting he can't be at peace;

193

With his capering,
Vapouring,
Broad sword and rapiering,
Cut and thrust,
Yield you must,
Dine on a mouldy crust;
Dashing and splashing away.

You meet with a man, as he rides thro' the town,
Dashing, &c.
You first bid him stand, and then knock him down,
With his, &c.

Away packing you send him, when you've done that,
Dashing, &c.
With his head in his hand instead of his hat;
With his, &c.

Cross buttocks we bellies full meet, to our grief,
Dashing, &c.
I'm sure I'd much rather have buttock of beef.
With his, &c.

To conquer this dragon my master wont fail,
Dashing, &c.
When he cuts off his head, I'll cut off his tail.
With his, &c.

When the dragon is dead, I'll feast like a horse;
Dashing, &c.
For a supper to find half so light I'm at loss,
As a fine devil'd dragon and crocodile sauce.
With his, &c.

194

PRIZE CATTLE.

Name of Antler I bear, I came from Horn fair,
I physic, bleed, blister, and scrub,
All the hornified state
Cow-pox propagate,
And am clerk to the Prize Cattle Club.
Tol lol, &c.

Of Prize Cattle, know we've a fine list on shew,
Just ready to kill, roast, and boil;
Perfect pictures to view, the wags cry, that's true,
For they're all executed in oil.
Tol lol, &c.

(Alluding to oil-cakes.)

This town you may dub
A Prize Cattle Club,
'Twill specimens plenty supply,
Doctor's Commons you'll find,
Abound with horn'd kind,
But the price is confoundedly high.
Tol lol, &c.

The French our prize meat
Sadly wanted to eat,
But peace cut the matter quite brief;
They made a strong pull,
To cut up John Bull,
And stew him to alamode beef.
Tol lol, &c.

May exertions ne'er cease,
Good beef to increase,
For Britons that food orthodox,
For our fame without bar,
Couldn't fly half so far,
But she mounts on the wings of an ox.
Tol lol, &c.

195

GRIST THE MILLER.

Grist the miller had a maid,
Click, clack, went the mill;
Seeming sober, chaste, and staid,
Click, clack, went the mill;
Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
The neighbours thought her fair to view,
And Grist the miller thought so too;
Click, clack, went the mill.

To church he took her, we are told,
Ding, dong, went the bell;
She was young, and he was old,
Ding, &c.
At church her head she bashful hung,
Grist thought her mild as she was young,
But married, soon she found her tongue,
Ding, &c.

Grist the miller had a man,
Cuckoo went the clock!
Grist's wife to eye him soon began,
Cuckoo, &c.
Honest Grist went out one day,
Left wife and man at home to stay,
And when poor Grist came back, they say,
Cuckoo, &c.

THE LINNET.

An idle boy caught a linnet one day,
And fasten'd its leg to a string,
Then with it unthinkingly 'gan to play,
Supposing it would'nt take wing;

196

Hard by, on a hawthorn bush, whistled a thrush,
And this burthen his song seem'd to bear,
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,”
So, foolish boy, beware!

The linnet it flutter'd, and seem'd to beg,
The boy enjoy'd its pain;
Till, by chance, the string slipping that fasten'd its leg,
The linnet got free again.
While still on the hawthorn bush, &c.

BACCHANALIAN.

When the joyous bowl, mantling with nectar divine,
In libations is drain'd, at hilarity's shrine,
The bosom expanding, the mind free as air,
The soul bids defiance to sorrow and care;
For each social sympathy joining its scope,
Gives fruition for doubt, and enjoyment for hope;
While gaily goes the glass,
Each toasts his fav'rite lass,
And the patriot's pledge goes round,
Then song and story mingle,
And the merry glasses gingle,
Till the head grows light,
And the wits take flight,
Or in the bowl are drown'd.

TIME IS!

A Wood-cutter's daughter young Eleanor was,
And passing fair to see;
And Eleanor won young Valentine's heart,
A shepherd swain was he;

197

But Eleanor slighted her love lorn dear,
Which rueful made his phiz;
While Cupid he whisper'd in Eleanor's ear,
“Remember now time is!”

Young Valentine, vex'd to the heart at her slights,
Resolv'd to hang, that's poz—
So married another: while Cupid, so arch,
To Eleanor cried, “Time was!”
Thus Ellen coquetted, till left i'the lurch,
She grew an old maid at last;
Now the villagers cry, while they point to the church,
“Poor Eleanor! time is past!”

MODES OF INVASION.

We're told that the French to invade us intend,
And no wonder if Bonaparte's madness thus end,
For the man is most likely, it must be allow'd,
In the air to build castles who lives at St. Cloud.
Tol de rol.

They'll come, we are told, or fame makes a faux pas,
In balloons, to be fill'd with the smoke of burnt straw,
And it's quite a-pro-pos that a plan without joke,
Which is founded in vapour should finish in smoke.
Tol de rol.

Then some say they'll come here in flat-bottom'd boats,
To reap a good harvest, and sow their wild oats;
But the harvest they fancy to reap will be smash'd,
And their oats and themselves get confoundedly thrash'd.
Tol de rol.

But how to get here the French needn't take pains,
To project this or that way, or puzzle their brains;

198

Let them once put to sea, and they'll soon find escorts,
For our sailors will pilot them into our ports.
Tol de rol.

As a proof that they'll come, the French ev'ry day toast,
“That Frenchman who first sets his foot on our coast;”
But he'll not keep his footing, I'll wager a crown,
So let us toast “the Briton that first knocks him down.”
Tol de rol, &c.

RUSTIC's THEATRICAL TOUR.

At Lunnun, to th' theatres oft would I trudge,
For I reckons myself now a bit of a judge;
At a place called Uproar, their acting's odd stuff,
Tho' I must say their singers are decent enough;
But altho' the critics my judgment condemn,
Their dancers, I saw nothing decent in them.

Spoken.

[Ecod! the lady dancers were all the kick, and spun round so, they seemed determined to shew their agility. By gems, they made me feel rather—

Fal, lal, &c.
There's Astley's and Circus are drollish to see,
Where men, women, and horse actors, plenty there be;
And then Sadler's have been a fav'rite of mine,
There you laugh till you're dry, and may then call for wine;
I should like to be there, and tho' not stock'd wi' wealth,
A bottle I'd crack to his Majesty's health,
Spoken.

[God bless him, and may his arms produce peace: then we shall sing,

Fal, lal, &c.
Drury-lane is the place for a tragedy play,
Where so nat'ral as life they do kill and do slay;

199

The little Haymarket comes next in the pack,
Where to finger the cash they've got Three-finger'd Jack;
And then Covent-Garden was ev'ry night full,
For, dang it, who wouldn't stand up for John Bull?
Spoken.

[They says Bonaparte will come, but if he does, John Bull and his family knows how to give him the—

Fal, lal, &c.

BONY THE BANTAM.

No doubt you all think me a queer little prig,
But your thoughts and yourselves I defy;
Tho' my body is little, my soul's very big,
And a terrible fellow am I!
I brag and I swear, and I strut and I stride,
My name all your feelings will shock;
When you hear it, your faces with terror you'll hide,
For I'm Bony the Bantam Cock.

The English newspapers my fame would bereave,
But I fancy it's pretty well known;
Tho' they say for my actions I take French leave,
I take nobody's leave but my own.
But these English newspapers, I'll soon let 'em know,
That, in spite of their efforts to mock,
I'm determin'd upon my own dunghill to crow,
Like a true little Bantam Cock.

LAMBS TO SELL.

By selling young lambs, I to meet make both ends,
Of course these young lambs are my very best friends;
So as friendship for int'rest now serves as a score,
I'll sell my best friends, like a great many more.
Lambs to sell! young lambs to sell!

200

Of buying and selling the world is quite full,
But there's often “Great cry where there's but little wool;”
So France deals in freedom, and cries it all round,
But we know “Empty vessels will make the most sound.”
Lambs to sell.

Pretty lambs are the French, and the shepherd of Gaul,
To invade us declares, he'll slaughter 'em all,
Which argues my simile perfect to keep,
If the French are all lambs, Bonaparte's a black sheep.
Lambs to sell.

CLICK CLACK.

A Miller I am, and respected's my name,
And some three or four years since I buried my dame;
A good soul she was, tho' my patience she tried,
But I found a vast change in the house when she died;
For 'tween her and my mill seem'd perpetual strife,
For click clack went my mill, and click clack went my
wife.

A daughter she left me, her image complete,
Whom I fancied would render life's evening sweet;
But she fell in love, and so then we fell out,
And from morning to night here's a pother and rout;
So her mother forget, while she lives I ne'er shall,
For click clack goes my mill, and click clack goes my
girl.

I've a little welch maid, with a spirit quite high,
And at her, I own, I have cast a sheep's eye;
But she's not to be caught by a pray'r or a purse,
So perhaps I may take her for better or worse;
And then my wife's spirit will never be laid,
For click clack goes my mill, and click clack goes my
maid.

201

WILL THE MILLER.

Many lads have courted me,
Woo'd with gold and silver,
But none that I could ever see,
Was equal to the miller.
Oh! the bonny miller!
Heigho!
Sweet Willy O!
The bonny, bonny, bonny miller.

Father to his daughter kind,
Deign'd with hope to fill her;
But soon, alas! he chang'd his mind,
And forbids the miller.
Bonny Will, &c.

If father to his daughter still
Is cross, with grief he'll kill her;
But give my hand, I never will,
To any but the miller.
Bonny Will, &c.

DAL DY TAFOD.

Ponaparte may poast and prag,
Hur will find 'tis dim cymraeg,
If Wales hur tries to have it;
In England hur will find out too,
'Tis all dim saesneg—what say you?
So Pony, dal dy tafod!
Look you;
Pony, dal dy tafod!

Let hur come and cut, 'tis vain!
Hur won't find “cut and come again!”

202

If on our shore hur waddles,
In Prittain hur will find hur match,
For if hurself the knave could catch,
Hur'd cuff her scurvy noddles,
Look you.
Cuff, &c.

TAR's DUTY.

Born at sea, and my cradle a frigate,
The boatswain he nurs'd me true blue;
I soon learnt to fight, drink, and jig it,
And quiz every soul of the crew.
So merrily push round the glasses,
And strike up the fiddles, huzza!
And foot it away with the lasses,
Tol de rol, heave a head! pull away!

A tar, tho' his hopes should be lopp'd off,
His courage should ever hold fast;
So Tom Tough, when the colours were popp'd off,
His red jacket nail'd to the mast.
So merrily, &c.

To love and to fight's a tar's duty,
And either delight to him bring,
To live with his fav'rite beauty,
Or die for his country and king.
So merrily, &c.

FARMER, MILLER, AND SAILOR.

If Mounseur tries by landing to brave ye,
What would you do?

(To Farmer.
FARMER.
—And you do?

(To Miller.
MILLER AND FARMER.
—And you?

(To Sailor.

203

SAILOR.
I warrant each tar in the navy,
Would prove himself British true blue.
But, suppose they should land, and this way roam?

FARMER.
We farmers would shew 'em true harvest home.
What says Master Miller?

MILLER.
—Our motto they'd find,
“More sacks on the mill, grind! grind! grind!”

OMNES.
So Frenchmen, beware, how you venture your tricks,
Or here send your liberty's jailer;
For you'll find us prepar'd, like the bundle of sticks,
Or the Farmer, the Miller, and Sailor.

SAILOR.
I warrant we'll keel-haul their flat-bottom'd boats,

MILLER.
Their mill clacks we'll stop, I've a notion;

FARMER.
They'd plough up our freehold to sow their wild oats,

SAILOR.
But never while we plough the ocean.

FARMER.
To their lot may the ploughshare of Britain ne'er fall,

MILLER.
The ploughshare! why, zounds! they've got no share at all;
For if they come here, our motto they'll find,
“More sacks,” &c.

204

KATHLEEN AND PATRICK.

KATH.
Remeber as once we sat under an oak,
How warmly you prest me, how tenderly spoke!
And begg'd I'd not let you despair;
Recollect then what happen'd.

PAT.
—I do, from the grove
The birds carol'd joy and delight to our love.

KATH.
O, no! from the oak,
A raven's hoarse croak,
Seem'd to say, “Foolish Kathleen beware.”

REPEAT.

She.
O, no! from the oak, &c.

He.
Ah! no, from the oak,
The raven's hoarse croak,
Never meant “Foolish Kathleen, beware.”

PAT.
That you never would doubt me, reflect, was your theme,
As we wander'd one day by the side of a stream;
Ah! why then give way to despair?

KATH.
I remember an angler his bait threw about,
And a poor captive fish very soon he drew out;
Now plainly I see,
'Twas a lesson to me,
That meant, “foolish Kathleen, beware.”

205

REPEAT.

Kath.
Now plainly, &c.

Pat.
I ne'er will agree,
'Twas a lesson to me,
That meant, &c.

PAT OF LONDONDERRY.

Once, alas! a heart I had,
Gay as May-day morning,
Till by chance I met a lad—
That day was sorrow's dawning.
The lad he play'd a lover's part,
And seem'd so blythe and merry,
That soon I lost my simple heart,
To Pat of Londonderry.

He vow'd my hopes he'd never blight,
But ne'er his promise keeping,
Tho' oft he swore my eyes were bright,
He dimm'd those eyes with weeping!
And now he fills that heart with pain
He found so blythe and mery;
Ah! could I get my heart again,
From Pat of Londonderry.

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

A Lawyer, quite famous for making a bill,
And who in good living delighted,
To dinner one day, with a hearty good-will,
Was by a rich client invited!
But he charg'd 6s. 8d. for going to dine,
Which the client he paid, tho' no ninny;
And in turn charg'd the lawyer for dinner and wine,
One a crown, and the other a guinea!

206

But gossips, you know, have a saying in store,
He who matches a lawyer, has only one more.

The lawyer he paid it, and took a receipt,
While the client star'd at him with wonder;
But gave to his friends, with the produce, a treat,
Tho' the lawyer soon made him knock under:
That his client sold wine, information he laid,
Without licence; and, in spite of his storming,
The client a good thumping penalty paid,
And the lawyer got half for informing!
But gossips, &c.

IRISH COURTSHIP.

When a lad comes a courting, how bashful he'll stand,
With his hat hanging down, and his head in his hand!
Then he'll hammer and stammer, tho' nothing he'll say,
But swearing he loves you, stand kneeling all day;
That he'll kill himself, vows, if you won't be his wife,
And his ghost will torment you the rest of his life.
But, arrah! be easy, it ne'er teazes me,
I always say nothing, and sing Grammachree!

If to wed you agree, to relieve all his cares,
He'll give himself graces, in spite of your airs;
Like a husband, he pouts and looks angry, the elf,
If you speak to another, unless it's himself!
But how can the fool get it into his head
That a wife will obey him before she is wed?
But, arrah, &c.

BALLAD.

The flowers they blossom, the meads they look gay,
Lambs frolic, and birds sweetly carol away;

207

The scene's all in motion, all nature looks glad,
Then why should the hearts of poor mortals be sad?
The blossom and the berry,
The bird that sings so merry,
The meads so gay,
And lambs that play,
Each sorrow bid us bury.
Sing fal, lal, la.

Poor mortals to sorrow should rarely incline,
Since 'tis weak for what can't be cur'd to repine;
And what time may make better for grief give no scope,
For the band of all sorrow is flattering hope.
The blossom, &c.

IRISH VOLUNTEER.

I Listed with old Blinking Barney,
A patriot loyal and stout,
Who being de clerk of Killarney,
One Sunday, in church, he bawl'd out:
Good people, to-day all togidder,
Since all minds volunteering absorps,
In the church-yard we'll meet to consider,
The best way of raising a corps!
Sing whack, and sing doraloo, &c.

From a wooden tomb-stone he harangu'd 'em,
“The French say they'll come;” but not when—
When they do, as so often we've bang'd 'em,
The best way's to do it again.
For our captain, there's Doctor M`Larish,
He'll soon bad enough make their case;
For since he first physic'd this parish
He's kill'd every soul i'the place.
Sing whack, &c.

208

Come, enter then, ev'ry son's mother,
For hanging back now were a crime,
Your names I'll take down without bother,
All together, just one at a time;
If you conquer, success to your capers,
And if you are kilt, wid what pride
You'll see your own names in the papers,
And rade how like soldiers you died!
Sing whack, &c.

CURLY-HEADED BOY.

My father was a farmer, and father's son am I,
And down in these parts I was born;
When but a saucy urchin, not half a handful high,
I tended the sheep night and morn.
Both dad and mammy spoil'd me, I was their only joy,
And they call'd me their pretty little curly-headed boy;
So I play'd and prank'd it prettily, for life is but a toy
To the very merry pretty little curly-headed boy.

But soon I shot up taller, ill weeds they grow apace,
Then who was so likely as I?
The ruddy glow of healthfulness stood laughing in my face,
And I reckon I look'd pretty sly;
For our village girls would titter, and would cry, with seeming joy,
See, there goes the pretty little curly-headed boy;
So I kiss'd and romp'd it prettily, for love was but a toy,
To the very merry, saucy little curly-headed boy.

Now dad and mam are dead and gone, the little farm my own,
But so stupid's a bachelor's life
I'ze resolv'd, for sure and cartain, I'ze no longer live alone,
So in that case, mun get me a wife;

209

Then the image of his dad I shall see, to crown my joy,
On my knee another pretty little curly-headed boy;
O, I'ze nurse and teach it prettily, while wife will cry wid joy,
“How like his dad's the pretty little curly-headed boy!”

OLD LUBIN.

Beside a small stream, where grows many a willow,
Stands the cot of Old Lubin the swain,
Content cheers his threshold, health softens his pillow,
And Lubin's the father of Jane;
His locks they are grey, but his nerves are well strung,
And he taught her a ditty, which often he sung,
“When the rose-leaf is blighted, its perfumes remain,”
Sung Lubin, Old Lubin, the father of Jane.

“Your eyes they are bright, and your cheeks they are blooming,”
He said, “but this counsel I give,
“Frail beauty time quickly is sure of consuming,
“While virtue for ever will live.”
His locks, &c.

FORTUNE TELLER.

My hand it was cross'd by a buxom lass,
Says she, “You can tell what will come to pass.”
Fal, lal.
“Pray, how many husbands for me are in store?
Says I, “You'll outlive 'em, if you bury four;”
Says she, “That's very well, but pray how many more?”
Fal, lal.

210

The truth of her hopes to understand,
An old maid was the next to cross my hand;
Fal, lal.
“Shall I marry?” she ask'd, between hopes and fears,
I answer'd, “Dear ma'am, you must wait, it appears;”
“Fough!” said she, “tell me news, I've known that forty years.”
Fal, lal.

Said a prude, “I than marry would sooner lead apes;”
I replied, “Have you read of the fox and the grapes?”
Fal, lal.
I told a sad widow a new husband she'd find;
“What,” said she, “wed again, when my last was so kind?”
But we all must submit to what fate has design'd.
Fal, lal.

JUSTICE QUORUM.

My name's Justice Quorum, I'm lord of this village,
And, ifachins! I makes pretty toil of my tillage;
I know little of law, so my wife, that the best is,
Does the law part, while I manufacture the justice;
All should live by their trade, or it isn't fair dealing,
And it's just out of mine that I should get a feeling;
I don't always hear both sides, which strange may appear
To those who don't know that I'm deaf of one ear.

A man feed me once with a small bag of barley,
His opponent six beautiful geese brought to parley;
Goosy carried the cause, when the chandler, offended,
Cried, “I gave you some barley, and on you depended;”
Says I, “True, but just after you left it, in hobbled
Six monstrous geese, and the barley they gobbled;
And, neighbour, you'll own, 'tis no new case to find,
When a thing's out of sight, it gets soon out of mind.”

211

MAY WE HAVE IN OUR ARMS WHAT WE LOVE IN OUR HEARTS.

I'm in love with a gipsey, against common rules,
But when shot by sly Cupid, few can see;
Love is ever like liquor, for making us fools,
And beauty's the offspring of fancy.
Modern beauties are paintings, whose colours won't wear,
Or the stories of fame are untrue, Sir;
And to choose a black beauty cou'd never be fair,
While a brown one will never look blue, Sir.
So once our choice made, a wish reason imparts,
“May we have in our arms what we love in our hearts.”

My fortune she told, but the stars in ill cue,
Misfortune alone were revealing,
For when she was gone, my heart was gone too—
Your gipsies are famous for stealing.
But, 'faith, I've a mind that my breast mayn't be pang'd,
The revenge to pursue, her crime courted,
And marry her, that's something like being hang'd,
While at best it makes you transported.
For once, &c.

GILES SCROGGINS' GHOST.

Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown,
Fol de riddle lol, fol de riddle lido!
The fairest wench in all the town,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
He bought a ring, with posey true,
“If you loves I as I loves you,
No knife can cut our love in two.”
Fol de riddle lol, &c.

212

But scissars cut as well as knives,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
And quite uncertain's all our lives,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
The day they were to have been wed,
Fate's scissars cut poor Giles's thread,
So they could not be mar-ri-ed,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.

Poor Molly laid her down to weep,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
And cri'd herself quite fast asleep,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
When standing all by the bed's post,
A figure tall her sight engross'd,
And it cri'd, “I beez Giles Scroggins' ghost!”
Fol de riddle lol, &c.

The ghost, it said, all solemnly,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
“O, Molly, you must go with I!
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
All to the grave your love to cool,”—
Says she, “I am not dead, you fool!”
Says the ghost, says he, “That's no rule.”
Fol de riddle lol, &c.

The ghost he seiz'd her, all so grim,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
All for to go along with him,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
“Come, come,” said he, “'ere morning beam,”
“I von't,” said she, and she scream'd a scream,
Then she woke, and found she'd dreamt a dream.
Fol de riddle lol, &c.

213

KITTY MAGGS AND JOLTER GILES.

Kitty Maggs was a servant to Farmer Styles,
And a buxom wench was she;
And her true lovier was Jolter Giles,
A ploughman so bold was he;
Giles had wages, five pounds due at Candlemas-tide,
And then he told Kitty he'd make her his bride.
Ding dong, bo!

Betty Blossom she wore a high-caul'd cap,
Which caught fickle Jolter's eye;
And poor Kitty Maggs, O, dire mishap!
Mourn'd his incon-stan-cy!
And high on the bough of an apple tree,
When they married, Kate finish'd her misery.
Ding dong, bo!

At the supper Giles gave for Betty his bride,
An apple pudding had they,
And from the same bough on which poor Kitty died
The apples were pluck'd they say;
The pudding pies on it, grew deadly cold!
The death watch tick'd, and the church bell toll'd!
Ding dong, bo!

To carve the pudding was Giles's post,
He cut, and from the gap,
Popp'd the head of poor dear Kitty Maggs's ghost,
All in a new fashion'd shroud cap:
Said Giles, “who be you?” said the ghost, “I be I,
A coming to punish your par-ju-ry!”
Ding dong, bo!

“O Kitty,” said Jolter, “pray alter your note!
“I von't!” the ghost replied;
When plump flew the puddding down Giles's throat,
And on the spot he died.

214

Now his ghost, once a year, bolting pudding is seen,
While blue devils sing, every mouthful between,
Ding dong, bo!

DASHING FISHMONGER.

Mamma's left off bus'ness, and I've sunk the shop,
So my old trade acquaintance I think I shall drop;
Sam Souchong the grocer, Billy Biscuit the baker,
Tommy Tit the taylor, and Miss Stitch the mantuamaker;
Peter Puff the perfumer, Frank Felt the hatter,
And Sally Score, the bar-maid at the Pewter-Platter;
Miss Minikin the milliner, the pride of city belles,
And funny Joe Grimaldi, the clown of Sadler's Wells.
Ti tiddle, liddle, lol.

All the people direct 'Squire to me when they write,
And mamma talks of having me made a barrow knight;
Sir Jeremy Scaite! O, 'twill sound monstrous pretty,
And I'll drive my bar-rouche, dashing, splashing thro' the city;
I'm a high dog; for a frolic with a dozen,
At the tavern, plump behind the fire popp'd the landlord's cousin;
The landlord cried out, “Gentlemen, my cousin would you kill?”
Says I, “O, dem your cousin, you can charge him in the bill.”
Ti tiddle, &c.

HORNS AT HIGHGATE.

Johnny the footman, a roving blade,
Fell in love with the waiting-maid Nancy,
He vow'd and he swore, but his promise betray'd,
For John caught his mistress's fancy.

215

Nancy wimper'd, and told him her faith he'd abus'd,
But Johnny pass'd her with a shy gait;
And Johnny the maid for the mistress refus'd,
Because he'd been sworn at Highgate;
By the monstrous horns at Highgate!
And Johnny, &c.

John married his mistress to fatten his purse,
And happy he was he could get her;
But found that she soon turn'd out all for the worse,
And fear'd that she'd never grow better.
Some call marriage a portion, and others a pill,
And with Johnny it had but a wry gate,
For he found 'twas a tug up a very high hill,
As steep as the hill at Highgate,
As the monstrous hill, &c.

Many folks have strange fancies, and so Johnny's spouse
Of her husband grew tir'd in a twinkling;
And, as accidents happen in every house,
For another she caught a strong inkling:
So Nancy avenging for all Johnny's scorns,
Her husband she gave the go bye gait,
And for legacy, left him a large pair of horns,
As big as the horns at Highgate!
The monstrous, &c.

BEN BACKSTAY.

Ben Backstay was our boatswain, a very merry boy,
For no one half so merrily cou'd pipe all hands, a hoy;
And when it chanc'd his summons we didn't well attend,
No lad than he more merrily could handle a rope's end.
With a chip, chow, fol.

216

While sailing once, our captain, who was a jolly dog,
One day he gave to ev'ry mess a double share of grog;
Ben Backstay he got tipsy, all to his heart's content,
And, being half seas over, why overboard he went.
With a chip, &c.

A shark was on the starboard—sharks don't for manners stand—
But grapple all that they come near, just like your sharks on land;
We threw out Ben some tackling, of saving him in hopes,
But the shark had bit his head off, so he could not see the rope.
With a chip, &c.

Without a head his ghost appear'd, all on the briny lake,
He pip'd all hands a hoy, and cried, “lads, warning by me take,
By drinking grog I lost my life, so lest my fate you meet,
Why, never mix your liquor, lads, but always drink it neat.
With a chip, &c.

BEAUTY OF BATTERSEA.

When I was fifteen,
Such an air, such a mean,
I possess'd, you'll not in these latter days see,
Such an eye, such a tongue,
With my praises all rung,
And call'd me the Beauty of Battersea.
Beaux came so pell mell,
I was call'd the Bow Bell,
And not long did I wait
Ere dear Mr. Scaite
He married the Beauty of Battersea.

217

Now older I'm grown,
But my charms are full blown,
None aught with my face can the matter see;
And then in my mien
Is quite plain to be seen
The remains of the Beauty of Battersea;
I can ogle and leer,
And now I am here:
A smile and a smirk
May win the grand Turk,
To marry the Beauty of Battersea.

HAPPY BRITAIN.

Britain, happy, happy land!
Seagirt seat of freedom pure;
Whose floating towers the sea command,
From invasion rude secure!
Pride, with insolent parade,
Hostile force may be preparing,
But he who dares thy shores invade
Dies the victim of his daring!
For Britain, daughter of the sea,
Ever was, and will be free!

DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.

O dear! O dear! how weary am I,
I'm so tir'd and so jaded, could lay down and die!
Life itself is a load, which I scarcely can bear,
But the burden's augmented by labour and care;
O, death, come, in pity the burden take off,
Of a very old man, with a very short cough!
Ugh! Ugh! (coughing)
what a terrible cough!

218

Come, death! come, death!—

DOCTOR.
(Entering.)
—Assistance I bring;

OLD MAN.
You an't death—

DOCTOR.
—I am the doctor, that's all the same thing.

OLD MAN.
O, give me assistance;—

DOCTOR.
—First give me a fee.

OLD MAN.
Nature's debt would I pay—

DOCTOR.
—You had better pay me.

OLD MAN.
O, death! or, O, doctor! the burden take off,
Of a very old man, with a very short cough!
Ugh! &c.

PUCK, NIGHTMARE, AND GHOST.

My name's Robin Goodfellow, a mischievous loon,
And I play many pranks by the light of the moon;
The sheep I unfold, and the cattle I pound,
And I alter the clock, when the maids sleep sound;
Then when the moon's down, Jack-a-lantern I play,
And laugh at the blockheads I lead astray;

(To Nightmare.)
But, pray, who are you, if the question's fair?

219

NIGHTMARE.
Why, I'm the hobgoblin they call the Nightmare!
On the breast of a doctor, if I take my post,
He's certain to dream of a patient's ghost.

(To Ghost.)
But talk of the devil, his imp comes in view,
So, with deference, pray, Mr. Ghost, who are you?
GHOST.
Why, I am the Ghost, sir, such terror who spread,
In the Park, a few nights since, without my head.

PUCK.
But now your head's on—

GHOST.
—But the folks to alarm,
If I please, I can put my head under my arm.

(Takes it off, and puts it under his arm.
ALL THREE.
Then ever we three,
Merry spirits agree,
For mischief's our motto, wherever we be.

NIGHTMARE.
In a frolic last night, I at France took a peep,
Popp'd on Bonaparte's breast, who lay fast asleep;
When he bawl'd out, as dreaming of conscience and crime,
“Mr. Devil, you've come for me 'fore my time.”

PUCK.
I popp'd in upon him too, when in a doze,
And wak'd him politely, by tweaking his nose;
I appear'd in the shape of a flat-bottom'd boat,
Said he, “This my armies to England shall float,
And my flat-bottom'd boats, when the English view,”—
Says I, “I'd not row in the same boat with you.”

220

GHOST.
T'other night, as awake Bony lay, I vow,
I before him appear'd, with my head as 'tis now;
(Under his arm.
Says he, “Whence came you, who yourself here are shewing.”
“From England,” said I—said he, “That's where I'm going.”
“Two words to that bargain,” I cried. “I'm afraid,”
Replied he, “'Tis the worst bargain I ever made,
But th' invasion I'll head, tho' I feel much alarm,
Lest my own head, like yours, should get under my arm.”

TRIO.
Thus all we three
Merry spirits agree
To teaze Britain's foes, wherever we be.

ANCIENT BRITONS.

Your primitive Britons, as patriots none greater,
Unincumber'd with dress, unaccustom'd to fears,
Resolv'd to defend the rights given by nature,
Met each foe that invaded, with clubs, slings, and spears;
They were like swarms of bees, and their spears were their stings,
While to pave way to victory over their foes,
They left no stone unturn'd that would fit in their slings,
And their club law was constantly knock down blows.
No quarrels they sought, nor refus'd what might come,
And their watch-word in battle was, “Britons strike home!”

Tho' Britons, like Catabaws, ne'er threw a hatchet,
With their axes, like woodmen, they lopp'd off the foe;
And as an ill compliment do not attach it,
If I say, none were like them to draw the long bow;

221

Next, in armour of iron the gauntlet they threw,
Then made every foe run the gauntlet they found;
And whoe'er, when the keen biting broad sword they drew,
Shew'd their teeth, as a foe, were soon made bite the ground.
No quarrel, &c.

Their cross-bow-men in ev'ry foes breast found a target,
When gunpowder chang'd the whole method of fight,
With their matchlocks they'd match all you could near or far get,
And to conquest, e'en cannon law prov'd Britain's right.
Let our foes talk then, no living language yet found,
Could intimidate us; so they'd better be mum—
Then for language, this they'll find true classic ground,
For we'll teach them the dead ones as soon as they come.
No quarrels we seek, nor refuse what may come,
And with us, like our fathers, 'tis “Britons strike home!”

SONS OF ALBION.

Sons of Albion, sound to arms!
The hour of glory's near;
And if the name of Briton charms,
Or freedom's sweets are dear;
Fly, fly, to prove your charter'd claim,
To those blest sweets, that envied name.
And when in freedom's cause you go,
To meet a proud insulting foe,
Oh, emulate your race of yore,
“Return victorious, or return no more!”

222

LET 'EM COME.

SAILOR.
The foe, on one string always strumming, boys,
Declare to attack us they're coming, boys,
But I fancy they're only humming boys.
What say you?

(To Soldier.)
SOLDIER.
Let 'em come, let 'em come, if resolv'd to attack,
The best way to come, they their brains needn't rack,
They'd much better study the way to get back.
What say you?

(To Sailor.)
SAILOR.
I say so too—

SOLDIER.
And so do I—

BOTH.
Let 'em come, let 'em come, we their force defy,
Then strike hands, (join hands)
for together we'll conquer or die.
Tol de rol, de rol liddle lol, &c.
Cheery, my hearts, yo! yo!

SOLDIER.
If to make us pay shot they require, boys,
We'll give them their hearts desire, boys,
With, make ready, present, and fire, boys?
What say you?

(To Sailor.)

223

SAILOR.
Helm-a-port, helm-a-lee, or aloft, or below,
Wind fouly, or fairly, we'll soon make the foe,
When once half seas over, quite how come you so.
What say you?

(To Soldier.)
SOLDIER.
I say so too, &c.

YAWNING.

How I love to laugh!
Never was a weeper,
Tho', like a lazy calf,
Have been a mighty sleeper.
Once I got a place,
But lost it the same morning,
'Cause, in my patron's face,
I some how fell a yawning.
Yea, au, au, tol, lol, yea, au, au.

Then I fell in love,
Hoping to get married,
Tried my nymph to move,
And near my point had carried,
But lost her in a pet,
'Cause, going to kiss one morning,
Just as our lips had met,
Some devil set me yawning.
Yea, &c.

Now comes the worst mishap,
Once being shav'd so nice, Sir,
I gap'd, and Mr. Strap,
He gave me such a slice, Sir.

224

But all my griefs to tell
Would take a summer's morning,
So mum would be as well,
Lest I should set you yawning.
Yea, &c.

ROSE OF THE VALLEY.

The rose of the valley in spring time was gay,
The rose of the valley it wither'd away;
The swains all admir'd it, its praises repeat,
An emblem of virtue, so simple and sweet;
But the blight marr'd the blossom, and soon, well a-day,
The rose of the valley it wither'd away.

The rose of the valley a truth can impart,
By the rose of the valley I picture my heart;
The sun of content cheer'd the morn of its birth,
By innocence render'd a heav'n on earth;
But virtue and peace left the spot, well-a-day!
And the rose of the valley it wither'd away.

THE CONJURER.

My master's a conjurer, monstrously high,
Heigh cocolorum jig,
And he deals with the old one, between you and I,
Heigh, &c.
So I'll give him the slip, lest the old one, when he
For my master looks in, by mistake should take me.
With his cabala, &c.

Master studies the stars, to see how they prevail,
And says he a comet could catch by the tail;

225

That he muzzled the dog-star, and talks to such tune,
I think he's been bit by the man in the moon.
With his cabala, &c.

With ghosts and hobgoblins he rides thro' the air,
His coach a black cloud, and his horse the nightmare,
And with him, as a lacquey, he'd have me to gog,
But I shouldn't much like to be lost in a fog.
With his cabala, &c.

But if he should hear, I no mercy shall find,
He'll pay me my wages by raising the wind;
Turn me into a stone, or perhaps to a tree,
Then a sweet pretty babe in the wood I shall be.
With his cabala, &c.

LAURA OF THE VALE.

With hat of straw, and susset gown,
Her ringlets hung a down, a down,
And wanton'd in the gale;
With honest heart and simple mein,
How blest an humble village queen,
Sweet Laura of the Vale!
Sing down, a down.

By greatness lur'd, she sought the town,
Her caution all adown, adown,
And hapless is the tale!
Deceiv'd and lost, a fatal proof
That peace from error stands aloof;
Died Laura of the Vale.
Sing down, &c.

226

MINSTRELS.

SECOND MINSTREL.
Missa mine, why dress so gay?
Ho, ching! hi, ching! cherico!

FIRST MINSTREL.
To wed a lady fair to-day.

THIRD MINSTREL.
Ho, ching! &c.

FIRST MINSTREL.
O! how blest will be my life!

THIRD MINSTREL.
(Aside to second.)
We'll run away with massa's wife,
Ho, ching! &c.

FIRST MINSTREL.
Will you steal my lady slave?

SECOND MINSTREL.
Ho, ching! &c.
Like men of honour we'll behave.

THIRD MINSTREL.
Ho, ching! &c.
Pop off your wife.

FIRST MINSTREL.
And what next do?

SECOND MINSTREL.
In a duel then pop off you,
Ho, ching! &c.

227

MOCK ITALIAN BRAVURA.

At chaunting a grand pomposo,
My master so great was he;
Allegro and amoroso,
He sung all with merry glee,
Baraba, barapa, barara, barapa, baraba, bara;
Carava, barava, barava, carava, bara, la!
At chaunting a grand pomposo,
My master might clever be;
Allegro and amoroso,
I sing just as well as he.
I sing in sweet stuccato,
To notes of Pizzicato,
And then in soft falsetto,
A stanza chaunt, if you piacuto,
Or make it two with sostenuto;
And close in a duetto.
In dear Italiano,
My subject is piano,
Soft melting mimums then I futio,
And in the tenderest cadence mutio;
But best I sing in seminot a,
For they come squeezing thro' my throata,
But when in deepest basso,
My notes more freely passo;
Then I get into the middle,
With a solo on the fiddle;
Toot! toot! toot!
De little flute;
Tum, dum, dum;
De great big drum;
Trumpet blow, tan ta ra.
Oboe go, pa, pa, pa,
Then triangle,
Tingle tangle.

228

Oboe flute and trumpet blowing,
Fiddle, drum, and basso going,
Make a very great, grand crasho!
Altogether come dash smasho!
Piano! pianissimo! diminuendo!
It's now piano, and now crescendo!
Mezzo forte,
Forte, forte,
O, fortissimo!

FIFTEEN AND THREESCORE.

If I was to wed you, how blest should I be!
Your qualifications now first let me see:
If not quite threescore, you're not very far off,
And troubled, ugh! ugh! with a terrible cough:
Besides, you've the gout, and you'd make a pretty beau,
Hobling after me, with the gout in your toe:
“Love me, I pray you now, love me, I pray you now,
Love me as your life,”
And Muggins and Jenny, and Muggins and Jenny,
Will soon be man and wife.”

Then as years would increase, you'd get older, no doubt,
When, what with the phthisic, old age, and the gout;
Why, guardee, for a husband, I think I should have soon
Nothing more than a troublesome old slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and a crutch stick in your hand,
Still after me you'd hobble, if your legs obey'd command.
Love me, &c.

229

MATTHEW MUGGINS.

Some say that a bachelor's life won't do,
Others say, that it's merry and mellow;
Some say, that it's like an old glove, or a shoe,
Good for nothing—for want of a fellow;
A bachelor I, to wed not afraid,
If a partner for life I could gain;
I'm warm in the pocket, a chandler by trade,—
Matthew Muggins, of Mincing-lane.

I think I had best advertise for a wife,
As our general method in trade is,
“A gentleman wanting a partner for life,
Gives this gentle hint to the ladies;
I don't care how pretty she is, if no shrew,
If good-humour'd, don't mind if she's plain;
If wearing the small-cloaths she'll always leave to
Matthew Muggins, of Mincing-lane.

If nineteen to the dozen, when kind her tongue goes,
I could listen all day to her prattle;
If her clapper runs cross, I need only suppose,
'Tis the watchman a-springing his rattle;
She may dress as she likes—only dress'd let her go,
Naked Venus's don't suit my vein;
Such, such is the wife, for that neat little beau,
Matthew Muggins, of Mincing-lane.”

TOM TACK.

Tom Tack was the shipmate for duty,
Till fortune she gave him a twitch;
For Tom fell in love with a beauty;
He'd better have fall'n in a ditch:

230

With his fair he could get no promotion,
So Tom, like a desperate dog,
He drown'd all his cares in the ocean—
But then 'twas the ocean of grog.

True love, when it's slighted, will canker,
So Tom, when the bo'swa'n wa'n't by,
Minded less about heaving the anchor
Than he did about heaving a sigh.
Then, for the last time to be jolly,
He invited each soul in the ship;
With a shot then he finish'd his folly,
But 'twas the shot paid for the flip.

In folly thus faster and faster,
Tom went on, in search of relief;
Till one day a shocking disaster,
Without a joke finish'd his grief:
If his fair one's heart he cou'dn't mellow,
He'd hang himself, often he said;
So his neck in a noose put, poor fellow!—
In plain English, one day he got wed.

TRIO.

MUGGINS.
Mrs. Grundy, where's my hat and wig? why, zooks! I'm in a hurry,

MRS. GRUNDY.
A coming, Mr. Muggins, why you put one in a flurry.

MUGGINS.
The rowing-match wont wait for us, so, if you mean to go,
You must make a little haste, or else you'll lose the show.

231

MRS. GRUNDY.
I am ready, don't you see?

JENNY.
And, Guardee, so am I.

MUGGINS.
Then let us all be off,

JENNY.
I'm so impatient, I could fly:

MUGGINS.
Because, if Joe should win the day, you'll surely married be;

MRS. GRUNDY.
I don't know how it is, but all get wed but me.

MUGGINS.
Why, Grundy, you're a clever soul.

MRS. GRUNDY.
You flatter, Mr. Muggins,
You put me so in mind of one, my poor dear Grundy, dead and gone;
How sweetly he would flatter me, when I was Hannah Huggins.

MUGGINS.
Then I'll put you more in mind of him, for when Joe marries Jane,
Why you and I will make a match, if your consent I gain.

MRS. GRUNDY.
O dear, sir, how you make me blush, of pow'r of speech you've rid me;
But as you are my master, why I must do as you bid me.

232

MUGGINS.
Agreed, my girl.

JENNY.
I wish you joy!

MRS. GRUNDY.
I thank you very kindly.

MUGGINS.
And none of us, I think, this day have made our choices blindly;
So then, for better and for worse, let's all take Hymen's fitter,
There's many make their choices worse, and few can make 'em better.

JENNY.
Then to the rowing-match, which, if Joe loses, will be nauseous;

MUGGINS.
And, if he wins, he'll surely be a perfect water Roscius;

OMNES.
Then let's away, blythe and gay,
To see the water Roscius.

FOUR HONOURS.

A good subject to treat,
You're at no loss to meet,
In England, which millions displays;
There's our king—you'll say he
No subject can be,
Unless it's a subject for praise.

Agricultural aids,
Prove our king king of spades,

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Britain's wealth king of diamonds imparts;
To our foes, sorry scrubs,
He'll prove king of clubs,
But at home always prove king of hearts.

Thus four honours in hand,
His game's sure to stand,
Tho' our foes to bravade him don't stick;
But his volunteer guards
Are so many trump cards,
To shew Bonaparte the odd trick!

THE TRUANT HEART.

Once my heart the truant play'd,
Patience, how I sigh'd, and said,
What can be the matter, Kitty?
No answer could I make to that,
My heart kept going pit-a-pat,
While still my mother would be at,
“Why, what can be the matter, Kitty?”
How I sigh'd,
Laugh'd and cri'd,
And sung fal, lal.

The youth I lov'd he ask'd to wed,
Blushing, when, “O! yes,” I said,
What could, &c.
I went to church, but went to wait,
The lad he came an hour too late,
And so I sent him packing strait;
Tho'—what could, &c.
How I sigh'd, &c.

234

THE BEAUTIES OF BRITAIN.

The beauties of Britain are prizes so rare,
To obtain 'em, none perils should wave;
For he who'd not volunteer life for the fair,
Deserves to be cut by the brave.

C.M.
The soldiers are lads for the ladies,

C.M.
But tars best their rigging protect;

CAPTAIN SCARLET
And the farmer to feed 'em, whose trade is,
British beauties will never neglect.

C.M.
When colours presenting at head of the corps,
How noble a lady looks:—

C.M.
—Pshaw!
She looks best on the deck of a seventy-four.

CAPTAIN MAINMAST
I like my wife best in the straw.

C.M.
Thus all have their liking, and each has his taste,

C.M.
Which from custom and nature have birth;

OATLAND
But each scene by a good British woman that's grac'd,
Must sure be a heaven on earth.

235

OMNES.
And this ground we'll all stand, as 'tis fit on,
Against all who may trial provoke;
Huzza! for the Beauties of Britain,
May they all marry hearts of oak!

POLL OF HORSELEY DOWN.

Ye landsmen and ye seamen, be you a-head or stern,
Come listen unto me, and a story you shall learn;
It's of one Captain Oakum that you shall quickly hear,
Who was the bold commander of the Peggy privateer:
And he his colours never struck, so great was his renown,
To never no one soul on earth, but Poll of Horseley Down.

Miss Polly was a first-rate, trick'd out in flashy gear,
And Captain Oakum met her, as to Wapping he did steer:
And as he stood a viewing her, and thinking of no hurt,
A porter passing with a load, capsiz'd him in the dirt;
Then taking out his 'bacco-box, that cost him half-a-crown,
He took a quid, and heav'd a sigh to Poll of Horseley Down.

He soon found out Poll's father, and dress'd in rich array,
He got permission for to court, and so got under weigh;
Miss Polly she receiv'd him all for a lover true,
And quite inamorated of her he quickly grew:
He squir'd and convey'd her all over London town,
Until the day was fix'd to wed with Poll of Horseley Down.

236

But Poll she was a knowing one, as you shall quickly find,
And this here Captain Oakum, why love had made him blind;
One morning in her chamber he found a Cockney lout,
So captain shov'd the window up, and chuck'd my gem'man out;
Then cock'd his arms a kimbo, and looking with a frown,
He took a quid, and bid good bye to Poll of Horseley Down.

THE SOLDIER.

The soldier who to battle goes,
And danger braves for duty,
Altho' he laughs at fear or foes,
Like others sighs for beauty;
For Cupid's a gen'ral whom all must obey,
As the bravest of mortals must prove,
For no weapon, tho' keenest that art can display,
Can wound like the arrow of love.

The soldier from the field returns,
To tell his martial story;
With joy his ardent bosom burns,
To gain the meed of glory;
But glory you'll find little more than a name,
And affection much sweeter will prove,
For tho' grateful the much envy'd laurel of fame,
Much dearer's the myrtle of love.

DRUNKEN DIRECTORY.

In Featherbed-lane I arose,
Went to Milk-street my breakfast to find,
To Pudding-lane next then I goes,
Between that and Pye-corner I din'd;

237

Being thirsty, I wander'd again,
A place proper for drinking to meet,
I didn't much like Water-lane,
So got tipsy in Liquor-pond-street.

But not having here drank my fill,
In Sun-street I finish'd the game,
Till my head it was all Addle-hill,
And down Gutter-lane sprawling I came;
Leg-alley to master I try'd,
But found 'twas all Labour in vain;
For I stagger'd so from side to side,
I thought ev'ry place Crooked-lane.

At the Brewers I got a fresh pot,
At the Tumbledown Dick had a fall;
At the Green Man and Still spirits got,
But stuck fast in the Hole in the Wall:
At the Shoulder of Mutton and Cat,
Grown hungry, I eat like a glutton,
For your cat, says I, you may take that,

(Snapping his fingers.
Only give me the shoulder of mutton.

Now wanting a good parting cup,
A dollar I spent at the Crown,
And being completely knock'd up,
By the Hammer and Hand was knock'd down:
In the watch-house I got, don't know how,
Then being, as quickly I found,
As tipsy as Davy's old sow,
I look'd like the hog in the pound.

238

THE TALKING BIRD.

I'm the famous Talking-Bird, and the wonder of the age,
Chick-a-biddy, pretty dickey, cock-a-doodle doo!
To talk with me, no magpye, daw, nor parrot, dare engage,
But nothing but a woman's tongue I'd ever give-in to;
For sure to vie with woman I should be a silly dunce,
For they know all the parts of speech, and speak them all at once.
Fal, lal, &c.

Then comes the wond'rous singing-tree, set by a magic elf,
Chick-a-biddy, pretty dickey, cock-a-doodle-doo!
Which, just like marriage music, makes a consort of itself,
But as that's sometimes out of tune, the likeness won't go thro';
Its leaves will make nice music-books, to teach melodious grace,
Its root is like a rogue in grain, because it's through bass.
Fal, lal, &c.

Then after you the singing-tree and talking-bird behold,
Chick-a-biddy, pretty dickey, cock-a-doodle doo!
Last comes the magic fountain, whose water's liquid gold,
And what you sprinkle with it, in its proper form you view;
'Twill lawyers to dark lanthorns turn, a poet to a pen,
And doctors undertakers, 'cause they're famous for dead men.
Fal, lal, &c.

239

IRISH AUCTIONEER.

Your laughter I'll try to provoke
With the wonders I got in my travels;
And first is a pig in a poke,
Next a law case without any cavils:
A straw poker, a tiffany boat,
Paper boats, to walk dry thro' the ditches,
A new lignum vitæ great coat,
Flint waistcoat, and pair of glass breeches.
Tol, lol, &c.

A dimity warming-pan new,
Steel night-cap, and pair of lawn bellows,
A yard-wide-foot rule, and then two
Odd shoes, that belong to odd fellows;
China wheelbarrow, earthern-ware gig,
A book bound in wood, with no leaves to't,
Besides a new velvet wig,
Lin'd with tripe, and a long pair of sleeves to't.
Tol, lol, &c.

A coal-skuttle trimm'd with Scotch gauze,
Pickled crumpets, and harrico'd muffins,
Tallow stew-pan, nankeen chest of drawers;
Dumb alarm-bell, to frighten humguffins:
Six knives and forks made of red tape,
A patent wash-leather polony:
A gilt coat with a gingerbread cape,
And lin'd with the best macaroni.
Tol, lol, &c.

A plumb-pudding made of inch-deal,
A pot of mahogany capers;
A gooseberry pye made of veal,
And stuff'd with two three-corner'd scrapers:

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Sour crout sweeten'd well with small coal,
A fricaseed carpenter mallet:
A cast iron toad in a hole—
And a monstrous great hole in the ballad.
Tol, lol, &c.

NAVAL WORTHIES.

Your grave politicians may kick up a rout,
Of invasions, and such sort of stuff,
With as how, and as what, all the French are about,
Why, lord, they're about sick enough;
Their armies in Egypt might conquer bashaws,
And deck with their tails each brow,
But their navies can ne'er hope to conquer, because,
They've forgot—no, they can't forget Howe.
While British cannons their thunder boast,
And every sailor's a Mars,
Secure from all squalls,
Be this our toast,
God bless the king! Long life to our tars!
And success to our old wooden walls.

The Mounseers your worship's can never forget,
Just when they were lather'd by Howe,
Because that's the don shouldn't die in our debt,
How Jarvis kick'd up such a row.
Then how Duncan he pepper'd our flat-bottom'd foes,
They'll think of a pretty long while;
And if they forget all this here, I suppose
They'll remember the mouth of the Nile.
While, &c.

Their army of England was once a great gun,
But we've taught 'em, ecod! to sing small;
And for navy, if things go on as they've begun,
I think they'll soon have none at all;

241

Their tri-colour'd flag's very pretty belike,
But spite of their humming 'twon't do,
For you and I know that all colours must strike
To king George, and old England's true blue.
While, &c.

FEMALE PEDLAR.

Greet, ye merry good lads and kind lasses,
A Pedlar in petticoats I;
My stock every other surpasses,
Then pull out your purses and buy.
Lads, your sweethearts to treat never tarry;
Here are ribbands to forward Love's plot,
For you know very well if you marry,
You must tie the true lover's knot.
Fal, &c.

Ladies, here are pins, laces, and lockets,
To adorn you—to please your good men;
And bottles to wear in your pockets,
Should you love a sly drop now and then;
Here are combs, gentlemen, worth all praises,
Here, buy 'em to better your lives,
For with these you may comb your own jaises,
Which often get comb'd by your wives.
Fal, &c.

Here's a wire-jack would roast a good capon,
A sailor of sound heart of oak;
And here's an old-fashion'd flounc'd apron
Would make a divine Spanish cloak;
Here are cushions to which you attach work,
For nervous folks essences strong;
Here are beautiful fag-ends for patch-work,
And there's the fag-end of my song.
Fal, &c.

242

GIVE AND TAKE.

To be merry, sirs, now is the properest time;
If you ask for a Reason, I'll give it in Rhyme;
But, in my Rhymes for Reason to look, you may say,
Is like seeking a horse in a bottle of hay.

That we've met here as friends is the reason I give,
And may we all be friends as long as we live;
And long enough all of us may live, I trow,
If our good friend, the Doctor, don't take us in tow.

Yet physic's a friend, if in reason 'tis us'd,
The doctors, like lawyers, are often abus'd;
Yet, faith, they can take their own parts, if they're sore,
And 'twere all very well if they took nothing more.

Give and take is a game we know all of us well,
Tho' give some folks an inch and they'll sure take an ell;
But at giving and taking none can beat a Jew,
For he'll give you a bargain, and take you in too.

Give and take differ much, as oft Nelson would show—
The foe gave him battle, while he took the foe;
Yet the foe took in turn, truth the Muse ne'er conceals,
Yes, the foe from Lord Nelson oft took—to their heels.

But of friends and of giving, may we, heaven grant,
A friend and a bottle to give him ne'er want.
'Tis a magical union—for friendship's divine,
And the best bottle conq'rer on earth is good wine.

243

WONDERS OF 1804.

To ride in an air-balloon pleasant must be,
Like a gooseberry bush Epping Forest to see;
And the fam'd river Thames just like milk, a large pool,
So you stand a good chance for some gooseberry fool.
Tol, &c.

The parachute acronauts oft have been at,
But none tried it, except Madam Garnerin's cat;
Which shews, tho' 'tis talked of attention to draw,
A parachute's nothing more than a cat's paw.
Tol, &c.

The Invisible Girl, whom you hear, tho' not see,
Is like Echo, and once a fine woman was she,
Whose voice, when her form changed to nothing, was heard,
Which proves that a woman will have the last word.
Tol, &c.

The docks at Blackwall to our commerce give scope,
That source of our wealth, and the staff of our hope—
That commerce our foes would be happy to stem,
But whoever attempts it our tars will dock them.
Tol, &c.

Preston Guilds, the last wonder that graces my lay,
Where Britons exulted in Freedom's birth-day;
For Freedom's birth-right, like the charter of breath,
Britons only resign to the conqueror Death.
Tol, &c.

244

THE IRON CROWN.

A Crown is the subject I sing,
If current it happens to prove;
Not a Crown such as worn by our King,
An offering of Freedom and Love!
But the Iron Crown Bony took care
From the Lombards to take, nor is't odd
That he should an Iron Crown wear
Who rules with a tight iron rod.
Tol lol, &c.

Unless his proud stomach comes down,
(Such systems of mischief he's plann'd)
Tho' his head is secur'd in a crown,
He'll, perhaps, get his head in his hand;
Two Crowns make an angel they say,
France and Italy, monstrously civil,
Gave Bony Two Crowns, and that way
An angel exchang'd for the devil.
Tol lol, &c.

With his Crowns he'd all Europe annoy,
And thinks ev'ry pow'r to control;
But, if he comes England a hoy,
He'll get trimm'd from the Crown to the soul;
With his soul one would not interfere,
For the ghost of Duke Enghin must rack it,
But his Crown, if he dares to come here,
John Bull will most certainly crack it.
Tol lol, &c.

245

OBSTINATE DOG.

Jack Gunnel, an odd fish as ever hove anchor,
Or clew'd up a top-sail, lov'd Poll of Spithead;
But Poll was a Tartar, a terrible canker;
For tho' a tight vessel, false colours she spread;
Jack oftens, he told me, he lov'd her more better
Than deep sounding, smooth sailing, good biscuit, or grog;
But I thought he was wrong, so his senses to fetter,
And reason'd, d'ye mind, with the obstinate dog;
For its always my way when a shipmate I sees
Deceiv'd in his reck'ning, or hanging astarn,
To take him in tow, if I drives with the breeze,
Or point out those shallows he cannot dissarn.

Her false arms she lash'd round his neck when they parted,
That time when the Dreadnought she sail'd from the Nore,
A leak in her eye for to queer him she started,
And shamm'd for to faint, when the boat put off shore.
How oft of her constancy Jack would be talking!
And toasted her still when we push'd 'round the grog;
But I told him her constancy oft would want calking,
And a scowl lour'd the eye of the obstinate dog;
But its always my way, &c.

Each prize that we took gave Jack's spirits fresh canvass,
And the compass of Hope seem'd to point to port Joy;
But I knew in my mind how mistaken the man was,
And tried still his senses to pipe, hands-a-hoy!

246

For which, in the presence of every mess brother,
He struck me one night while we push'd round the grog—
So I trounc'd him, d'ye see, and how could I do other?
And I left to himself then the obstinate dog.
Yet its always, &c.

When to port we return'd, Jack soon heard that his Polly
Didn't single long after his sailing remain;
The latitude then he first found of his folly,
And wanted the timbers to start of his brain;
But I captur'd his pistols, and bid him weigh anchor,
And leave Port Despair for the Ocean of Grog;
He took my advice, over-board threw his rancour,
And never more turn'd out an obstinate dog.
And its always, &c.

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.

[_]

Sung on the opening of Sadler's Wells, with a new Interior, in the Year 1802.

Since novelty never offends,
And the world teems with comical cases,
My subject shall turn on “Old Friends”
Who often appears with new faces;
And first, to ennoble my stave,
With your worships I'll make a beginning,
You come here with faces so grave—
But, ecod! we soon set you a-grinning.

An Attorney's an old friend at law,
And what smiles on his countenance play,
When he tells you your purse-strings to draw,
Your certain of gaining the day;

247

But should you be foil'd in your case,
As nineteen times in twenty you will,
Your old friend puts on a new face
In the shape of a dev'lish long bill.

I married, my fortune to mend,
For my wife she had goldfinches' store,
And she was a very old friend,
For faith she was nearly fourscore;
My friends they all pitied my case,
But they were a parcel of ninnies—
My old friend had a charming new face
On each of her shining new guineas.

The bold British tar next suppose,
Who to battle like thunder will fly on,
The foe his old friend always knows
By his face looking grim as a lion;
But the foe sinking, crying for grace,
See how honest Jack will behave him,
To the lamb's quickly changing his face,
Plunges into the ocean to save him.

May old friends their attachment ne'er cease,
New faces with candour present ye;
And since war has changed faces with peace,
May want wear the new face of plenty;
That friend may we never embrace
Who to cozen you only is civil;
Should his heart places change with his face,
You'd mistake your old friend for the devil.

“PRO ARIS ET FOCIS.”

I'm a true honest-hearted gay fellow,
And scorn to be hanging aback,
Who fear neither bullet nor billow,
And this has been always my Jack:

248

In defence of my system to pledge heart and hand,
And to fight for my King and my dear native land.

Some people about Whig and Tory,
And such sort of trash, and to do,
Will tell you all day a tough story,
And, perhaps, all they say may be true;
But such outlandish lingo I don't understand;
So I fight for, &c.

Both parties they quarrel most rarely,
I'm puzzled with which side to strike—
For both find sound argument fairly,
To prove they're all patriots alike;
Yet I side with no maxims I don't understand,
But I fight for, &c.

INSTALLATION AT WINDSOR.

I Went down to gaze
At the Windsor sights,
Where they spent three days
All in making knights;
For a bed, d'ye see,
Five pounds they ax'd—od rot it,
They'd not get that from me,
Because—I hadn't got it.

I wanted to get in
And mix among the great;
So, with a tightish din,
I knock'd at castle gate;
Out came one of rank,
Ax'd me for my ticket—
I said 'twere drawn a blank,
And so he shut the wicket.

249

Since I nought could see,
Report is all I've for't,
Tho' it seems to me
Knight-making's querish sport;
A sword the king draws smack,
Knights kneel down like martyrs;
He gives 'em all a whack,
And then ties on their garters.

What follows, on my word,
Is treatment rather coarse,
Ev'ry knight gets spur'd
And collar'd like a horse;
A title him they call,
Sir Richard, or Sir Robin,
Then tie him to a stall
As I ties our blind Dobbin.

Eight o'clock at night
They let us in to dine;
All scrambled for their right,
I got a brave sirloin.
In a battle brief
The prize was from me taken—
So I lost my beef,
And couldn't save my bacon.

[Rubbing his shoulders as if he had been well beaten.

King gave silver drums
To Oxford Blues so starch,
When Mr. Bony comes
To play him the Rogue's March;
But, if he should come
Here, I'ze lay a wager,
We'll make his head a drum—
Oh! I'd like to be drum-major.

250

LONDON SIGHTS.

Last winter, quite tir'd of tillage,
Hard days work I'd many a one done,
I left our own snug little village
To see all the wonders of London;
The Roscius I first went to see,
And I think you'll all freely confess, Sirs,
There ha'n't been such a Betty as he
Since the days of our good old Queen Bess, Sirs!
Tol, lol.

The Budget came out by the way,
And for taxes the ministers call, Sir;
But few had the money to pay,
For the Forty Thieves borrow'd it all, Sir;
Some Travellers kick'd up a great rout,
But in spite of Disguisements to catch ye,
It were only, as soon I found out,
Muster Brama and Signory Scratchee.
Tol, lol.

Vauxhall too were one of the sights,
And to think on it puzzled me daily,
How much they must pay window-lights
For the lamps that they use in the galy:
There the company rank'd pretty high,
And I thought it no bad sort of joke, Sir,
To see the Game Chicken and I
Cheek by jowl wi' the other great folks, Sir.
Tol, lol.

Cooke and Kemble I saw in one play,
But as none from applauding would rest, Sir,
Not hearing what either might say,
I couldn't tell which was the best, Sir;

251

And tho' at the thing you may scoff,
I warrant you 'tisn't a hum, Sir,
A new Finger Post, five miles off,
Got all the town under its thumb, Sir.
Tol, lol.

At Astley's and Circus I zeed
Horses dance Mincivits and Cowtellions,
While their riders, true grasshopper breed,
Jumpt over both saddles and pillions;
Sadler's Wells I were told were the rage,
And a wonderful place 'twere, no doubt on't,
For the New River came on the stage,
And water proof Ghosts they jump'd out on't.
Tol, lol.

To Bartlemy Fair my next start,
Was to see ev'ry freak and vagary;
There I thought to ha' zeen Bonypart,
As they wrote up the Corsican Fairy:
For Bony were coming, 'twere said,
But this Butterfly Emperor tarries,
'Cause he knows if we once break his head,
They'll not mend it wi' Plaister o' Paris!

THE NODDY DRIVER.

I'm Larry O'Lash'em, was born in Killarney,
Myself drove a Noddy in Dublin sweet town,
And I got fares enough, case I tip'd the folks blarney,
But myself was knock'd up, case I knock'd a man down;
So to London I drove, to avoid the disaster,
There to drive hackney-coaches engag'd for the pelf,
And honestly out of my fares paid my master
Two-thirds, and kept only one half for myself.

252

And sing high gee, wo, here we go, merry and frisky,
O Lash'em's the boy for to tip the long trot.

I took up a buck, and 'cause 'twas the fashion,
He got in the box, and made me mount inside,
So as I didn't much like to put him in a passion,
Thinks I, while I'm walking I may as well ride;
But I coud'n't help laughing, to think how the hinder
Wheels after the fore ones most furiously paid,
When a wheel broke its leg, spilt the coach out of window,
And my head and the pavement at nut-cracking play'd.
And sing, hi gee, wo, &c.

I next drove a couple one morn to get married,
The bride was turn'd sixty, the bridegroom a score,
For the sake of her money the courtship he carried,
But repented his bargain just at the church-door;
Devil burn me, says I, 'tis a pity I'm thinking,
Allur'd by the rhino, myself intercedes,
And got married—soon after she died of hard drinking,
And left me a widow forlorn in my weeds.
And sing, hi gee, wo, &c.

After fingering the cash which I got by my marriage,
I drank success to all kind of misfortunes I'd made,
And bought me a fine bran new second-hand carriage,
Became my own Jarvis, and drove a good trade;
And my coach and my horses, in case of invasion,
I'll lend to the troops, and I'll join in the strife;
And if I am kilt in defence of the nation,
'Twill make me a hero the rest of my life.
And sing, hi gee, wo, &c.

253

KITTY O' THE CLYDE.

A Boat danc'd on Clyde's bonny stream,
When winds were rudely blowing,
There sat what might a goddess seem,
O'the waves beneath her flowing;
But no, a mortal fair was she,
Surpassing a' beside,
And lads a' speer'd her choice to be,
Sweet Kitty o'the Clyde!

I saw the boatman spread a sail,
And while his daftness noting,
The boat was upset by the gale,
I saw sweet Kitty floating!
I plung'd into the silver wave,
Wi' Cupid for my guide,
And thought my heart well lost to save
Sweet Kitty o'the Clyde!

But Kitty's aye a high-born fair,
A lowly name I carry,
Nor can wi' lordly Thanes compare,
Who woo the maid to marry:
But she na scornfu' looks on me,
And joy may yet betide,
For hope dares flatter mine may be
Sweet Kitty o'the Clyde!

TUTHEE REE OO AND TAN.

In Dundee there liv'd a carl, so blythe and bonny,
In Dundee there liv'd a bonny carl;
A scolding spousy was his lot,
Wha' mugg'd hersel', and oftimes got
Tuthee ree oo and tan.

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She led him a life that was fu'wae and weary,
Till the carl he vow'd himself he'd hang;
And would have don't, but thought him first
Of ends, a rope's end was the worst.
Tuthee ree, &c.

This carl's wife she did na play her hubby fairly,
Else was Andrew Mackintosh belied;
She made her husband's heart-ache thro',
And then she made his head-ache too,
Tuthee ree, &c.

“Wife,” said he, “of life I'ze tir'd, and will gang drown me!”
She replied, “Gude wives ne'er contradict;”
“But should my spirit come,” said he,
“O, I'ze quite spirit proof,” said she.
Tuthee ree, &c.

“At the pond,” said he, “if my poor heart should fail me,
Will you run behind and push me in;”
Says she, “A hard part 'tis to play,
But 'tis my duty to obey.”
Tuthee ree, &c.

By a pond he stood, that was full deep a fathom,
On a hill stood she—the word he gave;
Down galloping she came, when he
Just stepp'd aside, and in popp'd she.
Tuthee ree, &c.

255

MOGGY CAMERON.

I'ze a blythe and winsome lass,
Steady to my tether;
Siller I ha' none, nor brass,
But heart as light as feather;
The Tartan plaid is a' my pride,
And in'ts defence who'd hammer on,
Alane sal buckle to his bride
Merry Moggy Cameron.

A laird aince said he loo'd me weel,
And his bride would mak' me;
“But,” said I, to try the chiel,
“To the kirk then tak' me;”
But the loon, when kirk I'd name,
Excuse began to stammer on,
I box'd his lugs, and wha' can blame
Merry Moggy Cameron.

Sandy Campbell 'tis I loo,

But tho' he speers to buckle to,
I still cry, hoot awa! mon.
First let him to our island lend
His aid 'gainst foes that clammer on,
And ere he weds, learn to defend
Merry Moggy Cameron.

LIEUT. YEO.

Off Cape Finisterre lay the king's ship La Loire,
When a privateer foe Capt. Maitland he saw;
So a boat's crew he sent with the Spaniards to cope,
Who was call'd L'Esperance—in plain English, The Hope;

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Tho' but a forlorn Hope she prov'd to the foe,
Made a prize by the boat's crew and Lieut. Yeo!
Yeo! Yeo! for ever.

“'Tis the birth of our King, boys,” the captain he cried,
“To crown it with victory then be your pride;
Yes, the birth of your Sov'reign distinguish, in short,
By planting his flag on that proud Spanish fort;”
So the gallant boat's crew volunteer'd all to go
To conquer or die with brave Lieutenant Yeo!
Yeo, &c.

Then Lieutenant Yeo, to his lasting renown,
The fort he knock'd up, and the governor down;
The Dons' captur'd ensign wav'd over his head,
And planted the flag of King George in its stead;
Let the trumpet of fame then thro' all the world blow
To the glory of Britons and Lieut. Yeo.
Yeo, &c.

LATEAT SCINTILLULA FORSAN!

[_]

Written for an Anniversary Dinner of the Humane Society.

Since the beam of existence life's taper illum'd
How oft has grief wasted it faster;
And long ere time would have the taper consum'd
Has the light been obscur'd by disaster;
The life thus, ere nature demanded, suppress'd,
Tearful Pity look'd as a lost corse on,
'Till Hope to Humanity chanc'd to suggest
“Lateat Scintillula forsan!

Now life's light would Despair oft, or accident, crop,
While Society mourn'd deprivation;
And thought that no power their invasion could stop
That fell short of the power of Creation;

257

So for ages resistless they carried their scope,
'Till Science restraint put their course on;
For Experiment caught the kind accent of Hope,
“Lateat Scintillula forsan!”

Then Life's taper extinct ere Mortality's claim
With hope bounteous science regarded;
And the spark that remain'd strove to fan to a flame,
While the aim Perseverance rewarded.
Casuality's paralyzed victim, and whom
Gaunt Suicide fix'd his fell jaws on,
Rejoic'd in the hint that defeated the tomb,
“Lateat,” &c.

Like a vision celestial, the theme of my lay,
In review pass'd this instant before ye,
While each eye rapture's dew drop was proud to display,
By those tears, in its aid I implore ye;
'Tis Humanity's triumph, the banquet of souls,
Which heaven bestows best applause on;
Then improve the blest hint from each point to the poles,
“Lateat,” &c.

The chief that rides deeply in wars bloody strife,
Deified is in Glory's pavillion;
But more godlike is he who preserves but one life
Than the hero who slaughters a million:
Him the curses of widows and orphans pursue,
But the blessings of all wait your course on,
Then sons of humanity keep still in view
“Lateat,” &c.

The persons saved by the Humane Society pass in procession round the room where the annual dinner is held.

258

MADAM FIG'S GALA;

OR, THE YORKSHIRE CONCERT.

I'ze a Yorkshireman just come to town,
And my coming to town were a gay day;
Dame Fortune has here set me down,
Waiting-gentleman to a fine lady;
And Madam gives galas and routs,
While her treats of the town are the talk sheer,
But nought that I'ze seed here abouts
Equals one that was given i' Yorkshire.
Rumpti, &c.

Johnny Figg was a green and white grocer,
In business as brisk as an eel, sir,
None than John to the shop could stick closer,
But his wife thought it quite ungenteel, sir:
Her neighbours resolv'd to cut out,
And astonish the rustic parishioners;
So invited 'em all to a rout,
And ax'd all the village musicianers.
Rumpti, &c.

The company met gay as larks,
Drawn forth all as fine as blown roses;
The concert commenc'd wi' the clerk,
Who chanted the “Vicar and Moses;”
The barber sung “Gall'ry of Wigs,” sir;
The gemmen all said 'twas the dandy,
While the ladies encor'd Johnny Fig, Sir,
Who volunteer'd “Drops of Brandy.”
Rumpti, &c.

259

The baker he sung a good batch,
While the lawyer, for harmony willing,
With the bailiff he join'd in a catch,
And the notes of the butcher were killing;
The wheelwright he put in his spoke,
The schoolmaster flogg'd on with furor,
The coalman he play'd the “Black Joke,”
And the fishwoman roar'd a bravura.
Rumpti, &c.

To strike the assembly with wonder,
The Miss 'Screams a quintette, loud as Boreas,
Sung, and wak'd farmer Thrasher's dog, Thunder,
Who, jumping up, join'd in the chorus.
A donkey, the melody marking,
Popp'd in too, which made a wag say, sir,
Attend to the Rector of Barking's
Duet with the Vicar of Bray, sir.
Rumpti, &c.

A brine-tub, half full of beef salted,
Madam Fig had trick'd out as a seat, sir,
Where the taylor, to sing, was exalted,
But the covering crack'd under his feet, sir;
Snip was sous'd in the brine, but soon rising,
He bawl'd, while they laugh'd at his grief, sir,
Is't a matter so monstrous surprising
To see pickled-cabbage with beef, sir?
Rumpti, &c.

To a ball then the concert gave way,
And for dancing no souls could be riper;
So struck up the “Devil to Pay,”
But Johnny Fig paid the piper;
The best thing came after the ball,
For to finish the whole with perfection,
Madam Fig ax'd the gentlefolks all
To sup off a cold collection.
Rumpti, &c.

260

THE BRITON'S ALPHABET.

A stands for Albion, the Queen of the Main;
B for the Britons she boasts in her train;
C the Corsican emp'ror, invasion who drums;
D for the drubbing he'll get when he comes.

E stands for the Ensign of Britain unfurl'd;
F for her Flcets which defy all the world;
G both for Gauls and their gun-boats will tell;
H for the Heroes who'll pepper 'em well.

I stands for Invasion, which won't stand at all;
K stands for our King, who stands up for us all;
L for Liberty stands, and our King will defend it
From M—that's the murd'rer of Jaffa, who'd end it.

N was Nelson, whose name Briton's hallow with pride,
O is Ocean, on which for his country he died;
P our Press at whose freedom friend Bony looks grim;
But, attacking it, Q's a Quietus for him.

R means our Roast Beef, which no Frenchman shall touch;
S is Sir Sidney, who'll shew 'em as much;
As our Tars and their Triumphs T nobly appears,
While V stands as glorious for brave Volunteers.

As our Wooden Walls W may claim some renown,
Which our foes, to invade us, must climb, or knock down;
Then X, Y, and Z, mean my song's at an end,
As all Frenchmen will be who to land here pretend.

THE END.