An Original Collection of Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

A dog, and a cat, and a cock, and a hen,
And a very good looking jackass,
Resolv'd, on a time, though I cannot tell when,
But I know that the thing came to pass;
To set up for foreign musicians, and travel
Until they a fortune had made—
For the jackass—no ninny—observed, Paganini,
Had proved it a very good trade.
Ech haw! bow, wow! tuck, tuck! mi-eau!
And cock-a-doodle-doo!
Sing tweedle-de-dum, and flummery hum,
Upon my soul, sirs, it's all true. Oh, yes!
Upon my soul, sirs, it's all true!

The dog had a bass voice as low as Old Naldi's;
The cat could go up very high;
The hen, a beginner, chim'd in as a tenor, quite
Well, as you'll find by-and-bye!
The ass, a good tune, play'd upon his bassoon,
And the cock blew the clarionet;
When together they play'd, such a concert they made—
It was one you could never forget!
Ech aw. &c.

The jackass, a Brayham became when he sung—
The cat was a great Catalani;
When mewing, 'twas music that flow'd from her tongue,
While the cock got great fame in Giovanni!
So their farm-yard they left, and the high road pursued,
Determined, at once, to begin;
And to get them good houses, the dog said he would,
Every night bark the audience in!
Ech aw, &c.

Agreed, they all cried—so, until it was dark, through
The country they wandered about;
When it struck the jackass, that for want of an inn,
They would all be obliged to sleep out.
But, in searching around, they an empty house found,
So snug that it made the cock sing—
“We can roost here to-night, and you'll find, when 'its light,
To perform in 'twill be just the thing!”
Ech aw, &c.

But the jackass said “no,” to this vocal Ducrow,
“It may serve a rehearsal or two!
But excuse me for saying, dear friends, when you're
Playing you'll find empty houses won't do!’
Well their concert they gave, and the empty house fill'd,
For the natives flock'd in by the score—
The ass bray'd, the cock crew, the hen cluck'd, the dog bark'd,
The cat mew'd, and all bellow'd “Encore!”
Ech aw, &c.

Such their fame, far and near, all their songs flock'd to hear,
And so much they were deem'd to excel;
The people their own native singers hissed off—
Our artists alone bore the bell.
And the ass, with a sneer, as they prais'd his great ear
Said—“'Twas ever so, friends—let it pass—
I'm not the first fine foreign singer, by scores,
That in truth has been but a jackass.”
Ech aw, &c.

They the rage so became, with each fine-fangled dame,
To admire them was thought such gentility.
Their money to save, soon their concerts they gave,
In the houses of all the nobility.
When loaded with wealth, they return'd 'twas by stealth,
To their own native plains, where now snug,
With signor, and monsieur, they at Johnny Bull sneer,
And his passion for foreign humbug!