Mirth and Metre :: :: University of Virginia Library

From humanity's mine of ore mental, the brain,
Where wisdom's envelop'd by whimsies a swarm,
The Song Smith extracts source of pleasure and pain,
Then moulds it thus, artem secundum, to form;
First in fancy's bright forge he the ore must prepare,
Where thought gides the bellows, and judgment gives fuel;
On the Anvil of art, with the Hammer of care,
Then fashions its nature, or kindly or cruel;
If cruel—or fashion'd to make the tear flow,
His Cyclops' must be,
Woe, complaint, sympathy,
Whose echo is still interjectional oh!
But if kindly, and meant merry fancies to hit,
Then his helpmates are movelty, humour, and wit;
Who, as the bright sparks they emit fly afar,
Find their clamorous clang drown'd by ha! ha! ha! ha!

There was Homer, the Song Smith, with whom no one pars,
His works, like old Vulcan's, celestial smith! prove,
Who forg'd armour for Pallas, and mail for fierce Mars,
The arrows of Cupid and thunder of Jove;

Homer wrought with pure gold: Virgil next grac'd the art,
His ore, virgin silver, which sweetly he moulded.
Then Ovid extracted the core of the heart,
And its loves on an anvil of roses unfolded:
O, these are the Song Smiths to bid the soul glow!
For honour's career,
Or excite the soft tear,
Whose echo is still interjectional oh!
Other Song Smiths there were; but at once let me flit
To that Master of novelty, feeling and wit,
Great Shakespeare, whose sparks, emanating afar,
Raise the pleasing heigh ho! and blythe ha! ha! ha! ha!

Modern Song Smiths, like bees, swarm, buz, suck, and thrive,
And some, (a new race), have no honey nor sting;
But, perhaps, Mr. Ego belongs to this hive,
So much on the subject I'd better not sing;
There's father he forges at fam'd Sans Souci,
Covent-garden keeps moving the forge of my brother;
And fate in a Harlequin smity plac'd me,
While my forge fuel gains from one folly or other;
The Public, our patrons, none better can know;
So each, in his sphere,
Tries t' excite the soft tear,
Whose echo is still interjectional oh;
But mostly we try merry fancies to hit,
And whim manufacture when barren of wit;
For our trade to improve we think 'tis best far,
The town to enliven by ha! ha! ha! ha!

Walk into my smithy, I'll blow up my fire,
And the order you give to accomplish look sharp:
Would you be an Apollo? I'll make you a lyre;
But take care it doesn't turn out a Jew's harp.

I've bell-metal Bacchanals, catches and glees,
Strong cast-iron odes, and fine wire-drawn sonnets;
I'll hammer out songs by the staves if you please,
Short as new-fashion'd sight, or as long as poke bonnets;
I've temper'd steel ditties of wailing and woe,
To pierce the soft heart,
Or to make the tear start,
Whose echo is still interjectional oh!
And I hope now and then merry fancies to hit;
But as you'll oft find me deficient in wit,
Accept gratitude's ore for wit's high-polish'd star,
That the Song Smith may join in your ha! ha! ha! ha!

Author of the Jew and Doctor, Birth Day, School for Prejudice, &c.

THE FOUR SAINTS.

[_]

(Composed by Mr. Russel, and published by Messrs. Goulding and Co.)

ENGLISHMAN.
O, White are the cliffs which fair Albion enclose,
Bonny St. George and the Dragon, O!
They bosom the ocean from whence she arose.
Bonny, &c.
St. George was the hero of all the brave knights
She chose as the champion and guard of her rights;
He invented life's Balsam and Golden Elixir,
And conquer'd a dragon as fierce as Old Nick, Sir;
From Forestallers that means he gave Albion relief,
First brew'd good October, and roasted fat beef.
Bonny, &c.

WELCHMAN.
O, sweetly the harpers of Cambria play!
A leek in hur hat wore St. Tavid, O!
And Taff, look you, dances on Tavid's coot day.
A leek, &c.
Taff's plood it is noble, and ancient hur race,
Hur pedigree plain as the nose on hur face;
And St. Tavid hur taught hur, 'mong other coot habits,
To make love and leek porridge; and cheese and welch-rabbits;
To be prave, and at serving hur friend not to wince,
To love hur coot king, and to honour hur prince.
A leek, &c.

SCOTCHMAN.
O, canty and bra' are fam'd Scotia's lads,
Hey for the cross of St. Andrew, O!
Wi' their bonnets, their trews, and their tartan plaids.
Hey for, &c.
St. Andrew, gude troth, was a learned cheel,
Then he'd lilt, play the pipes, and he'd dance a reel;
Wi' his muckle Ferara he'd gar the foe whistle,
And kept them in awe of the national thistle;
His precepts to follow nae Scotchman would lag,
“Ecce signum,” proud Gallia's invincible flag!
Hey for, &c.

IRISHMAN.
O, green are the fields Erin chose for her part!
“Erin ma vourneen!” says Paddy, O!
And green is the shamrock so dear to her heart.
Erin ma vourneen, &c.
St. Patrick's the child of our own dearest hopes,
And bulls he invented, but not like the Pope's;
Oh! he lov'd pretty girls, and rich wines, and good dinners,
And the saints that do not must be surely great sinners;
Then for fighting—agrah! he was born thro' a charm,
With a twig of shelaly tuck'd under his arm.
Erin ma, &c.

QUARTETTO.
English, Welch, Scotch and Irish, join hands and all sing,
Like the bundle of sticks in the fable, O!
Success to the Union! Long life to the King!
Like, &c.
May the shamrock, the cross, and the leek, and the rose,
And our Four Saints for emblems that each of them chose,

Flourish happy and long; live like sister and brother!
Paddy. As both all the four have now married each other;
All. Our foes find their match when each singly they take;
But our Union's a firm all the world cannot break.
Like the, &c.

THE RIGMAROLE.

[_]

(Music by C. Dibdin, jun.—Musical Appendix.)

When coxcombs lay claim to the title of men,
Or modesty's mein prudes have carried;
When bachelors cry, “We are happy!” and when
Maids say they don't long to be married:
When vot'ries of fashion to reason pretend,
Or beauties to hate admiration;
When the courtier in writing subscribes himself “Friend!”
And placemen bawl out for the nation;
All this is mere body without any soul,
And that's the plain English of Rigmarole.

When the full titled name of his grace you survey
At the head of an ample donation,
In a charity list meant for public display,
Or his blush at the bard's dedication;
In vermillion and muslin when volunteers drest,
On parade smell of scent so inviting,
Or arm'd cap-a-pee among ladies a nest,
In a pastry-cook's shop talk of fighting.
All this, &c.

When authors all critics to scorn make parade,
Or critics lay claim to good-nature;
Bucks of ton bounce of honour their tradesmen unpaid,
Or courage when kicking a waiter;
When a miser to honesty, feeling, or shame,
Pretends; or to Credit a minion;
A doctor who don't keep his carriage to fame,
Or a lawyer unwigg'd to opinion;
All this is mere, &c.

CHAPTER OF PATENTS.

[_]

(TUNE, DERRY DOWN.)

Of all sorts of times, if to search you're inclin'd,
You'll find none like the present one, time out of mind,

When we've patents for all things, both little and big,
From a beer barrel cock to a barrister's wig.
Derry down, &c.

Patent small clothes there are, but the duce why prepare 'em,
Unless they're contriv'd so that ladies can't wear 'em?
Patent Combs for your good men who lead single lives,
For married men get their heads comb'd by their wives.

Patent razor-strops next will take out the worst flaw,
A fine recipe for the conscience of law!
But if conscience and beards were all equally small,
A lawyer would never want shaving at all.

Some doctors have patents, and some do without,
And swear that the world can't their secret find out;
But I fancy that curing's the secret at stake,
Since we all know of killing no secret they make.

Patent coffins they shut down so firm and so stout,
When you're in that Old Nick himself can't get you out;
Says the miser, “a better thing never was plann'd,
And I vow when I die I'll buy one second-hand.”

The patent for washing's at least the clean thing:
But shews to an end fate will ev'ry thing bring;
Each dog has its day, and that day is soon past,
So our patents are all in the suds, Sirs, at last.

All nations have patents, from Grecians to Gauls,
But Britain's best patent's for sound wooden walls;
And whoever upon our good privilege treads,
With our wooden walls we'll break their wooden heads.

TAX UPON INCOME.

[_]

(Music published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

Ye quidnuncs so queer, who thro' politics trudge it,
And mumble each crust of the minister's budget;
Of all the various ways he discovered to link 'em,
Don't you think he did the job in the Tax upon Income?
How the great folks must come down with the clinkum,
“When the gem'man he goes round for the Tax upon Income.”

'Twould be droll if this tax tythe-in-kind should be collected,
Then from lawyers, you know, justice couldn't be expected!

The proctors their payment in testaments they'd make it,
The doctors pay in physic—but who the deuce would take it?
I'll tell you who we'd give it to, 'twould save us all our clinkum,
The gem'man, who, &c.

Should the gem'man ask the barber's tythe he'd lather him, may hap, Sir;
The cobler too, for tythe in kind, would give his worship strap, Sir;
The baker'd give him short weight whene'er he chose to call, Sir,
Except the baker was churchwarden, then he'd give him none at all, Sir,
For we know no more what churchwardens do with the clinkum,
Than the gem'man, who, &c.

Our cits are worth so many plumbs, our nobles too including,
Their contributions sure would make a national plumb-pudding;
Of which our foes to get a slice would try, ne'er doubt the question,
But they find our British dumplings too hard for their digestion;
And but for these, cook'd by our tars, we'd have but little clinkum,
For the gem'man, &c.

May the incomes of the rich ne'er be taxed by venality;
But the incomes of the poor enlarg'd by their liberality;
When the income of war shall our taxes increase, Sir,
May the score be wip'd off by the income of peace, Sir;

And till then may our tars make our foes find the clinkum,
For the gem'man, &c.

SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

(TUNE, ADMIRAL BENBOW.)

[_]

[Sung in the Author's Piece of Egyptian Laurels.]

When Gallia's battalions to the East found their way,
And the great name of Buonaparte spread thro' Egypt dismay,
“Go, Frenchmen!” he cried, “all the East shall be yours,
For my banner Invincible conquest secures.”

To Sir Ralph, and Sir Sidney, Britannia she cried,
“This invincible conquer, and check Gallia's pride;”
And long March 21st glory's theme shall supply,
When both Britons and Gauls swore to conquer or die.

The impulse was glorious, the struggle was hot,
When Sir Ralph Abercrombie received a fell shot;
While the angel of death heav'd a sigh from the dread
He must summons the chief'ere to victory led.

With Spartan composure, tho' by anguish assail'd,
Sir Ralph led the way till by victory hail'd;

And Gallia's palladium, invincible thought,
To his feet by the Scotch 42d was brought.

Three generals of France amid hosts of slain lay;
But the raptures of Briton to sorrow gave way;
While Sir Ralph proclaim'd victory, they saw his blood flow,
And the angel of death gave him warning to go.

To his brave Caledonians one hand he extends;
To his brave Britons one—then said, “Children and friends!
The Patriot in death finds no terrors,—but charms!”
Kiss'd the flag he had won, and expir'd in their arms.

Now his worth is rewarded, then dry the sad tear;
Prove by acting his virtues his worth you revere;
Like patrons unite, and your flag thus unfurl'd,
Shall invincible prove, tho' oppos'd by a world.

THE INVINCIBLE FLAG.

[_]

(Music published by Mr. Broad, Chapel-street, Fitzroy-square.)

[_]

[SUNG IN EGYPTIAN LAURELS.]

Since Britain first rose,
Her implacable foes

Have been pretty well given to brag;
And from history you'll learn
One or other, in turn,
Have unfurl'd an invincible flag;
They have, &c.

With their raven, you know,
The Danes wanted to crow,
And invincible swore 'twould be found;
But Alfred so neat,
Took their flag, as their fleet
Nelson took t'other day at the sound,
You know, &c.

When at Agincourt fam'd,
The Frenchmen all gam'd
For our goods and our chattels—you laugh.
Fifth Harry, the wag,
Took their fleur-de-luce flag,
And lather'd 'em well with the staff,
He did, &c.

The Pope, in bravada,
Sent with the Armada,
An invincible flag, 'tis well known;
But the flag it was lost,
And he found, to his cost,
He as well might have play'd at Pope Joan,
He might, &c.

Buonaparte's flag came next,
And, confoundedly vext,
When we took it, he cried to his elves,
“These d—d Lords of the deep,
Will let nobody keep
An invincible flag but themselves,
They won't,” &c.

Thus the world can but brag
One invincible flag,
(As it owns but one phœnix, 'tis said)
And it flies, the world knows,
To the cost of our foes,
At the good ship Britannia's mast head.

QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!

[_]

(Music by Mr. Reeve—Musical Appendix.)

Of all the fam'd knights of Galenical state,
Who, lawless, or licenc'd, deal physic and fate,
There never was one, no, nor ever will be,
Fit to hold, half a moment, a candle to me;

You may call me an Egotist; but, in this age,
When envy, ill-nature, and scandal's the rage,
In spite of my merits, if I didn't shew 'em,
They might not speak themselves—and then, pr'ythec, who'd know 'em.

Spoken.

[Why, I have a list of cures as long as the three longest things in nature—a lord's credit, a lawyer's conscience, and a Welchman's pedigree.]

Yet, for others, my praises might lie on the shelf,
Then am I to blame if I sing 'em myself?

No diploma is mine, but no matter for that;
Not Galen himself could do cures half so pat;
A case that has poz'd all the Warwick-lane kings,
I can cure just as well as—I cure other things;
If the sick write their names, and then send 'em to me,
In a letter, post paid, and inclosing a fee,
I divine their complaints just as well from their writing,
As if they their cases whole hours were reciting.

Spoken.

[I always advertise to cure the poor gratis, but then I'm never at home when they come—no, no, I make my harvest of the rich.—]

And as for my fee—why, it must be confest,
That I somehow do pretty well feather my nest.

I went to attend a fine lady quite sick,
Who said in her throat that she found something stick;
She, the ev'ning before, had in dress been out-shone,
I her rival abus'd, and her sickness was gone.
I visited next, in the vapours, a beau,
I handled a horsewhip, and soon brought him too;
I was call'd by a miser in wonderful trouble,
His head swam so much that poor Gripe-all saw double.

Spoken.

[“O, doctor, I am very bad indeed—fear I'm going to heaven before my time.”—“Not much fear of that,” said I. “What's your complaint?”— “Why, doctor, I see double!”—“O, my dear Sir, your case is easy enough to remove—if you see double.]

Count your money, dear Sir, it will give you relief;
So his money he counted, and that cur'd his grief.

I confess 'mong the wonderful cures I perform,
I do kill my share, but then pray where's the harm?
If the patient is young, he's but rid of life's snares;
And if old, then it's only concluding his cares;
If rich, the poor may come in heirs to his store,
And if poor, where he goes he'll want money no more;
If good, he gains heav'n for this world's dead letter,
And if bad, why he only makes room for a better.

Spoken.

[I have salvo's enough for conscience—the dead tell no tales; besides—]

It's fit death and I should the spoil always share,
For “live and let live,” among brothers, is fair.

BALLAD.

[_]

(Tune “The Willow.” Iron Chest, Storace.)

[_]

(IN EGYPTIAN LAURELS.)

My Dermot is gone, and I must wear the willow!
Sing, O for my Dermot, my Dermot, O!
I'll be crying all night when asleep on my pillow,
And all for my Dermot, my Dermot, O!

All the day I shall droop, and at spirits tho' trying,
All the words I shall say will be sobbing and sighing,
Oh, hone! well-a-day! I shall surely be dying,
Sing O for my Dermot, my Dermot, O!

If Dermot is kill'd, it my heart will be breaking,
Sing, O, &c.
Then when he comes back 'twill be mightily taking,
Sing, O, &c.
For the lad who was slain while his country defending,
To find me dead too!—our meeting here ending,
We shall both die with grief, for our hearts 'twill be rending,
Sing, O, &c.

SONG.

[_]

(Tune “Balina mona Ora.)

[_]

(IN EGYPTIAN LAURELS.)

We took water for Egypt, the gale blowing smart,
To catch the Ma'mlukes, and to beat Buonaparte;
But the Turks swore his name wasn't right, by my soul,
For instead of a part he'd have fain bon'd the whole.
Balina mona ora! O, conscience in all things for me!

To Egypt our way thro' the ocean we found,
Tho' I thought on the water we'd all run aground;
But for Ma'mlukes or Sir Lukes we'd no call to roam,
When a Saint Lukes' we've got all so handy at home.
Balina mona ora! The snug little island for me.

Tho' they've wonders in Egypt, at home we've as queer;
If they've pyramids there, why we've obstacles here;
And tho' crocòdiles thereon you make a repast,
Here monopolists eat the folks ten times as fast.
Balina mona ora! Bad luck to forestallers for me!

Their mummies are dead men, stuff'd from heel to head;
So they live you 500 years after they're dead.
But the reason's as plain as the nose on your face,
I suppose there's no doctor all over the place.
Balina mona ora! A comely fat cookwife for me!

They've gypsies enough to tell fortunes, agrah!
But we all very well know the fortune of war;
But may war prove a bankrupt, for ever to cease,
And plenty exult in the fortune of peace!
Balina mona ora! O, peace and cheap living for me!

MONOPOLY.
[_]

(Music published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

Monopoly's long been the rub,
And from it less harm would ensue,
If those who monopoliz'd grub,
Would monopolize appetites too;
But may those who, for lucre of gold,
The poor of their morsel would cheat,
Be punished, like Midas of old,
With nothing but guineas to eat!
Tol, lol, &c.

The Turks they monopolize wives,
And, by some wicked folks it is said,
That's the reason why Turks, all their lives,
Wear each a half moon on his head;
And we know, tho' each married man here
Finds one wife enough for his share,
And beef's so confoundedly dear,
There's cattle enough at Horn Fair.

Yet candour might surely excuse,
Of monopolists some sorry elves,
For doctors would be of great use
If they'd take all their physic themselves;

Of lawyers, why much one can't say,
Their practice I wouldn't condemn,
But some people think, by the way,
Old Nick will monopolize them.

Monopoly thrives every way;
The assertion will stand by the test,
For truth always carries the day,
And we all know the naked truth's best:
That's the reason our ladies, forsooth,
Captivate both the bashful and bluff,
For they're surely the semblance of truth;
And, ecod, they go naked enough.

May the rich ease the poor of their cares!
'Twould the sweetest monopoly bring;
They'd gain all their hearts and their pray'rs,
Like his honour our father, the king!
May Britons each other befriend,
For unity's England's best hope;
And may ev'ry monopolist's end
Be join'd to the end of a rope!

HAPPY HARRY.

[_]

(TUNE “POLL AND PARTNER JOE.”)

[_]

[In the Author's Piece of the Paddington Canal.]

A Jolly miller, blythe, I sing,
They call me Happy Harry!
I envy neither lord nor king;
My head as high I carry.
Tho' I ne'er in my carriage rode,
Still wheels are my support;
And numbers to my levee croud,
My mill I call my court.
And I have power,
To fleece each hour,
From ev'ry subject's sack;
But such an action I disdain,
Since hot or cold, snow, wind, or rain,
My mill goes—click, click, clack!

The man who has a scolding wife,
Were happy passing measure,
Could he but stop her noisy strife,
As I my mill, at pleasure;

Tho' by a white outside I thrive,
I all deceit abjure,
And tho' I do by grinding live,
I never grind the poor:
For ne'er was grist,
Monopolist;
I hate the rascal pack!
And had I licence from the king,
To grind 'em all, oh, how I'd sing!
While my mill went—click, click, clack!

My country and my king I love;
Love friendship with my neighbour;
And, tho' necessity above,
For health's sake love to labour:
There's dame and I, we make no fuss,
Yet love each other sure;
We love our children, they love us,
And then we love the poor.
So blithe and gay
I pass the day,
And love my joke to crack;
And, since I reason ne'er offend,
Enjoy my bottle and my friend,
While my mill goes click, click, clack!

“CHARITY AT HOME.”

[_]

(Composed by Mr. Sanderson—Musical Appendix.)

I'm a patriot in talk, and a barber by trade,
And, ecod, I'm as keen as my best razor-blade;
Like parrot-tongu'd patriots, who prate till they've got
The loaves and the fishes, the corks, and what not!

But when they've finger'd once the pelf,
Their country then may serve itself;
You'll find, if o'er the world you roam,
“Charity begins at home.”

I a parliament man shav'd, and promis'd my vote,
For he into my hand slipt a ten pound bank note;
Then I'd ten pounds for shaving his rival same day;
He ask'd for my vote, and I couldn't say nay?

For when, &c.

The first that was shav'd heard the tale, it is plain,
For the next morning he wanted shaving again;
And his ten he made twenty; so, when the poll came,
Conscience said, “Not to vote for him would be a shame.”

For when, &c.

The other star'd at me, and whisper'd, “Friend, pray,
Why didn't I shave at your shop t'other day?”
I made him a bow, and return'd, in a trice,
“'Tis true, I must own, but—that gem'man shav'd twice!”

And when, &c.

FEMALE VOLUNTEER.

[_]

(Sung in the Author's “Harlequinade of Peter Wilkins.)

[_]

[TUNE, WHITE COCKADE.]

In danger's hour, when our haughty foes
Our British standard dare oppose,
When our gallant lads are oblig'd to roam,
Why should women idly stay at home?
I'm volunteer turn'd, and, indeed, what's more,
A smart drill scrjeant of the corps;
And whenever our old England's claims require,
Can soon “make ready! present, and fire!”

I'm a merry little wag in a scarlet frock,
And my heart's as stout as my musket stock.
The rat-tat-too I love to hear,
Like a merry little British Volunteer.

With Britain's foes what can't we do,
When, Sirs, you must own we can conquer you?

See us marshall'd out, and the fight begun,
The words “Charge Bayonet!” away they run,
While we pink the cowards as they fly,
Till loudly all for quarter cry;
And as mercy's the pride of the British throne,
The word's “Ground arms!” and the day's our own.

I'm a merry, &c.

Their arms all grounded to our view,
To “take up arms,” is of course our cue;
And having boldly gain'd the day,
'Tis “Shoulder-arms!” and we march away;
Then, soldier-like, each jovial soul
Crouds gaily round the flowing bowl,
And toasts, with voice and heart, with three,
Britannia! George! and Liberty!

I'm a merry, &c.

FEMALE CONSTANCY.

[_]

(Sung at Vauxhall, and, in “Egyptian Laurels,” Sadler's Wells.)

[_]

[Composed by Mr. Moorehead—Published by Messrs. Brown and Co. 181, Fleet-street.]

I'ze kilt my coats, my legs aboon,
In spight of mam or daddy,
And trip it to the piper's tune,
The world o'er wi' my laddie;
For he's a bonny Highland lad,
A gallant soldier reckon'd,
Wi' bonnet blue, and tartan plaid,

And of the Forty-second;
Then o'er the hills and far awa',
In weather fair or foggy,
We'll trip, wi' gleefu' hearts and bra',
Blythe Donald and his Moggy.

Our lasses say, my heart's nae right,
Set tow'rd my mam or daddy;
But that's because they brast wi' spight,
And envy me my laddie!

Oh, he's a bonny, &c.

But let our lasses grin ane jeer,
Or mother scold and daddy;
I'ze gang to kirk without ae fear,
And wed my Highland laddie.

Oh, he's a bonny, &c.

THE TWIG OF SHELALY.

[_]

(TUNE, PADDY O`BLARNEY!)

Mulrooney's my name, I'm a comical boy,
A tight little lad at shelaly;
St. Paddy wid whiskey he suckled me, joy,
Among the sweet bogs of Kelaly!
The world I began with a prospect so fair,
My dad was worth nothing, and I was his heir;
So all my estate was a heart free from care,
And a tight little Twig of Shelaly.

“Turn captain,” cried dad, “and if kilt in de strife,
Success and long life to Shelaly!”
Your fortune is made all the rest of your life,
As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly.
But, thinks I, spite of what fame and glory bequeath,
How conceited I'd look in a fine laurel wreath,

Wid my head in my mouth to stand picking my teeth,
Wid a tight little Twig of Shelaly.

Yet firmly both Ireland and England I'll aid,
The lands of oak stick and shelaly;
For now these two sisters are man and wife made,
As sure as there's bogs, &c.
I'll still for their friends have a heart warm and true;
To their foes give my hand, for what else can I do?
Yes, I'll give 'em my hand—but, along wid it too,
A tight little, &c.

THE YEAR 1801.

[_]

(Tune, “Robin and Granny,” Old Lancashire Ballad.)

The comical jokes of these comical times,
Shall furnish the theme for my comical rhymes;
For comical folks will have comical fun,
In this comical year 1801.

Our beauxs stuck in boots to their hips, I declare,
Look just like Cock and Breeches at Bartlemy Fair;
While our belles, in new bonnets, to set off their hair,
First spend all their cole, then the skuttle they wear.

Once fashion decreed that our beaux should be found
In blue and buff uniform all the year round;
Now they think to wear blue when they please is enough,
While, to keep up the charter, our belles dress in buff.

Once our nobles examples of breeding supply'd,
And, as lords of rich manors, kept up Britain's pride;
But now a man may, things so strangely will fall,
Make a very good lord with no manors [manners] at all!

But, speaking of manners, our foes have oft thought
We Britons are much better fed than we're taught;
But fashion so long has monopoly led,
We've for some time been much better taught than we're fed.

Your cits laugh at courtiers, and courtiers at cits,
And the bone of contention is, “wealth versus wits;”
But a large piece of beef, suppose London, you'll own,
The cits are the marrow, the courtiers the bone.

May concord all bones of contention soon break,
And on plenty's marrow a feast Britons make;
May Jack Ketch bone all who would not let us eat,
For “the nearer the bone, why the sweeter the meat.”

This song may be applied to the year 1802, by a very trifling alteration of the first verse; as thus,

“And comical folks comic features may view,
“In this comical year 1802.”

NEGRO SLAVE.

[_]

(Music by V. de Cleve—Bland and Weller.)

Ye children of Pleasure, come hither and see
A sight that shall check your irreverent glee!
Ye children of Woe, hear a tale which awhile
A sense of your own various griefs shall beguile!
Thy tear at that tale, divine sympathy! shed;
Rejoice, sweet Compassion! at viewing this grave;
Here wretchedness hides unmolested his head,
For under this turf lies a poor Negro slave!

Depriv'd of whatever endears us to life;
His country, his freedom, his children, and wife!
Grown mad with reflection, his spirit he freed—
With pity, ye rigid, contemplate the deed!

His corpse, unregarded, disgrac'd the highway;
'Till, blushing, Humanity's credit to save,
With tenderness, Charity hasten'd to pay
Mortality's due to the poor Negro Slave!

Ye kind passers by, who this sport turn to view,
The tribute bequeath to his mem'ry due—
May peace watch his pillow whose breast can bestow
A generous sigh to the annals of woe!
The sigh that you heave, and the tear that you shed,
Remembrance on heaven's blest records shall 'grave;
But vengeance shall heavily fall on each head
That spurn'd and oppress'd him, a poor Negro Slave!

ABRAHAM NEWLAND.

[_]

(Published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside, and Mr. Hime, Liverpool.)

There ne'er was a name so bandied by fame,
Thro' air, thro' ocean, and thro' land,
As one that is wrote upon every bank note,
And you all must know Abraham Newland!
Oh, Abraham Newland!
Notified Abraham Newland!
I've heard people say, “sham Abraham” you may;
But you mus'n't sham Abraham Newland.

For fashion or arts, should you seek foreign parts,
It matters not where ever you land,
Jew, Christian, or Greek, the same language they speak,
That's the language of Abraham Newland;
Oh, Abraham Newland!
Wonderful Abraham Newland!
Tho' with compliments cramm'd, you may die and be d---n'd,
If you hav'n't an Abraham Newland!

The world is inclin'd to think justice is blind,
But lawyers know well she can view land;
But, Lord, what of that! she'll blink like a bat,
At the sight of an Abraham Newland!
Oh, Abraham Newland!
Magical Abraham Newland!
Tho' Justice, 'tis known, can see thro' a mill stone,
She can't see thro' Abraham Newland!

Your patriots who bawl for the good of us all,
Kind souls! here like mushrooms they strew land;
Tho' loud as they drum, each proves Orator Mum,
If attack'd by stout Abraham Newland:
Oh, Abraham Newland!
Invincible Abraham Newland!
No argument's found in the world half so sound,
As the logic of Abraham Newland!

If a maid of three score, or a dozen years more,
For a husband should chance to sigh thro' land,
I'm vastly afraid she would not die a maid,
If acquainted with Abraham Newland:
Oh, Abraham Newland!
Deluding Abraham Newland!
Tho' crooked and cross, she'd not be at a loss,
Thro' the friendship of Abraham Newland!

Thus for Abraham's smiles we're all practising wiles,
And cheating and chattering through land,
Till Death he pops in,
With his comical grin,
And a night cap for Abraham Newland!
Oh, Abraham Newland!
The bell tolls for Abraham Newland!
For when death he comes by, you know life's all my eye,
And then good bye to Abraham Newland!

THE KING's PICTURE.

[_]

(Music published by Goulding and Co. Pall-Mall.)

Mister Abraham Newland's a monstrous good man;
But when you've said of him what ever you can,
Why all his soft paper would look very blue,
If it wa'nt for the yellow boys; pray what think you?
Tol de rol de rol, la tol de, &c.

With Newland's for Letters of Credit proceed,
Pray what would you do where the people can't read?
But the worst of all dunces, we know very well,
Only shew him a Guinea, I'll warrant he'll spell.
Tol de rol, &c.

Your lawyers and doctors, and such sort of folks,
Who with fees and such fun, you know, never stand jokes;

In defence of my argument try the whole tote,
They'll all take a guinea before a Pound note.
Tol de rol, &c.

The French would destroy all our credit and trade,
If they were not unable, asham'd, or afraid;
They talk of our King, but let who will be victor,
They'd be devilish glad to get hold of his Picture.
Tol de rol, &c.

From this Picture so precious may Britain ne'er part,
While the glorious original reigns in her heart;
And while we've such tars as our navy can boast,
With our King and his Picture we must rule the Roast.
Tol de rol, &c.

HOT SPICE GINGERBREAD!
[_]

(Music, Reeve.—Published by Clementi and Co.)

Sung in Harlequin and Oberon.

Come boys and girls, men and maids, widows and wives,
The best penny lay out you e'er spent in your lives;
Here's my whirligig lottery, a penny a spell,
No blanks but all prizes; and that's pretty well.
Don't stand humming and ha'ing, with ifs and with buts,
Try your luck for my round and sound Gingerbread Nuts;

And then here's my glorious spice gingerbread too,
Hot enough e'en to melt the cold heart of a Jew.
Hot spice gingerbread hot! Come buy my spice gingerbread, smoaking hot!

Your fine beaux and belles, and your rattle-pate rakes,
One half are game Nuts, the rest gingerbread Cakes;
Then in gingerbread Coaches we've gingerbread Lords,
And gingerbread Soldiers with gingerbread Swords!
And what are your Patriots? 'Tis easy to tell,
By their constantly crying, they've something to sell.

Spoken.

[But it's a query, whether it's as good for the English constitution as my

Hot spice gingerbread, hot!

My gingerbread lottery is just like the world,
For its index of chances for ever is twirl'd;
But some diff'rence between 'em exists without doubt,
The world's lottery has blanks, while mine's wholly without;
There no matter how often you shuffle and cut,
It i'n't once in ten games you can get a game nut;
So I laugh at the world like an impudent elf,
And, just like my betters, take care of myself.

Spoken.

[There's nobody likes himself better than I do; then all the pretty girls are so fond of me, since the death of my poor wife! Aye, and for the loss of her I can't help crying—

Hot spice gingerbread, hot!

THE TELEGRAPH.

[_]

(Tune, “Here we go up, up, up!”)

Of the freaks of the genius of whim,
The Telegraph's now all the rage;
Don't think of invention, this limb
Was born in this blundering age;
'Twere singing too much out of tune;
Believe me, our grandfathers' had 'em,
They're as old as the man in the moon,
And the devil first shew'd one to Adam.
Tol, lol, &c.

What was Eve but a telegraph, pray,
Whom Nick found the way how to work,
And shew'd gaffer Adam that way,
We all know, the trick of a Turk?
And who by a telegraph goes,
Not oftener wins than he loses;
For he who the strings must dispose,
Can pull right or wrong as he chooses.
Tol, lol, &c.

“The telegraph tidings conveys;
And,” says Henpeck, “must have 'on my life,
(Since for miles you can see what it says)
A tongue just as long as my wife;”

Then modern fine orators too,
Like the Telegraph stuck on Whitehall,
Let 'em speechify till they grow blue,
In the end they say nothing at all.”
Tol, lol, &c.

SWEETLY THE BIRDS WERE SINGING, O!

[_]

(Music, Mrs. C. Dibdin—Goulding and Co.)

Fair Jeannot she cull'd with fond delight,
Sweetly the birds were singing, O!
A rose so red, and a lily so white,
Sweetly, &c.

Her cheek and her skin beat the lily and rose,
But the blight mars the loveliest blossom that blows,
And blossoms a lesson to beauty disclose,
Sweetly, &c.

Fair Jeannot went out on the morn of May,
Sweetly, &c.
All nature was blooming, and fragrant, and gay,
Sweetly, &c.
Jeannot's spirits than May were more sprightly and warm,
But the sun-shine is often obscur'd by the storm,
And the sun-shine to profit may rapture inform.
Sweetly, &c.

The lily grew yellow, the rose grew pale,
Sweetly, &c.
The tempest came on and no more in the dale
Sweetly, &c.
So the beauty of Jeannot it faded away;
Care clouded her spirits so gen'rous and gay;
For she met a false swain on the morning of May!
Sweetly, &c.

TAYLOR'S DREAM.

[_]

(Music, Broad—Musical Appendix.)

A Taylor who cabbag'd, as taylors will do,
Not an inch from an ell, but a yard out of two;
Soho, boy, fair and softly!
Awaking one night, in a terrible fright,
Felt conscience's oozings adown his face trickle,
Lest his Cabbage should turn out a terrible pickle;
For he dream'd such a dream as was ne'er dream'd before,
And he vow'd and protested “he'd cabbage no more;”
But his wife with a hint begg'd his mind to refresh,
“What's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh.”
And soho, &c.

He dreamt that he saw a great patchwork unroll
From the skies, made of cabbage he'd stole;
Soho, &c.
It reach'd to the ground,
Broad as long, I'll be bound,
And was made of all colours art ever invented;
So, conscience-struck, thus to his dear he lamented;
“I'll no more be a sinner and cabbage,” cried he,
“For fear that old Nick in the end cabbage me.”
But his wife, &c.

“Whenever, wife, going to cabbage am I,
Of my dream to remind me be sure that you cry,
“Soho, boy, fair and softly!”
She thus, as we hear, kept him honest a year,
Nay some folks say two, but at wonders they're spelling,
As we all know that stories lose nothing by telling;
Of his courage Snip bragg'd, for temptation was strong,
While his wife replied with the fag-end of a song,
By the way of a hint just, &c.

Of his honesty Snip to all boasted, with pride,
While in his sleeve laughing, old Belzebub cried,
“Soho, &c.”
At length a beau goes with cloth for new clothes;
“Such a texture and colour I ne'er saw;” so nimble,
Cried Snip, for egad he'd his eye on the thimble;
Old Nick whisper'd “cabbage!” Snip answer'd, “I'll shew
“How boldly I'll baffle temptation—heigh ho!”
While his wife humm'd her ditty, his, &c.

Snip cut and contriv'd, and severe was the strife
Between nature and conscience, old Nick and his wife,
Soho, &c.
“Your dream, Snip!” said she,—“I remember,” cried he,
“The patchwork I saw, tho' no doubt meant a warner,
To make it square wanted a yard at one corner;
Then this colour I thro' the whole piece couldn't meet it,
So I must, and I will have, a yard to complete it.”
Says his wife, “wa'nt I right, Snip, your mind, &c.

100

ALL IN FULL CRY.

[_]

(Music, Reeve—Musical Appendix.)

Fain longer would indolent Phœbus recline,
Neglecting Aurora's bright charms;
But the hale glowing troop of Diana combine,
To rouse him from sleep's languid arms;
The huntsman's shrill “hollo!” first strikes in his ear,
While the packs op'ning yell put an end to his trance;
See already his gold-burnish'd ringlets appear,
As o'er the hills peeping he eyes us askaunce!
Thro' woodlands and vallies the far winding horn
With a thrilling tantivy invokes him away;
And, while taunting echo his sloth laughs to scorn,
He vaults on the courser and bursts into Day!

How rapid our course, nor can mountains supply
A barrier to stop our career!
While the brown huntress Health, with her shrill hue and cry,
Follows hard on the heels of the deer.

101

Hark! echo's so full with the noise of the chase,
The Stag thinks a pack up yon hill in full speed
Are rising to meet him, poor fool! in the face,
And fears to go forward, yet dares not recede!
The delusion proves fatal, the pack on him gain,
And a thrilling tantivy completes his dismay;
He starts—stands at bay—starts again—all in vain,
And his head forms a trophy to honour the day.

102

SKIPPING ROPES.”

[_]

(Music, Mrs. C. Dibdin.—Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

Your ladies of fashion, who freely subscribe
To ev'ry whim folly may chance to imbibe,
With Skipping-Ropes pleasantly pass time away,
And skip up and down just like kittens at play.
With a fal de riddle, lal de riddle, &c.

'Tis a strange thing for ladies to carry a rope,
It i'n't for an emblem of marriage, I hope:
They hang in a string all their love-making elves,
And when they get married their beaux hang themselves.
Fal, &c.

We call ladies Belles, and, as puns please the crowd,
To call their ropes bell-ropes, we may be allow'd;
And our ladies are made of right bell-metal stuff,
For we all know their clappers go merry enough.
Fal, &c.

But skipping on ropes i'n't confin'd to our belles,
There's the mighty rope-dancer at Sadler's Wells;
But with some folks compar'd, to the ground he must fall,
For I've seen people dance upon nothing at all.
Fal, &c.

But the best sight of all is our sailors to see,
Who skip up a rope like a cat up a tree;
Like a good cable rope, they our nation defend,
And treat all our enemies with a rope's end.
Fal, &c.

103

May the law in a rope catch your forestalling elves!
But give e'm rope enough, and they'll soon hang themselves;
And then quartern loaves will be plenty, I hope,
And be sold just like onions, “a penny a rope!”
Fal, &c.

104

TAMBORINES.

[_]

(Published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

That women are famous for noise you'll allow,
But were never a quarter so noisy as now;
For, lest we should find a defect in their lungs,
They've chose Tamborines just to second their tongues.
Tingle, jingle, jingle, row, dow, dow.

There's Deputy Dump, of vexation brim full,
Cries, “My dear, that d—n'd drum's like the roar of a bull;”
But, 'tis sympathy touches the nerves of the elf,
For he knows that a bull is so much like himself.

A good emblem of law tamborines will display;
Don't lawyers all on parchment instruments play,
While we dance to some tune? but that i'n't all the fun,
They make us pay the piper as soon as they've done.

This tamborine mania on Grecian taste harps,
For we all know the Greeks take in both flats and sharps;
Then the ladies prove this, for the little (we know)
Their Grecian dress hides; Grecian attitudes shew.

May justice to make tamborines never cease,
With the skins of all pois'ners of plenty and peace;
Then while concord plays on 'em thro' joy for relief,
The poor will all dance to the tune of “Roast Beef.”

105

“ROYAL REASONS FOR ROAST BEEF.”

[_]

(Tune, “When Arthur first at Court began.”)

[_]

[In the Author's Pantomime of “Harlequin Benedick.”]

Queen Bess once fed three men, for a year,
On different kinds of food,
To see which might the best appear
To do a Briton good;
The first was fed on Veal, Sir,
The second was fed upon Mutton,
The third was fed upon good Roast Beef,
And gormandiz'd like a glutton.

When brought to answer the Queen's appeal,
On what they'd been licensed to guttle,
The first reply'd, “Mem, I've dined upon veal,” (affectedly)
T'other, “Muttle, Sir! Muttle, Sir! Muttle!” (pertly)
Cries the queen, “these for soldiers of Briton won't do;
But I swear by my Majesty's word,
Your Veal eaters will make good Men Milliners,
And your Mutton men, Taylors, good lord!

The third he came to be questioned in kind,
And, as loud as he could bawl,
When ask'd by the usher on what he had din'd,
Cried, “Beef, and be d---n'd to you all.”
Queen Bess she gave him her fist with a smile,
And swore it was her belief,
The Devil himself couldn't conquer this isle,
While Britons were fed upon Beef.

106

“ALL IN HIS GLORY.”

[_]

(Music by Gibbon—Musical Appendix.)

Jack Junk was a tar who could tether his tack,
Of his merits who never was talking;
If his friend was in limbo, he ne'er hung a back,
And his courage, it ne'er wanted caulking;
Then Jack was, moreover, a comical dog,
And if rightly I stick to my story,
He wou'd now and then get so aboard of the grog!
Then, d'ye see, he was all in his glory.

107

In battle one day, with a jorum of flip,
Jack, while crossing the deck, began reeling,
And fell, for his leg was shot off at the hip,
But the liquor he just sav'd from spilling.
“Don't you see,” cried his captain, “your leg's off, you dog!”
Jack answer'd, if right is my story,
“Never mind it, for splice me! I've sav'd all the grog,”
So, d'ye see, he was all in his glory.

Discharg'd on a pension, he'd not live forlorn,
But wedlock's wide ocean would weather,
There he made Cuckold's Point, and he doubled Cape Horn,
And his course and command lost together;
For his wife slipt her cable with some pirate dog,
And Jack, just to wind up the story,
Sprung the leak of despair, and so swig'd at the grog,
That to Davy he went in his glory!

DUET.

[_]

(Tune, “A Pox on your Pother, Midas.”)

[_]

[In the Author's Piece of “A Trip to Paddington.”]

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

For F. read Frenchman
For T. read Tar

F.
Now, mister John Bull, you must never advance,
That for Genius you can hold a candle to France,
Ve beat you at ev'ry thing; vat you tink, eh?

T.
I'm thinking how often you beat us at sea?
Fol, lol.

108

F.
At sea, too, ve beata you sometimes—

T.
—Your funning;
You beat us, I know, but its always at running;

F.
Invention's the sea vere unrivall'd ve move;

T.
'Tis yours to invent, but 'tis ours to improve.

F.
Now dere ve inventa de ruffle so grand,
Dat fine ornament for de gentleman's hand.

T.
But how would the gentleman look, Mr. Pert,
If we hadn't somehow invented a shirt?

F.
You'll own dat in cooking ve bear off de belle,
Our fame at invention of cooking all tell.
T. 'Tis true, you find cooking, but pray, to be brief,
To make it of use, dam'me, don't we find beef?

109

ORPHAN SUE.

[_]

(Music published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

I'm Orphan Sue, the ballad girl,
A little ragged rover;
With my fol, lol, lol,
And my fal, lal, lal,
I stray the town all over.
Tho' hot or cold, or wet or dry,
If I've but ballads, what care I?
Tho' scant my store, my heart is light,
And I sing away from morn till night:
My ballads gone, and spent my store,
Oh, then I'm forc'd to beg for more;
With, “Do, sweet lady! dearest lady!
Pray, your honour! bless your honour!
Remember little Sue.”

And though a little ragged girl,
Fine gentlefolks oft treat me,
And for fol, lol, lol, &c.
Won't let the beadle beat me;
For still that ugly spiteful man,
Will try to hurt me if he can;
But spite of him my heart, &c.

Then help a little orphan girl!
Indeed I would not teaze you;
For with fol, &c.
I always try to please you!
But Heav'n bless you, if you won't,
Heav'n loves the poor when rich folks don't;
So in spite of all, &c.

110

DOLDRUM.

[_]

(Composed and sold by Broad, Chapel-street, Fitzroy-square.)

'Twas Phelim of Doldrum the sense to reveal him,
Ax'd Teddy, who call'd him, a paper skull drone;
“Arrah! get out of that, blood and oons!” Sir, (cried Phelim),
“By Jabers, my skull is as thick as your own!”

111

“'Tis like whiskey,” said Ted).—“My dose last night I tuk it,
(Cried Phelim), when I and the watchman in town
Were both all the world like two wells in a bucket;
Myself was knock'd up, and the watchman knock'd down.
Wid a grammachre! huggamanoni! hooh!
Mush-a-grah! Alley Croaker, and Ellen-aroon!”

“Doldrum's,” (said Ted), “the blue devils.”—Peg Proctor
Had them, (replied Phelim); but she's on the shelf,
For she had sure and sartain been kilt by the doctor,
Had she not sav'd her life, joy, by hanging herself;
She drown'd herself first; but her life from the water
I sav'd; then she hung herself while I stood by!
But I never dreamt what the crater was a'ter,
Supposing she'd just hung herself up to dry.
With a grammachre, &c.

“In the Doldrums,” (said Ted), “folks queer fancies suppose, Sir,
“Take a hawk for a handsaw.” (Cried Phelim) “that's clear;
So when Barney the boxer took me by the nose, Sir,
He found he had got the wrong sow by the ear!
Says I, Master Barney, you're full of your vapours,
But the likes are not made for the cut of your coat;
Wid a lick of my fist then, I cur'd all his capers,
Sent his teeth in his hand, and his head down his throat.
Wid a, &c.

But with Doldrums be asey, they're all boderation;
To the one that had hipp'd all your Frenchified drones,
Wid their guns charg'd wid boats, had they try'd at invasion,
We'd have not left a single whole skin in their bones.

112

We're all in the Doldrums! but, now, happy nation!
The King, Heav'n bless him! has bid 'em all cease;
Has sign'd the death warrant of Want and Vexation,
And gave earnest for Plenty in shape of a Peace.”
Wid, &c.

WAR AND PEACE.

A VISION.

Britannia's sorrows, and the curse of War,
What time faint toil supinely turns from care,
Involv'd my senses, and my soul oppress'd,
Till brooding thought deceiv'd me into rest.

No more the downy couch I listless press;
Night's shades retire, and nature shifts her dress:
I tread the greensward, and my wond'ring eyes
Behold sublime, prophetic scenes arise!

Near on my right a pleasing cottage stood,
The scene invested by a cackling brood;
There the brisk swarm the social compact made,
There sparrows nestled, and there lambkins play'd:

All well within the smoking chimney shew'd;
Without, the ground with full-ear'd sheaves was strew'd.

Far to my left huge moated walls appear'd;
Above their heads unweildy turrets rear'd;

113

Thence thund'ring peals, and cries of horror came,
And from all sides burst out th' involving flame:
The ruin'd ramparts to the base gave way,
And all behind in desolation lay;
Shed, store, and palace, found one general doom,
And form'd, for thousands, an o'erwhelming tomb!

Lo! on a sudden, from the reeking pile,
War's genius rose, and view'd it with a smile;
Then, as if some new harvest he beheld,
Down from the height his brazen car impell'd;
Now, from the cot, as near the chariot drove,
A female came, whose look commanded love:
She saw the power, and trembled at his course,
And tried, by art, to mitigate the force:
In sweetest accents—“Stop, great chief,” she cried,
“And lay thy banners for awhile aside.
Hard are the toils the hero undergoes,
And well he earns the moment of repose;
That moment waits thee—here let gen'rous cheer
Confirm thy might, and bless thy bold career.”

He heard, and stopp'd; for beauty's pow'r prevails,
When prayers miscarry, and when int'rest fails.

“What brilliant goddess thus my stay invites,
And kindly tempts from labour with delights?”

“Alas! no goddess bids thy labour cease;
Content my mother, and my name is Peace.
But tho' an humble female asks thy stay,
Ah! turn not War! indignantly away.
My cot but meanly may to thee appear,
Yet know each pleasure loves to solace here:
Hale Hospitality the feast provides;
Here Plenty caters, and gay Mirth presides:
Then, chief, alight; nor fear Reproach shall say,
‘See, how with sloth he wastes th' inglorious day?’

114

Pleasure disdains the coward and the slave,
And came from heav'n to recompence the brave.”

The soften'd genius, rising from his seat,
Threw down his pond'rous gauntlet at her feet.

“Thy gentle challenge I accept,” he cried;
And stepp'd down gently from the chariot's side;
Then loos'd his mail, the ample casque unbound,
And cast his harness, thund'ring, to the ground.
“To-night, sweet maid! thy proffer'd joys I share.”
“Nor with the morn depart,” rejoins the fair.
“Why so impatient for th' exhausting fray,
When heaps of laurel strew thy glorious way?
What wouldst thou more? enough thou hast subdu'd;
The brave for justice seeks the field, not blood!
Wealth would'st thou seek? he makes this cot his home;
If Freedom, farther 'twere in vain to roam;
If Honour, here too honour shalt thou find;
Mercy is here, and Honour's still behind.
Thy steeds unbind then, and thy toils disown,
Nor hence depart till many a day has flown!
Surely the maid her earnest prayer shall gain,
Whom greatest kings have woo'd, and woo'd in vain;
Whom none e'er slighted, but the the gods decreed
A tenfold vengeance on the impious deed.”

She said; in rapt attention as he stood,
His eye confess'd his spirit half subdu'd;
With gentlest violence, from his yielding hand,
She took the flaming, but inverted, brand,
And dash'd it out—the charm of vengeance broke;
His fierceness vanish'd, and he mildly spoke—

“To thee, lov'd maid, I all my soul resign;
I bow, thy slave; be all thy wishes mine;
No scene but this has longer charms for me;
For pleasure dwells, and only dwells with thee.”

115

BACCHUS'S CALENDAR.

[_]

(Music by Mr. Moorehead.—Goulding and Co. Pall-Mall.)

[_]

[In the Author's Pantomime of “Harlequin Alchymist.”]

Provisions they are hard to meet,
In ev'ry body's thinking;
But tho' its hard enough to eat,
Folks cannot leave off drinking:
For tho' good beef's so wond'rous scarce,
Your butcher sweats his brisket,
And whether Want is fair or farce,
The Baker soaks his biscuit.
Fal, lal, &c.

The Cook-Shopman he often sups,
The Vintner he gets soaky,
The China-man gets in his cups,
Tobacconists get smoaky;

116

Your Tapster loves to bung his eye,
Astronomers get sunny,
Your Salter he is always dry,
The Fidler he gets funny.
Fal, lal, &c.

Your Boatman takes good hearty tugs,
The Hempman he gets ropy,
And while the merry Potter mugs,
The Oilman he gets soapy;
The Doctor lays his man o'th' floor,
And all his patients say it;
The Lawyer he runs up a score,
And makes his client pay it.
Fal, lal, &c.

Thus Britons doat on being muzz'd,
And whether fresh or foggy,
By bosky Frenchmen won't be buz'd,
Who thought to catch us groggy?
But let 'em ever try the test,
'Tween Calais Straits and Dover,
They'll find our tars fight always best,
When once they're half seas over.
Fal, lal, &c.

117

MURPHY DELANEY.

[_]

(Published by Mr. Ryley, Strand, and Mr. Hime, Liverpool.)

It was Murphy Delaney, so funny and frisky,
Popp'd in a sheebeen shop to get his skin full;
And reel'd out again pretty well lin'd with whiskey,
So fresh as a shamrock, and blind as a bull;
But a trifling accident happen'd our rover,
Who took the quay-side for the floor of his shed,
And the keel of a coal-barge he just tumbled over,
And thought all the time he was going to-bed;
And sing fillalloo, hubbaboo, whack, botheration,
Every man in his humour, as Kate kiss'd the pig!

Some folks passing by, drew him out of the river,
And got a horse-doctor his sickness to mend;
Who swore that poor Pat was no longer a liver,
But dead as the devil, and there was an end;

118

So they sent for the coroner's jury to try him,
But Pat, not half liking the comical strife,
Fell to twisting and turning the while they sat by him,
And came (when he found it convenient) to life;
Sing fillalloo, &c.

Says Pat to the jury, “Your worships, an't please you,
I don't think I'm dead; so what is it you'd do?”
“Not dead!” said the foreman, “you spalpeen, be easy,
Do you think, don't the doctor know better than you?”
So then they went on in the business further;
Examin'd the doctor about his belief;
Then brought poor Delaney in guilty of murder,
And swore they would hang him in spite of his teeth;
Sing fillalloo, &c.

But Paddy click'd hold of a clumsy shelaly,
And laid on the doctor, who, stiff as a post,
Still swore that it cou'dn't be Murphy Delaney,
But was something alive, and so must be his ghost;
The jury began then with fear to survey him,
While he like the devil about him did pay;
So they sent out of hand for the clargy to lay him,
Put Pat laid the clargy, and then ran away;
Sing fillalloo, &c.

119

A WONDERFUL CAP.

[_]

(TUNE, “GOLDEN DAYS OF QUEEN BESS.”)

Of all the various caps which fit the heads of various people,
Or round, or square, or long, or short, with squat crown, or with steeple,
None, Spanish, Danish, French, or Dutch, Greek, Portuguese, or Persian,
Can equal one of which I'll sing, and that's a bold assertion;
And Heaven rest his honest soul, to whose account we place it,
And horns and head-ach be his lot, whoever shall disgrace it!

120

'Tis not the velvet cap of grave philosophers I hint at,
Nor yet the beauty's cap, when cock'd, which beaux so often squint at;
Who fancies I the fool's cap mean, must lack that thing y'clip'd head;
That cap, at times by all worn—present company excepted.

Spoken.]

No, no; the cap I mean has the virtue, when worn by a fool, to make him a wise man; while a wise man cuts a very foolish figure without it.]

And Heaven, &c.

'Tis not the scholar's trencher cap, stuff'd full of Greek and Latin,
Nor yet the cap of cardinals, which friars get so fat in;
'Tis not the famous wishing cap, in story book you read of,
Nor yet the cap of maintenance, which most folks stand in need of.

Spoken.

[Yet 'tis a cap without which we should have nothing worth maintaining.]

And Heaven, &c.

'Tis not the jockey cap, tho' peers as graceful oft conceive it;
Peers jockey now and then, they say; but, Lord! I can't believe it.
He must be either fool or knave; as likely both together,
Who in their caps of dignity would stick so foul a feather.

Spoken.

[Perhaps you think I mean the cap of nobility; no, no; it is a cap of greater dignity still.]

And Heaven, &c.

121

But now to end my wondrous theme, and make you understand too,
What cap I mean, which other caps must all come capin-hand to;
I mean, what can a Briton's heart more fast than dearest fibre tie,
That blessing life's a blank without, the English Cap of Liberty?”
And Heaven, &c.

122

WOODEN LEGGED PHILOSOPHY.

[_]

(Music by Mr. Reeve—Musical Appendix.)

What matters it tho' I am short of a leg?
Its place is supplied by a sound wooden peg;
I'm content when reflecting the plummet of lead
Which took off that limb, might have taken my head.
So I sing and I whistle as limping I go—
Ups and downs in this world we must all of us know!

A stout wooden leg's no disgrace in these days,
When so many wise heads have such strange wooden ways;
And wooden possessions in question who calls
When England's best bulwark's her old wooden walls?
So I sing and I whistle as limping I go,
Ups and downs in this world we must all of us know.

Your high-season'd glutton, when rack'd by the gout,
Who roars like old Belzebub grip'd with sour crout,
With envious eye views my sound wooden prop,
And would give me to change half the shoes in his shop.
So I sing, &c.

“Some are propp'd by a pun, some are propp'd by a puff;
Some by law and by physic, props rotten enough;
Some catch at all props; some make propping a joke,
But mine's an old English prop sound “heart of oak;”
So I sing, &c.

124

JEW VOLUNTEER.

[_]

(Tune, “In the Days of my Youth.”—Beggar's Opera.)

I'm a Jew you may tell by my peard and my progue,
Taral, &c.
And somehow de folks have found out I'm a rogue,
Taral, &c.
And it vou'd be a vonder if dat vasn't true,
Because I'm a lawyer so vell as a Jew.
Taral, &c.

Of de lawyer and oyster you reads in de book,
He gave back de shell, but de oyster he took;
But all other lawyers at dat I excel;
I first eat de oyster, and den shteal de shell.

Den I turn Volunteer, in de time of de vars,
Wid a long sword and gun all so fiercer as Mars;
Dere caps all your varriors a feather vear in,
But I vear my feather a top of my chin.

But instead of go fighting de play I go see,
Vere all the musicianers are just like me;
Dat he take in de flats ev'ry viseacre harps,
But fidlers and Jews take in both flats and sharps.

Den at courting de ladies I'm not much afeard;
Though they all say I've got such an ugly long beard;
But, says I, “if you tink vat my beard be too big,
My dear, shave it off—it vill make you a vig.”

125

THE BILL STICKER.

[_]

(Tune, “I am a jolly gay Pedlar.”—Oscar and Malvina.)

[_]

[Sung in the Author's Harlequinade of The Alchymist.]

I'm a bill sticker so famous;
And ev'ry wall around you may tell,
If you read, that I'm no ignoramus;
But if you can't read you must spell;
And bills, you must own, my employers
Long enough in all conscience they send,
But they're nothing to taylors and lawyers,
For their bills have never an end.
Fol, &c.

With system I manage my matters,
By agreement or circumstance led,
So stick all the bills of fam'd hatters
Over bills of the Saracen's head;
Patent wig bills, to measure law knowledge,
On Westminster-hall I imprint,
And on Warwick-lane physical college,
Patent coffin bills serve for a hint.
Fol, &c.

Like my betters I thus live in clover,
By billing lanes, alleys, and streets;
For bills are the fashion town over,
Tho' I can't say so much for receipts,

126

My trade ever merrily flit on,
May billing go merrily too;
And the Bill of Rights drawn by each Briton,
Be honour'd whenever it's due.
Fol, &c.

127

ODE

TO THE HARP.

[_]

(Composed by Mr. Reeve—Published by Messrs. Bland and Weller.)

Awake, O Harp! and sooth my soul;
Ah, much I need relief!
Thy Halcyon sound can pain controul,
And hush the storm of grief.

Angelic Hope devis'd thy frame;
Peace wrought thy golden strings;
Bright Rapture long shall bless thy name,
And Health, with purple wings.

Wrapt in delirium sweet I dwell,
On thy seraphic strain;
For sure a heav'nly charming spell
Thy living chords contain!

128

THE WORLD IN THE MOON.”

[_]

(Tune, Irish Newsman.)

This world's very wide, strange its bulls and its blunders,
Its freaks and its fashions, and comical jokes;
But if you would hear of a world full of wonders,
Come list while I sing of some comical folks:
Munchausen he told of these wonderful people,
Who for a stage coach travell'd in a balloon,
Then hung up his horse on the top of a steeple,
And went to take Tay wid de Man in de Moon.
Sing Philliluh! Drimendo! whiskey and tatters;
As sure as St. Paddy kiss'd Ellen-a-Roon;
Not Ireland itself, that swate broth of all craters,
Can shew half the likes of the World in the Moon.

Don't think I am given to bounce and to vapour,
There devil a soul like a Christian is born,
For Fops they sow gingerbread nuts and gilt paper,
And grow folks in fields, as we turnips and corn.
From oaks they get Patriots, and Soldiers, and Sailors;
From spits and ragmops, Cooks and Housewives ensure;
Their brambles grow Bailiffs, and cabbages Taylors,
Their nettle Forestallers, and hemp brings their cure.
Philliluh, &c.

129

Then they've each a back door in their bosoms so funny,
Where they put in their victuals, and whiskey, and wine;
And you'd think that to live wou'dn't cost them much money,
Since it's but once a month they sup, breakfast, and dine;
Yet their meals wou'd with wonder fill north, east, west, south full,
You'd think that the devil himself's in their guts,
For they'll whip up an elephant clean at a mouthful,
And crocodiles crack, as a squirrel cracks nuts.
And sing, &c.

Then a man can his head on and off screw at pleasure,
And that's quite convanient, because if he'd roam,
'Tis but laving his head to take care of his treasure,
And tell all the people he isn't at home;
And then they can do, to astonish beholders,
What all our philosophers can't for their lives,
Can put an old head on a young pair of shoulders,
And good women make, when they please, of their wives,
Philliluh, &c.

130

TRIO.

[_]

(In the Author's Piece of “The Grcat Devil.”)

[_]

[Composed by Mr. Russel.—Clementi and Co.]

We'll to the bower in yonder vale,
And sit on banks of roses,
There tell of artless love's soft tale,
Or braid our locks with posies;
But hark! a bird from yonder spray,
Sweetly sings, and seems to say,
“Maids beware, nor warning scorn,
The sweetest rose can bear a thorn.”

We'll to thy myrtle grove away,
To prattle of love's blisses,
And cheat the moments, as we stray,
With undesigning kisses;
But hark, &c.
The sweetest kiss can bear a thorn.

131

THE PADDINGTON CANAL.

[_]

(Tune, Derry Down, or any other of that measure.)

Come, ladies and gents, all to Paddington town,
To see our Canal of such mighty renown:
'Tis now all the fashion, so don't stand aloof,
For I warrant you'll find it complete water-proof.

A finer canal, Sir, was never made flow,
And the head's near the fam'd Yorkshire Stingo, you know,
Then its water's like wine; but he must be a flat
Who'd not sooner drink Yorkshire Stingo than that.

This canal, join'd to others, pursues its way down
From Paddington fairly to Manchester town;
But permit me another remark in my song,
What a thing it would be if 'twas broad as it's long.

There's the fine Passage-boat drawn by horses so trim,
Some fancy the reason's because it can't swim;
But a boat drawn by horses is handy, is't not,
Because with or without tide 'twill tip the long trot?

132

In our Passage-boat then (where so snug you may dine)
Take water;—but most folks would rather take wine;
Our Uxbridge Canal will be first in the land,
And make the new river, at least, second-hand.

Then let's toast, since an end to my song I've near made,
The Uxbridge Canal, Navigation, and Trade!
In a bumper as large as, of white wine or red,
The Paddington Bason, or New River Head.

THE NAVAL PILLAR.

[_]

(Tune, “Granuwail.”)

I've got a new song, tho' the tune's rather ould,
As you axe me to sing it, I may be so bould;
And if it should plase all your worships, why then,
Only sing out Encore! and I'll sing it again;
Wid a philliluh! hubaboo! here's a rout!
Och! call for the crater, and push it about!
While de marrow bones ring, and the merry bells play,
To the boys of the ocean we'll swig it away.

133

A Pillar's a theme for a song I've pick'd out,
'Cause I don't mean to bother the doctors this bout;
Nor yet shall I touch on the table of law;
Tho' we all can tell that's both a pillar and claw.
Wid, &c.

'Tis the great Naval Pillar they're going to compose,
Like a rod put in pickle to frighten our foes,
That each hero now kill'd in the national strife,
With glory may live all the rest of his life.
Wid, &c.

But while we've such pillars of excellent pith,
Duncan, Mitchell, and Nelson, and Jarvis, and Smith;
Our foes they may brag, but a fig for their boast,
We'll tickle their tobies from pillar to post.
Wid, &c.

But the nation's great pillar's our father, the King,
Round whom, as affectionate children, let's cling;
For surely Britannia may laugh at all squalls,
While a Pillar like this props her sound wooden walls.

134

JOHN DOE AND RICHARD ROE.

[_]

(Tune, The Island.)

Do you know Johnny Doe,
And the fam'd Richard Roe,
Two terrible brothers in law, Sir?
Because if you don't
I hope that you won't
Be hook'd by their terrible claw, Sir?
O, it's a terrible, &c. A confounded terrible, &c.
And their talons ne'er fail
Each poor devil to nail,
Within reach of their terrible claw, Sir.

More captures they've made
Than the whole fighting trade;
For actions their like you'll ne'er meet, Sir.
In the army, folks say,
Mag's diversion they play;
But they're much more at home in the fleet, Sir.
They've much more, &c.
They've all their own way, &c.
For they've officers bluff,
And press-warrants enough,
To issue and people the fleet, Sir.

Sir Sid, without stopping,
Took French leave for hopping,
And now takes the French to their moan, Sir;
But to these he's a cake,
For all nations they take,

135

With nobody's leave but their own, Sir;
Nobody's, &c. Nobody's, &c.
For I fancy, d'ye see,
If they took you or me,
They'd have nobody's leave but their own, Sir.

Why, what d'you think?
When you're short of the chink;
Of want tho' they know you have plenty,
Because it is found
You can't pay ten pound,
Ecod, but they'll make you pay twenty.
Ecod, &c.
'Pon my honor, they'll, &c.
For, as justice can't see,
The lawyers agree,
For ten pounds, &c.

May these brothers in law,
With their terrible claw,
Keep all honest, from poets to proctors;
And perhaps a good thing
For the nation and King,
It would be if they'd bone all the doctors!
O, Lord! &c.
What a thing, if, &c.
With a drop of good stuff,
We should live long enough,
If they'd only just bone all the doctors.

136

THE POOR BLIND GIRL.

[_]

(Composed by D'Cleeve—Bland and Weller.

Though tender and young, yet my eye-sight is gone;
My parents I've lost, to increase my sad moan;
Bare-footed, alas! thro' the streets I must go,
To ask a hard world some relief from my woe!
My story would soften the heart of a churl,
O pity! O pity a Poor Blind Girl!

137

The pleasures of summer you see and enjoy;
For me want and blindness those pleasures destroy;
You've joys too in winter; but I, to my cost,
Know winter alone by the smart of its frost!
My story, &c.

I once knew, tho' blind I now wretchedly stray,
The comforts of wealth, and the blessings of day;
A parent's fond care then enlighten'd my mind!
Thence keener afflictions, alas! now I find!
My story, &c.

Then steel not your bosoms against my sad tale;
Ah! look on my years, it must surely prevail!
My tears kindly dry; and, oh! may you ne'er know
The horrors of want, or the heart-ach of woe!
My story, &c.

THE FALLING LEAF!

[_]

(Music, Mrs. C. Dibdin—Goulding and Co.)

Ye virgins deck'd with beauty's pride,
Unknown to pensive grief:
A moment from the circle glide,
And view the Falling Leaf!
Ah, well-a-way! ah, well-a-way!
And view the Falling Leaf!

138

When first unfolded from the bud,
Hope's promise seems not brief;
Away the fleeting moments scud,
And—view the Falling Leaf!
Ah, &c.

Beauty and youth may promise fair;
But flatt'ry leads to grief—
Be wise! avoid the blooming snare,
And view the Falling Leaf!
Ah, well-a-way! ah, well-a-way!
And view the Falling Leaf!

139

THE GRINDERS.

[_]

(Published by Mr. Ryley, Strand, and Mr. Hime, Liverpool.)

Search all the world, high and low,
Many a freak you'll be finding;
What do you think's all the go?
By de hokey, it's nothing but grinding;
Terry io! io!
Scandal, the devil can't bind her,
The world is all, “how came you so?”
And ev'ry profession turn'd grinder.

Law's a state mill, and those elves,
The lawyers, like terrible giants,
Grind all the grist for themselves,
And leave all the chaff for their clients,
Terry io, io, &c.

The gamester he grinds by de card,
Och, sure he's the devil's own cousin!
The taylor he grinds by de yard,
And de baker he grinds by de dozen.
Terry io, io, &c.

The miser grinds north, east, west, south,
The barber at grinding's a crammer;
The churchwarden's got a wide mouth,
And his grinders are like a sledge hammer;
Terry io, io, &c.

Like coblers, to make both ends meet,
Thus at grinding all stick to their tether;
But Old Nick, who all grinders can beat,
Will soon grind the whole boiling together;
Terry io, io, &c.

140

Good whiskey his grinder Pat calls,
The Cambrian and Scot too can stow it;
Britain's Grinders are sound wooden walls,
And her enemies very well know it;
Terry io, io, &c.

If ever eras'd from my breast
Are my country's int'rests so binding,
May the devil grind me wid de rest,
Just to properly finish his grinding!
Terry io, io, &c.

141

BEN BOWSPRIT OF WAPPING.

[_]

(Published by Mr. Ryley, Strand, and Mr. Hyme, Liverpool.)

Ben Bowsprit I am, and a true bonny boy,
Pull away! pull away! so funny;
And was always the first to pipe hands a hoy,
When the signal was out to be sunny;
I can weather all seas like a good jolly dog,
With the best he that ever went hopping;
But the ocean for me is the ocean of grog,
Pull away! pull away! Pull! I say.
What d'ye think of Ben Bowsprit of Wapping?

My grandfather bulg'd with a freighting of flip,
Pull away! pull away! so frisky;
Old Davy contriv'd my dad's cable to slip,
One day when o'er laden with whiskey;
My wife's christian name it was Brandy-fac'd Nan,
The native to Nick sent her hopping;
So the family cause I'll support while I can;
Pull away! pull away! Pull! I say.
What d'ye think, &c.

Avast! don't suppose I have launch'd out a lie,
Pull away! pull away! so groggy;
Don't you see in the service I've bung'd up one eye,
And t'other, I own's rather foggy?
Then to stand on I've scarcely a leg left, d'ye mind,
And should death t'other day-light be stopping;
The worst you can say is, I've drunk till I'm blind,
Pull away! pull away! Pull! I say.
What d'ye think, &c.

While one leg I've left, I'll stand to my gun,
Pull away! pull away! beauty!
One's enough for to stand on, and as for to run,
Why, that's not set down in our duty;

142

For England's good King, and our dear native shore,
Should the foe in our channel be chopping;
I'll shew 'em, d'ye see, what l've shewn 'em before,
Pull away! pull away! Pull! I say.
What d'ye think of Ben Bowsprit of Wapping?

HOBBY HORSES.

[_]

(TUNE—AIR IN “AGREEABLE SURPRISE.”)

All their point would carry,
By favour or by force,
Every Doll and Harry
Has a Hobby Horse.
To be sure they have.

Spoken.

[And set half of them on horseback, they'll ride to the—

Tiddy dol, &c.

Single folks's hobby
Is to laugh and jest;
Crowning spouse's nobby,
Some married ones like best;
To be sure they do.

With Tiddy, &c.

143

Fighting is the sailor's,
But at home to booze;
Cabbage is the taylor's,
Though he rides his goose;
To be sure he does.

Spoken.

[And drives it with a yard of—]

Tiddy dol, &c.

Some ride till they're addled,
To others then turn hacks;
And they're completely saddled
Who've lawyers on their backs.
To be sure they are.

Spoken.

[But as lawyers ride their clients, they'll be rid in turn by the

Tiddy dol, &c.

May ev'ry foe of Britain
Ride some hard trotting hack;
A saddle have to sit on
Just like a hedge-hog's back:
To be sure they should.

Spoken.

[How would it tickle their—]

Tiddy, &c.

May justice ne'er ride idle,
But all oppressors cure,
And hang 'em in the bridle
With which they ride the poor.
To be sure justice should.

Spoken.

[Then all your Monopolists would be—]

Tiddy, &c.

144

THE CAMERA OBSCURA.

[_]

(TUNE, MARGATE TOYMAN.)

Come, ladies and gentlemen, let me allure a
Your honours all into my Cam'ra Obscura;
Walk in and you'll see what you shall see, no doubt, Sir;
You'll see there within what is doing without, Sir.

145

I'm sure you can never think much of my prices,
They're rated according to ranks and to sizes.
For ladies and gem'men no more than a tizzy,
And three-pence a-piece just for master and missey:

So, Sir, do pray walk in, tol, &c.
And, madam, do stalk in, lol, &c.
Master pray hop in, lol, &c.
And little Miss pop in, fol, &c.

My Cam'ra Obscura, of all is the theme, Sir,
Of the wonders you'd see there you never could dream, Sir;
But I know you'll suppose some fine story I'm cooking,
So step in, and make your mind easy by looking;
We must all pay for peeping, that both you and I know,
So 'twould be just as well first to tip me the rhino;
And if you don't think what you see very funny,
Give me back the sight, and I'll give back your money.

So, Sir, &c.

Then pray, Sir, step in; leave your wife in my care;
And tho' you leave her here, you'll be sure to see her there;
But perhaps you'll be loath to come out again near her,
For there, tho' you see her, you'll never once hear her;
I give you but sight for your money, 'tis true,
But the same worse and dearer the lawyer will do;
For your pence I to show the whole county won't fail, Sir,
While he for your purse shews you only the goal, Sir.

So, Sir, &c.

My Cam'ra Obscura's the world, Sir, in little,
By light and by shadow I shew every tittle;
Like modern philosophers, manage my mark, Sir,
So you always see best when you're most in the dark, Sir;

146

Don't grumble that nothing but shadow you'll see,
When substance has long ceas'd the fashion to be;
And I'm sure you'd each pay double price to be peeper,
Could I show you a shadow of things growing cheaper.

So, Sir, &c.

THE PHANTASMAGORIA.

[_]

(TUNE, “MODERATION AND ALTERATION.”)

Come ye for delight, who the marvellous stick to,
Attend to a story, mirabile dictu!
It's of the fam'd Phantasmagoria a detail,
Where spirits are dealt in, both wholesale and retail.
Conjuration, &c.

On this traffic in spirits some punsters are skittish,
And waggishly ask, “if they're Foreign or British?”

147

And with but little thought the reply may be made,
“All true British Spirits are substance, not shade.”
Animation, &c.

On physics they say all these spirits depend,
And they'll shew you the features of any dead friend;
That's a proof, for what better than physic will do
To bring the appearance of dead men to view?
Demonstration, &c.

There are “black spirits, blue spirits, white spirits, and grey,”
And spectres as grim looking as quarter-day;
But tho' they look terrible, yet their power's taper,
For, like moderate duels, they all end in vapour.
Moderation, &c.

Tho' grim, they're all beauties to the spirit of law,
Which even the boldest his horns in makes draw,
And look like a debtor attack'd by a dun,
Or a fanatic meeting, the spirit of fun.
Botheration, &c.

But spirits in this land are not such new jokes,
For the spirit of hartshorn oft plagues married folks;
They're spirits of vitriol who to scandal incline,
And drunkards are certainly spirits of wine.
Fermentation, &c.

And there are the spirits of truth and of fiction,
And we all know the spirit of contradiction;
Yet rather too far the assertion I've carried,
For 'faith I forgot, we're not all of us married.
Alteration, &c.

148

A BUDGET OF BIRTH DAYS.

[_]

(TUNE, OLD IRISH AIR.)

A Birth-day's a birth-day, deny it who can,
Sing farinana, sing farinanee!
And tho' born to trouble, our life's but a span,
Sing farinana, &c.
Then with why, what, and wherefore, ne'er trouble your head,
Since we're all of us born, but we're none of us dead.
Fol de rol, &c.

The Miser's best joy is the birth of his pelf;
The birth of a Poet is sung by himself;
The Hero for honour resigns up his breath,
For the birth-day of Honour's the banquet of Death.

From the birth of Attornies must heirs at law fall;
And the birth of a Doctor's a dose for us all;
May each Minister's birth prove a politic thing,
And a Patriot be born in the birth of each King.

149

May the birth of good fellowship daily increase,
And Plenty enliven the birth-day of Peace;
The birth-right of Freedom may Britons maintain,
And the birth of her foes turn out labour in vain.

MY GRANDMOTHER's EYE-WATER.

[_]

(Music composed and sold by Mr. Broad, Chapel-street, Fitzroy-square.)

[_]

[Sung in the Author's Pantomime of “The Great Devil.”]

Of all sorts of drops drooping spirits to cure,
A good drop of comfort's the best I am sure,
Some take their drop open, and some take it sly,
But the drop I like best is a drop in my eye.
Tol, lol, &c.
We all love a drop now and then, we do.

150

You delicate ladies pretend, you know,
As how they never get muzzy or so;
But they're all in their cups when the tea they touch,
And they now and then get a cup too much.
Tol, lol, &c.

My granny, because I've bad eyes, gave me
The genuine Eye Water; only see,

(Holds up a bottle or glass.)

But my hand shakes so, north, east, west, south,
I never can get it beyond my mouth.
Tol, lol, &c.

I'm a very dry creature, the people say,
Of course I must drink to moisten my clay;
And when it's too moist drink again you know,
For the more you drink the drier you grow.
Tol, lol, &c.

THE THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.

[_]

(MUSIC BROAD—MUSICAL APPENDIX.)

That Gotham was famous for wise men, you know,
As the tale I shall tell in a minute will show,
Wonderful wise men of Gotham!
Now three of these wise men, advice and sense scorning,
By other men's vexations wouldn't take warning,
So all three got married one unldcky morning.
Wonderful wise, &c.

151

Greatest fool which could make spouse these wives held a stake,
But to give their wives trouble fools of them to make,
Wonderful, &c.
Their politeness must surely be laid on their shelves,
For in England, you know, all our complaisant elves,
To save ladies the trouble, make fools of themselves.
Wonderful, &c.

That she longs for husband's eye teeth, one wife swears,
And he let her draw 'em, the hist'ry declares,
Wonderful wise man, &c.
But, pray, as a singular fool do not scout him,
For here, tho' a husband has eyes, never doubt him,
He'll oft prove he hasn't his eye teeth about him,
Wonderful, &c.

Next wife advis'd hubby to sharpen his wit,
As it makes magpies' chatter, to have his tongue slit.
Wonderful, &c.
But no Englishman would give into such stuff,
If he had a wife—for he'd tell you so bluff;
In a family one magpie sure was enough.
Wonderful, &c.

The third her two sisters resolv'd to outvie,
Persuaded her hubby to put out one eye,
Wonderful, &c.
But the man with no blind side, pray, where can you call?
Indeed chopping and changing so governs this ball,
That now-a-days most folks have no side at all.
Wonderful, &c.

By drowning these men swore to finish their lives,
And into the water be push'd by their wives,
Wonderful, &c.

152

By a pond side they stood to commit this great sin,
While their wives came full gallop behind, with a grin,
But they all slipp'd aside, and their wives tumbled in.
Wonderful, &c.

YO! YO! YO!”

[_]

(MUSIC, REEVE—MUSICAL APPENDIX.)

What argufies talking of danger and fear?
To a true British sailor it sounds rather queer;
When the ship rides at anchor he boozes on shore,
And spends his time merrily in pleasure galore;
'Cause he jigs it, and swigs it, and wheels the can round,
And helps each poor mate he may chance find aground;
And when sailing orders they come for to go,
Takes a kiss of his Poll, then Yo! Yo! Yo!

When the ship scuds away, and the land's left behind,
He gives all his sorrows, d'ye see, to the wind;
On the round top, or yards, how he'll whistle and sing,
And sleep in his hammock as sound as a king!
'Cause he jigs, &c.
And never leaves his spirits for a moment aground;
But if a sad thought comes athwart him, or so,
Heaves a sigh to his Poll, then Yo! Yo! Yo!

153

When the foe heaves in sight, then he flies to his post,
And with a broadsider he answers each boast;
Unless popp'd off to Davy he ne'er leaves his gun,
Till the enemy chuses to strike, or to run;
Then he jigs it, &c.
And splices each sail, or each mast that's aground;
Then carefully tends on the wounded below,
Heaves a sigh to their fate, then Yo! Yo! Yo!

Thus all sorts of dangers he chearfully goes thro',
Till his reckoning is run, and his vessel broaches to;
Then the sailors prepare his sheer hulk for the wave,
A tar's boast and glory, a watery grave!
They nor jig it, &c.
But gather o'er their mate on fate's strand run aground;
Then mournfully heave him to Davy below,
Drop a tear as he sinks, then Yo! Yo! Yo!

154

THE MATCH MAKER.

[_]

(Music by Mr. Broad—Musical Appendix.)

I Jog thro' the world's varied scene,
In spite of its rubs and its scratches,
Like the black-smith of Gretna Green,
Get my living by making of Matches.

Spoken.

[You know my matches a'n't the only ones that have to do with brimstone—so

Chaunt.
I cry my matches as far as Charing-cross;
We all know the grey mare is oft the best horse.
Come, buy my Matches!
All folks except scolds meet their match,
For by scolds even lawyers surpass'd are;
Law's limbs may be had by Old Scratch,
But a scold is the Devil's own master!

Spoken.

[We all love our mother's tongue; but when it's joined to a wife's tongue, it's two to one against poor Benedick. That's the way with me; so when my wife begins—

I cry my matches to where it is said
There is a good woman without e'er a head.
Come, buy, &c.

Some matches 'tis wealth that cements,
When with Plenty's full horn love carouses;
But some ladies they take its contents,
And leave all the horn to their spouses.

Spoken.

[A great many people make a point of abusing matrimony; but it has many good points about it for all that—to be sure, there's Cuckold's Point—so

I cry my matches as far as Horn Fair,
And see a great many fine gentlefolks there.
Come, buy, &c.

155

Our Churchwardens Cannibals match,
For let them, the proof we oft meet it,
In the parish a bastard but catch,
And to save all the charges they eat it.

Spoken.

[But I don't wonder at it; for I went to our church-warden t'other day, and he snapt so, I thought he was going to eat me. “Well, Mr. Churchwarden,” said I, “if you won't let me dine with you, I can dine with a greater man;

So I cried my matches until it was dark,
And din'd with Duke Humphrey in St James's Park!
Come, buy, &c.

Monopoly all would devour,
What a pity that justice don't him stone!
But may those who monopolize flour,
Be match'd by the flour of brimstone!

Spoken.

[Monopoly's a disease as bad as the plague; but I wonder, among all our quack pills and drops, we haven't a cure for it. I know one; so

I cry my matches 'mong the Old Bailey shops,
And there Dr. Kirby sells Akerman's Drops.
Come, buy, &c.

156

PADDY IN A PUCKER.

[_]

(Composed by Mr. Sanderson—Musical Appendix.)

'Twas business requir'd I'd from Dublin be straying,
I bargain'd the captain to sail pretty quick;
But just at the moment the anchor was weighing,
A spalpeen, he wanted to play me a trick.
Says he, “Paddy, go down stairs, and fetch me some beer now,”
Says I, “by my soul, you're monstraciously kind,
Then you'll sail away, and I'll look mighty queer now,
When I come up and see myself left all behind.”

Wid my palliluh! smalliluh! whilliluh! pilliluh!
Arrah, whack! boderation! and langolee!

A storm met the ship, and the waves did so dodge her,
Says the captain, “we'll sink, or be all cast away!”
Thinks I, “never mind, 'cause I'm only a lodger,
And my life is insur'd, so the office must pay.”
But a taef, who was sea-sick, kick'd up such a riot,
Tho' I lay with sickness quite speechless, poor elf!
I couldn't help bawling; “you spalpeen be quiet,
Do you think that there's nobody dead but yourself?”

Wid your palliluh! &c.

Well, we got safe on shore ev'ry son of his mother,
There I found an old friend, Mr. Paddy M`Gree.
“O, Dermot!” said he, “is it you or your brother?”
Says I, “I've a mighty great notion it's me.”
Then I tould him the bull we had made of our journey;
But for bull-making Irishmen always bear blame;
Says he, “My good friend, tho' we've bulls in Hibernia,
They've cuckolds in England, and that's all the same.”

Wid their palliluh, &c.

157

But from all sorts of cuckoldom, Heav'n preserve us!
For John Bull and Paddy Bull's made man and wife;
And ev'ry brave fellow who's kilt in their service,
Is sure of a pension the rest of his life.
Then who in defence of a pair of such hearties,
Till he'd no legs to stand on would e'er run away?
Then a fig for French brags, and your great Buonapartes,
King George and the Union must carry the day.

Wid, &c.

THE IMAGE MAN.

[_]

(Sung in the Harlequinade of Peter Wilkins.)

[_]

[Tune, Picture Shop— Clementi and Co., Cheapside.]

Come, my merry customers, Who buys my pretty ware?
I've images of ev'ry sort will suit you to a hair.
For bachelors I've charming wives, who never scold nor talk,
I've doctors out of plaster form'd, and landlords made of chalk.
Spoken.

[I've dumb parrots, and roses that bloom all the year round; then here's a fine pair of lions to frighten the flies from the sugar-pot, and guard the cups and saucers on the mantle piece; and here's my fashionable plaster heads for perfumers' windows; all painted without, and no brains within—but

158

They're all as natural as life, and bargains very rare;
Come, gentlemen and ladies, who buys my pretty ware?
Fol, lol,

To be sung as a decapo of the two last lines of the verse: to adapt it to the tune.

Now here's a little rabbit that nods an empty head,
And some great folks in parliament can do no more, 'tis said;
That, like me, lawyers rabbits sell, I won't pretend to say,
But you and I know clients buy the rabbit every day.
Spoken.

[I sell all characters, but seldom have a lawyer; because lawyers are seldom to be had; and people dislike 'em so, that when I have a lawyer to sell, I may go to the devil for a customer—but that's

All as natural, &c.
Now here's a valiant grenadier, and there's a British tar;
Between them stands immortal Fame, who tells their deeds afar;
And here our Royal Master stands; may heav'n his joys increase!
Britannia's here with Plenty's horn, and olive branch of peace.
Spoken.]

Come, come, does nobody buy? Here's a parliament man who never sold himself; and a lord who never run in any body's debt; rare bargains—! Then here's the great Buonaparte; he looks as fierce—O, you needn't be afraid of him; he's only plaster of Paris.—

That's all, &c.

159

THE CHAPTER OF BLUSHES.

[_]

(TUNE, CHAPTER OF KINGS.)

How various the blushes that tint the cheek!
Some weakness, some shame, and some modesty speak;
And the cheek that a blush can ne'er reveal;
Shews the head can't think, or the heart can't feel;

160

So, exceptions all granted,
By gen'ral rules wanted,
We all of us blush in our turn.

English, Welch, Scotch, and Irish, tho' varied in name,
In essence are one, and all blush the same;
Their blush it is red, and that's valour's hue,
And they make all their foes blush black and blue.

So, &c.

That lawyers don't blush, some assert so big;
But sometimes you can't see the blush for the wig;
If doctor's don't blush, it's a wonder to me,
They're so monstrously modest in taking their fee.

So, &c.

The blush of an actor is rouge and rose pink;
Authors blush black and white, in their paper and ink;
The blush of a critic I never could mark,
For they, like monopolists, deal in the dark.

So, &c.

Some great folks, with their “blushing honours,” some stake,
Seldom blush; but that's cavilling for cavil's sake;
If they do not blush, they proxy claim,
So their honours blush for 'em, and that's all the same.

So, &c.

May the maiden's blush ever from modesty flow,
The blush of the wife prove affection's glow;
May wealth never blush to own friends downcast,
Nor we e'er have reason to blush for the past.

Yet, &c.

163

'Tis not the old trumpeting goddess's Fane,
Where heroes and Patriots due honour obtain;
Where Bards are enroll'd, who, with genius sublime,
Form the apposite union of reason and rhyme;
But where the exploits of such heroes you view,
As Johnson, Big Ben, Humphries, Ward, and the Jew;
The speeches of Patriots, with voices like Jove's,
Who thunder out Freedom for—Fishes and Loaves;
And Poets, like me, in dull Bathos deep sunk,—
And of these the Desert is to line an old Trunk;
Knock! Knocky! Knick! Knock! am I now making game?
For a Trunk-maker's Shop is my Temple of Fame.

University of Virginia Library

THE SONG SMITH;

OR, RIGMAROLE REPOSITORY.

THE SONG SMITH.

THE FOUR SAINTS.

THE RIGMAROLE.

CHAPTER OF PATENTS.

TAX UPON INCOME.

SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

(TUNE, ADMIRAL BENBOW.)

THE INVINCIBLE FLAG.

QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!

BALLAD.

SONG.

MONOPOLY. [_] (Music published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

HAPPY HARRY.

“CHARITY AT HOME.”

FEMALE VOLUNTEER.

FEMALE CONSTANCY.

THE TWIG OF SHELALY.

THE YEAR 1801.

NEGRO SLAVE.

ABRAHAM NEWLAND.

THE KING's PICTURE.

HOT SPICE GINGERBREAD! [_] (Music, Reeve.—Published by Clementi and Co.)

Sung in Harlequin and Oberon.

THE TELEGRAPH.

SWEETLY THE BIRDS WERE SINGING, O!

TAYLOR'S DREAM.

ALL IN FULL CRY.

SKIPPING ROPES.”

TAMBORINES.

“ROYAL REASONS FOR ROAST BEEF.”

“ALL IN HIS GLORY.”

DUET.

ORPHAN SUE.

DOLDRUM.

WAR AND PEACE.

A VISION.

BACCHUS'S CALENDAR.

MURPHY DELANEY.

A WONDERFUL CAP.

WOODEN LEGGED PHILOSOPHY.

JEW VOLUNTEER.

THE BILL STICKER.

ODE

TO THE HARP.

THE WORLD IN THE MOON.”

TRIO.

THE PADDINGTON CANAL.

THE NAVAL PILLAR.

JOHN DOE AND RICHARD ROE.

THE POOR BLIND GIRL.

THE FALLING LEAF!

THE GRINDERS.

BEN BOWSPRIT OF WAPPING.

HOBBY HORSES.

THE CAMERA OBSCURA.

THE PHANTASMAGORIA.

A BUDGET OF BIRTH DAYS.

MY GRANDMOTHER's EYE-WATER.

THE THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.

YO! YO! YO!”

THE MATCH MAKER.

PADDY IN A PUCKER.

THE IMAGE MAN.

THE CHAPTER OF BLUSHES.

MONOPOLY.
[_]

(Music published by Clementi and Co. Cheapside.)

HOT SPICE GINGERBREAD!
[_]

(Music, Reeve.—Published by Clementi and Co.)