Hilaria. The Festive Board
Author: Unknown
Date: 2022-04-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humorous poetry; Humorous songs -- Texts

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Title: Hilaria. The Festive Board

Dubious author: Charles Morris

Release date: April 11, 2022 [eBook #67815]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: printed for the author, 1798

Credits: deaurider and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HILARIA. THE FESTIVE BOARD ***

HILARIA.

HILARIA.

THE
FESTIVE BOARD.

“Mirth, admit me of thy crew.”

Milton.

——“Vino pellite curas.”

Hor.

London:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1798.

PRELIMINARY.

Tres mihi convivæ prope dissentire videntur,

Poscentes vario multum diversa palato.

Hor.

We, for the most part, differ in our notions of pleasure; one man’s delight is another’s aversion: but felicity is the aim of all. Where then shall we find it? a celebrated poet observes, “’tis no where to be found, or everywhere.” I say with an air of triumph, which the experience of a laughing life has imparted, the delights of love and joys of wine, happily blended, will enable us to attain the summit of human enjoyment. Would you meliorate the condition of the mind, and give to the body its best energies; fly to the circle of convivial gaiety for the one, and to the arms of indulgent beauty for the other—Life without this charming union, is like wine without fermentation, perfectly insipid—for the vinosity of wine, as well as the libidinosity of carnal nature, is produced (as Doctor Johnson, that leviathan of literature would have said) by the same exquisite process—fermentation.——So much in ancient as well as modern times has been said and sung of love and wine, that novelty on these topics cannot be expected. I am an enemy to every species of innovation; but more particularly to that lately broached by the celebrated original four-legg’d, long-tail’d, philosopher, Lord Monboddo, Who is full of regret because we do not mix water with our wine.

Read with sober attention what his lordship says on this subject.

“As, by Isis, a plant was discovered, which furnished bread to man; so by Osiris, her husband and brother, an art was invented of making drink for man: this art is what is called fermentation, which he applied to the use of the grape; and so first made wine: which, though it has been very much abused, as almost every production of nature and art has been by man, and, therefore, is very properly styled by Milton, The sweet poison of misused wine. It may be applied to the most useful purposes, for it is the best cordial of old age: and at all times of life it enlivens the spirits; and, therefore, Bacchus is called Lætitiæ Dator; and it cherishes the stomach: but it is a great abuse of this liquor, in modern times, to drink it pure, without mixture of water, which, I am sorry to observe so much practised in Britain.”—Horace says this ironically.

Notwithstanding this opinion, the gentlemen of Britain, whose fondness for pure, unadulterated, wine, cannot be doubted, will continue the old custom of drinking a bumper of wine with the first toast after dinner, to the first thing that ever was created for the enjoyment of their sex.

Solomon, who was at least as wise as the author in question, says, “Give strong drink to him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts:” “Let him drink and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.”

Burns, the admirable Scots bard, agreed with Solomon, and agreed with himself also, to versify these doctrines:

“Give him strong drink until he wink,
That’s sinking in despair;
And liquor good to fire his blood,
That’s prest with grief and care:
There let him bouse, and deep carouse,
With bumpers flowing o’er,
Till he forgets—his loves or debts,
And minds his griefs no more.”

But what are the vital elixirs, gold tinctures, wonder-working essences, electricity, and animal magnetism, compared to the properties of wine? Dr. Franklin, a name dear to political liberty, has recorded a curious fact concerning the effects of wine. When in France he received a quantity of Madeira, that had been bottled in Virginia: in some of the bottles he found a few dead flies, which he exposed to the warm sun in the month of July, and, in less than three hours, these apparently dead animals recovered life, which had been so long suspended. The philosopher then asks whether such a process might not be employed with regard to man? if that be the case, I can imagine, adds he, no greater pleasure, than to cause myself to be immersed along with a few friends in Madeira wine, (not wine and water,) and to again called to life, at the end of fifty, or more years, by the genial solar rays of my native country; only that I may see what improvement the state has made, and what changes time has brought along with it.

I cannot conclude these few observations on the virtues of wine, without introducing the sentiment of another philosophical gentleman. A modern practitioner of considerable medical skill, has given an opinion worthy the attention of the convivial world: he tells us, if our vital sensation require to be much exalted, neither alembics nor crucibles are necessary for that purpose; Nature herself has provided for us that most excellent spirit—wine, which exceeds all those prepared by the art of man: if there be any thing in the world which one can call the prima materia, that contains the spirit of the earth in an incorporated form, it is certainly this noble production:

“With genial joy to warm the soul,

“Bright Helen mix’d a mirth-inspiring bowl.”

Odyssey.

To promote hilarity, to keep up the good humour of life, to help digestion by the salutary exercise of the risible faculty, the compositions that follow were chiefly written;—the cynic, the sanctified hypocrite, and the misanthrope, will eagerly condemn many of them, but the man of the world, who thinks liberally, and acts up to his feelings, the bon vivant, the friend of the fair sex, the bottle and song, will, it is hoped and presumed, place them under their private care and protection.

PAT-RIOT,
A REVOLUTIONARY SONG.

I.
Och! my name is Pat Riot,
And I’m never easy;
For when all is quiet,
It turns my head crazy;
So to kick up a dust,
By my soul is delighting;
Then to lay it again,
I fall to without fighting.

Chorus—Row, row, row, row, row, row.

II.
Nought but times topsy turvy
Suit my constitution;
And all that I want, is
A snug Revolution:
Then in rank and in riches
I’ll equal my betters;
And a long list of creditors
Change into debtors.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

III.
I dare not be loyal,
For this loyal reason;
My tutor, Tom Paine,
Tells me loyalty’s treason:
And Priestley my Faith has
Shook to its foundation;
So I’ve no prospect on earth
But eternal damnation.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

IV.
In this plight I’ve a plan,
Tho’ it’s not ripe for broaching;
But between you and me,
’Tis a little encroaching;
By a stroke—slight of hand—
To surprize all beholders:
Why I mean to take off
The king’s head from his shoulders.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

V.
Then the crown, d’ye see,
I wou’d lay on a shelf, Sir;
Tho’ it fits me as if it
Was made for myself, Sir:
Och! good luck to the sound,
How the dumb bells will ring, Sir,
When I’ve made all men equal,
And made myself king, Sir!

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

VI.
Just to guard off th’effect
Of fell lightning and thunder,
That together split churches
And steeples asunder,
I mean to pull down
All old orthodox structures;
’Cause Priestley says chapels
Are Heaven’s conductors.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

VII.
To see chapels, from churches,
Like Phœnixes rising,
Good souls, the dissenters
Wou’d deem it surprising,
And, grateful to me,
They wou’d down on their knees too,
Who hate both a church
And a chapel of ease too.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

VIII.
Now the lands of the church,
That feed fat and lean preachers,
By their leaves, I’ll bestow
On the puritan teachers:
Of their tithes, and their off’rings,
And gifts, I’ll bereave ’em;
And nought but their stomachs
And consciences leave ’em.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

IX.
The law long establish’d
No longer shall bind me;
With my father before,
Or my father behind me,
I’ve nothing to do:
Then your bother pray cease, Sir;
I’ll lay down the law
By a breach of the peace, Sir.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

X.
Since the law and the gospel
I’ve taken by storm, Sir,
Physicians shall swallow
My pills of reform, Sir;
I’ll take off their wigs,
Canes, fees, and degrees;
And poison the rogues
With their own recipes.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XI.
Since the Commons are cyphers,
The Lords but nick-names, Sir,
I mean to prorogue ’em
All into the Thames, Sir;
And, lest folks should say
I don’t humanely treat ’em,
Doctor Hawes and cork jackets
At Gravesend shall meet ’em.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XII.
I’ll abolish all titles
Mankind may inherit;
From the fountain of honour,
Worth, virtue, and merit:
I’m a naked reformer:
The doctrine I preach, is
To take coats of arms off
Shirts, waistcoats, and breeches.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XIII.
Thus age, youth, and beauty,
Miss, master, and madam,
All decently figg’d
By the taylor of Adam:
Why this is not new;
Because high and low station,
Were all in confusion
Before the creation.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XIV.
By Jasus, to think how
’Twou’d tickle the devil,
To see from a mountain,
All things on a level;
For the devil’s a patriot
Not over nice, Sir,
And he hates all distinctions
’Twixt virtue and vice, Sir.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XV.
Here’s long life after death
To all hot-headed fellows,
Who night and day work at
The devil’s big bellows:
What charming confusion,
What fine botheration,
To blow up the coals,
And extinguish the nation!

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

THE
MARRIAGE MORN.

Tune, The Merry Dance.

The marriage morn I can’t forget,
My senses teem’d with new delight;
Time, cry’d I, haste the coming night,
And Hymen, give me sweet Lisette:
I whisper’d softly in her ear,
And said, the God of Night draws near.

Oh, how she look’d! Oh, how she smil’d! Oh, how she sigh’d!

She sigh’d—then spent a joyful tear.

Now nuptial Night her curtain drew,
And Cupid’s mandate was, “Commence
“With ardour, break the virgin fence;”
Then to the bed sweet Lisette flew—
’Twas heav’n to view her when she lay,
And hear her cry, Come to me, pray;

Oh, how I feel! Oh, how I pant! Oh, I shall die!—

Shall die before the break of day!

Soon Manhood rose with furious gust;
And Mars, when he lewd Venus view’d,
Ne’er felt his pow’r so closely screw’d
Up to the standing post of Lust:
But when the stranger to her sight
Sweet Lisette saw in rampant plight,

Oh, how she scream’d! Oh, how she scream’d! Oh, how she scream’d!

She scream’d—then grasp’d the dear delight.

Now lustful Nature eager grew,
And longer could not wanton toy;
So rushing up the path of joy,
Quick from the fount Love’s liquor flew:
At morn, she cry’d, full three times three
The vivid stream I’ve felt from thee;

Oh, how I’m eas’d! Oh, how I’m pleas’d! Oh, how I’m charm’d!

I’m charm’d with rapt’rous three times three!

CONVIVIAL.

Tune, Mrs. Casey.

When round reflection foggy Care
His dreary damp disperses,
And Prudence, with didactic air,
Her cautious code rehearses;
Then grant us, gods, some glowing wine,
Such foes of glee to banish;
’Twill make our heart’s horizon shine,
And ev’ry vapour vanish.

CHORUS.
Then laugh and drink,
And never think;
Each frisky festive fellow
Will seize the time,
The season’s prime,
T’ enjoy the fruit while mellow.

The heights of love we can’t attain,
Till wine’s electric potion
Reach the summit of the brain,
To quicken Fancy’s motion:
Then Nature’s still, with rapid flow,
In am’rous fermentation,
Fills thro’ the worm the vat below
With luscious distillation.

When safe arriv’d our latter end,
And time to dust shall grind us,
Our atoms can’t the eyes offend
Of neighbours left behind us:
If with the heart-expanding bowl,
Inspiring love and laughter,
We soak the body and the soul,
’Twill lay the dust hereafter.

The hardy tars more valiant fight,
The soldiers sally quicker,
The poets with more spirit write,
When charg’d with conqu’ring liquor:
And to sorrow-sinking hearts
Wine’s the true salvation;
For, take enough, and soon departs
Suspended animation.

His journey soon must end, they say,
Who drives thro’ life so quickly;
And, ere in years his hair turn gray,
His body will be sickly:
If Velnos’ Syrup he pursue,
’Twill strengthen trunk and twig, Sir;
And if his hair should change its hue,
He can but mount a wig, Sir.

Kind Fortune, fix the jolly soul
On Plenty’s full-plum’d pinion,
To soar beyond the sad control
Of Poverty’s dominion;
And when, with eager fatal claw,
You take him by the throttle,
His precious cork of life to draw,
O Death! don’t shake the bottle.

THE
HIGH-METTLED P⸺O.

Tune, The Race Horse.

View the lass lewd and lovely, of high sporting race,

Prepar’d to encounter the lustful embrace;

Her t—s wide extended, her tempting breasts bare,

The lustful receiver conceal’d by black hair:

While ruddy and rampant, erecting his crest,

With ardour rebounding from knee to the breast,

The signal observ’d, firmly fix’d on his seat,

The high-mettled P⸺o first starts for the heat.

Full stretch’d, crossing, justling, see onward they rush,

And o’er the same ground three times speedily push;

Till weary’d, worn out, we behold P⸺o tame,

As he crawls off the course lifeless, jaded, and lame.

A short time elaps’d, when examin’d his case,

He’s found sorely injur’d by running the race;

And the high mettl’d P⸺o, erst proud and elate,

Is pronounc’d by the knowing ones in for the plate.

Confin’d to the stable, shut out from the stud,

Restrain’d in his diet, and oft losing blood,

He’s plaister’d and poultic’d, in linen rags rob’d,

Fir’d, purg’d, and bolus’d, cut, syring’d, and prob’d;

Till burning like stones that are turn’d into lime,

Alas! luckless P⸺o’s cut off in his prime.

Lament the hard fate this sad story informs,

The high-mettl’d P⸺o’s made food for the worms.

BOTANY BAY.

Tune, Liberty Hall.

Britannia, fair guardian of this favour’d land,

Lately sanction’d a scheme, in full Cabinet plann’d,

For transporting her sons who from honour dare stray,

To that sweet spot terrestrial, term’d Botany Bay.

Toll de roll, &c.

Now this Bay, by some blockheads we’ve sagely been told,

Was unknown to the fam’d navigators of old;

But this I deny, in terms homely and blunt,

For Botany Bay is the spot we call ⸺.

Toll de roll, &c.

Our ancestor Adam, ’tis past any doubt,

Was the famous Columbus that found the spot out;

He brav’d ev’ry billow, rock, quicksand, and shore,

To steer thro’ the passage none ere steer’d before.

Toll de roll, &c.

Kind Nature, ere Adam had push’d off to sea,

Bid him be of good cheer, for his pilot she’d be:

Then his cables he slipp’d, and stood straight for the Bay,

But was stopp’d in his passage about the midway.

Toll de roll, &c.

Avast! Adam cry’d, I’m dismasted, I doubt,

If I don’t tack the head of my vessel about;

Take courage, cry’d Nature, and leave it to me,

For ’tis only the line that divides the red sea.

Toll de roll, &c.

Tho’ shook by the stroke, Adam’s mast stood upright,

His ballast was steady, his tackling quite tight;

Then a breeze springing up, down the red straits he ran,

And, o’erjoy’d with his voyage, he fir’d off a great gun.

Toll de roll, &c.

High from the mast head, by the help of one eye,

The heart of the Bay did old Adam espy;

And, alarm’d at a noise—to him Nature did say,

That it was the trade wind, which blows always one way.

Toll de roll, &c.

So transported was Adam in Botany Bay,

He dame Nature implor’d to spend there night and day,

And curious he try’d the Bay’s bottom to sound,

But his line was too short by a yard from the ground.

Toll de roll, &c.

The time being out, Nature’s sentence had pass’d,

Adam humbly a favour of her bounty ask’d,

That when stock’d with provisions, and ev’ry thing sound,

To Botany Bay he again might be bound.

Toll de roll, &c.

Nature granted the boon both to him and his race,

And said, oft I’ll transport you to that charming place;

But never, cry’d she, as you honour my word,

Set sail with a Clap, Pox, or Famine on board.

Toll de roll, &c.

Then this Botany Bay, or whate’er be the name,

I have prov’d is the spot from whence all of us came;

May we there be transported, like Adam our sire,

And never return ’fore the time shall expire.

Toll de roll, &c.

THE
NEWLY-DUBB’D JEW.

Tune, Derry Down.

My muse, t’other day, having laughter in view,

Selected George Gordon, the now no more Jew,

Resolving to state, with Mosaic precision,

What befel poor Crop’s P⸺ on the late circumcision.

The Rabbi appear’d, and the Christian’s foreskin

Was about to be banish’d, to cleanse Crop of sin;

But Gentiles and Jews, mark the cream of the joke,

By Prometheus inspir’d, his P⸺ suddenly spoke.

Tho’ with fear first poor P⸺o had prudently shrunk,

And, like snail in its shell, snugly hid lay his trunk;

To the Priest then he cry’d, put your knife in its case,

Or, you terrible Cut P⸺k, I’ll piss in your face.

My Lord stood amaz’d, and the Rabbi was mum,

To hear a thing talk that had ever been dumb;

Tho’ Crop said his P⸺ ne’er obey’d his command,

But always lay down when he wish’d him to stand.

This damnable riot in Crop’s private part,

Baffl’d the Priest and resisted his art,

So he swore, if P⸺ did not cease making a route,

He’d pull out his c—d—m, and muffle his snout.

Not a crab-louse car’d P⸺ for the Priest and his laws;

He stood up for his prepuce, and spoke to the cause;

His language was nervous, his reasoning clear,

And he spoke full as well as the Members elsewhere.

Your life, cry’d he, Crop’s a mere mock of devotion;

Well spoken, said Cods, who was backing each motion;

Such conduct, he said, combin’d madness and sin;

And Cods swore his friend P⸺ should sleep in a whole skin.

Now in Akerman’s synagogue Crop’s got a place,

A beard like a Jew doth his pious front grace;

In time ’tis to grow so enormously big,

As to make Tommy Erskine a full-bottom’d wig.

Mr. P⸺, said Crop, to turn Turk I intend,

And ’mongst smack and smooth eunuchs my days will I end;

Poor P⸺ took the hint, and did woefully weep,

Till his flesh cap flipp’d o’er him, then he fell asleep.

The Flats and the Sharps of the Nation.

Of Handel’s fam’d Commemoration,
And what was let loose there, I sing,
When the Flats and the Sharps of our nation
Assembled along with their King.
Madam Mara (now mark what will follow)
Her ravishing sounds was imparting;
Momus play’d off a trick on Apollo,
And set the sweet lady a f—t—g.

At Sowgelders’ Hall, rural scene,
The seat of a Knight and his swine,
The musical Madam had been
Invited by Mawbey to dine:
So the cause of this windy commotion
Was owing, if we’re not mistaken,
To her bolting too great a proportion
Of pease-pudding and gammon of bacon.

Sir John Hawky, the musical Knight,
Who in wit all the Quorum surpasses,
And to whom, if we judge of him right,
The wise men of Greece were mere asses,
Has defin’d Antient Music to be
What sprung from the bottom of Madam,
And that under the wisdom-fraught tree
Eve f—t—d in concert with Adam.

Now those sages renown’d in our nation,
The fam’d F.R.S.es, do tell us,
That to blow up the coals of creation,
The bum is a species of bellows.
But Priestley, who loves to oppose,
Doth a different system insist on,
And swears that he’s led by the nose
To pronounce it a Cask of Phlogiston.

The moment the Lady let fly,
Billington, Storacci, and Kelly,
With laughter were ready to die
At the pickle of poor Rubinelli;
For Rubi, the father of screeches,
In laughing at Mara, so strain’d it,
That his pipe let the piss in his breeches,
For no cistern has he to retain it.

Hurlowe Thrumbo, your wonder ’twill raise,
Is of catgut so charming a scraper,
That, old Orpheus-like, when he plays,
The trees and the brutes round him caper.
He blasted the Thing I won’t name,
Hop’d she’d burst on the rock of damnation;
But he stopp’d when the Bishop cry’d “Shame,
“Brother, think of the late proclamation.”

That famous reformist, Jack Wilkes,
Martin Luther the Second now deem’d,
Sat in converse with Lawn Sleeves and Silks,
And declar’d Sacred Music blasphem’d;
But Jack turning round to Jem Twitch,
Swore ’twas like the affair on the Terrace,
When Bethsheba, impudent bitch,
Shew’d bollocking David her bare arse.

Now Sir Watkin ap Williams ap Wynne,
Who came from whence came John ap Morgan,
Roar’d out to the band-leading Bates,
To drown the foul noise with bur organ:
So Bates, by a blast of the bellows,
Made peace and sweet sounds rule the roast;
Then drink about, laughing fellows—
For f⸺g and fiddling’s my toast.

RUNNYMEDE PILLAR.

Air, I can’t for my Life guess the Cause of this Fuss.

To celebrate deeds of renown, ’tis agreed

That a pillar on fam’d Runnymede be erected:

Men of Parts of all parties then here may proceed,

To relate how this wonderful work is effected.

The pillar’s to stand in Middlesex land,

Bushy Park’s centre’s the sweet pleasure ground;

A strong-fenc’d retreat, well water’d and sweet,

Where Adam first fell, Runnymede’s to be found.

CHORUS.
Rare Runnymede such pleasures producing,
No language of mortals is equal to tell;

Tho’ Moses declines it, my Muse thus defines it:

The paradise where our progenitors fell.

When the midwife, our welcome deliverer, came,

Runnymede witness’d a great revolution;

From bondage she brought us, and Nature, dear dame,

To Britain’s brave sons gave their good Constitution:

For blessings like these, let gratitude seize
The critical minute its ardour to shew;
The stones first prepare the pillar to rear,

Then discharge in this mede the just debt that we owe.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

When Eve, with a mixture of fear and surprise,

Beheld the huge pillar of Adam erected,

Her bare bosom heav’d, and gave vent to soft sighs,

While with curious eye she the structure inspected.

O’erjoy’d did she trace the moss round its base,

But its altitude did her chaste senses appal;

Eve fainted away, and Moses doth say,

That her apron of fig-leaves flew up in the fall.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

Adam’s instinct divine display’d powers that prove,

Mighty man most sagacious of Nature’s creation;

Eve’s distress he beheld, and, in pity, Love

His column convey’d to its dear destination.

What follow’d, you’ll find, is wisely design’d,

And the Hercules’ Pillar of Pagan renown

Ne’er long could stand in Middlesex land,

Adam’s basis gave way, so the Pillar fell down.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

By the magical touch of his heaven-tun’d lyre,

Amphion, the Theban King, wonders effected;

Stones erst in confusion his sounds did inspire,

They danc’d, and we’re told tow’ring walls were erected.

Such harmonic sway this Mede doth display,

And from chaos, thus transient, can order restore;

A quick resurrection succeeds the defection,

To meet the same fate that befel it before.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

That architect, old Mother Phillips I mean,

Doth cases prepare of a curious constructure,

From the fury of fire standing Pillars to screen,

As light’ning’s disarm’d by th’ attractive Conductor:

But curst be her traffic for things polygraphic;

To vend for original, Pillars she plann’d;

Monuments base usurping the place,

Where alone the proud pillar of Nature should stand.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

Tho’ partisans differ, in this all agree,

From Reason’s clear light, and from Nature’s dictation,

That the Mede, at this moment, my mind’s eye doth see,

Is alone the sweet spot for the proud pillar’s station.

There stout may it stand, resisting Time’s hand:

And, Nature, great architect, as thee we prize!

From fire protect it, when down don’t neglect it,

Let it rise but to fall, let it fall but to rise.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

THE
BANKRUPT BAWD.

Tune, Vicar of Bray.

Near Jermyn-street a Bawd did trade,
In credit, style, and splendor,
Well known to ev’ry high-bred blade,
And those of doubtful gender:
How Nature once, in marring mood,
Her body form’d, I’ll tell ye,
Upon her back a swelling stood,
To mock her barren belly.

CHORUS.
For some succeed, and others fail,
That into commerce enter,
So sew are chaste, and many frail,
In this great trading Center.

In coney skins her commerce lay,
A charming stock she’d laid in;
She ne’er to smugglers fell a prey,
Her practice was fair trading:
These skins when dress’d were red and white,
The fur of each fair creature,
Of diff’rent hues, hath day and night
Kept warm man’s naked nature.
For some succeed, &c.

The trading stock of this old Bawd
A vital stab sustain’d, sir;
The news like wild-fire flew abroad,
Each customer complain’d, sir;
Some coney-skins lay with a lot,
By caution uninspected;
So quarantine, alas! forgot,
Foul plague the whole infected.
For some succeed, &c.

Now old and young her shop forsook,
Insolvent was her plight, sir,
When Habeas Corpus Catchpole took
Her body off by night, sir;
From Banco Regis civil law,
To liquidate her debt, sir,
Between the sheets this old Bawd saw
Of London’s fam’d Gazette, sir.
For some succeed, &c.

To give each creditor his due,
Three men, the Lord’s Anointed,
Jack Wilkes, Lord Sandwich, and old Q.,
Were Assignees appointed:
But, luckless Bawd! the after day
Her stock on fire they found, sir;
So ’twas agreed she could not pay
A cundum in the pound, sir.
For some succeed, &c.

The skin (her own) this Bawd had left,
Each Assignee did handle;
’Twas found of all its fur bereft,
By singing flame of candle:
Some butter’d bunns conceal’d within,
Old Q.’s keen eye beset, sir;
So Wilkes defin’d this coney skin
A fund for floating debt, sir.
For some succeed, &c.

By headlong lust her claimants led,
They seiz’d her mortal treasure;
The furless coney skin was spread,
A dividend past measure.
Now all came in, not one stood out;
The Bawd was set at large, sir;
Her coney skin (of worth, no doubt)
Did ev’ry man discharge, sir.
For some succeed, &c.

MEDLEY.

Air, Bow Wow.

Silence, humbugs all, and I’ll sing you a merry song;

Like our lives, ’tis a medley, neither short nor very long;

I mean plainly to prove, that in high and low station,

Hub, bub, bub, bub, boo, is the business of the nation.

Hub, bub, boo, fal, lal, &c.

As late from the hall Hurlow Thrumbo came growling,

A carman’s great dog at his coach set up howling;

Enrag’d with the brute, Hurlow let down the glass, sir,

Cry’d, “whose dog is that?” quoth the carman, “ask his a—, sir.”

The coachman drove on; but ere he’d driven very far,

Two wheels were left behind, and snap went the splinter bar;

Hurlow roar’d out aloud (tho’ no doubt he did wrong to’t),

For he blasted the bar, and all that belong’d to’t.

’Tis not long ago, since poor Jack, the Brighton taylor,

For stitching well a button-hole, was pinn’d up by the jailor:

The trial tells us, by surprise, snip seiz’d an artless lass, sir,

And cabbag’d her virginity, the best piece of her a—, sir.

The maiden scream’d, and snip teem’d with love’s delicious liquor;

O there never was a taylor that could stitch it nine times quicker;

Twas ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto,

Till he work’d up all the thread, then he ripp’d up the slit O.

“R⸺,” dames cry, “what a ravishing creature!

“His pipe! and his shake! and each delicate feature!”

But la! what a pity, divine R⸺!

Your pipe can but carry the p— from your belly!

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

If wedlock’s your plan, ere you scheme to open trenches,

Humbugs pray take heed of our modern made-up wenches:

Fore and aft they are plump to view, but feel, and you will find, sir,

They’ve bubbies like blown bladders, and all is hum behind, sir.

Oh poverty! our purses spare, and pains, do not perplex us,

Still the cheerful song we’ll chaunt, nor shall trifles ever vex us;

But leave to dreary dull dogs their cheerless hours to spend, sir,

Whilst we, in mirthful mood, meet our bottles, c⸺s, and friends, sir.

Now the sequel of my song mark well each humbug brother,

Tho’ here we laugh, drink and joke, and humbug one another;

When out of wind, Death hums us, and we’re sent the Lord knows where, sir,

If we’ve humbugg’d the Devil, I’ll be d⸺d if we need fear, sir.

HUMBUG CLUB CONSTITUTIONAL SONG.

Air, The Roast Beef of Old England.

This tastey gay town’s grown of humbug so full,

That ev’ry new day starts new matter to gull,

Credulity’s known by the name of John Bull.

O the humbugs of Old England;

How finely Old England’s humbugg’d!

Sham patriots profess, with a plausible grace,

The nerves of the nation they shortly could brace,

But pro bono publico means a good place.

O the humbugs, &c.

Here clergy the minister flatter and fawn,

Stick close to his skirts to secure sleeves of lawn,

And the curate’s old cassock goes weekly to pawn.

O the humbugs, &c.

The dunce is dubb’d doctor, sans sense in his head,

And fame unacquir’d is thro’ quackery spread,

With cures that are cureless credulity’s fed.

O the humbugs, &c.

The captain’s a compound of flash and cockade,

Cosmetics, pink powder, with curl carronade,

And his feats are confin’d to box-lobby parade.

O the humbugs, &c.

Now lawyers are licens’d their clients to cheat,

Trading justices equity tread under feet,

And rascally runners all rogu’ry greet.

O the humbugs, &c.

The stage, to amuse us, sings “Fal de Ral Tit,”

With “Che chow cherry chow, and cherry chow chit;”

And then, to humbug us, they puff it as wit.

O the humbugs, &c.

So now, brother humbugs, you all plainly see,

That few modern modes from humbugging are free;

Let’s distinguish our humbug with wine, wit, and glee.

O the humbugs, &c.

The celebrated patroness of the young Chimney Sweepers, whose hard fate was so often deplored by the late Jonas Hanway, has had fitted up an elegant apartment in her town residence, decorated with Feathers; here follows a description of what is termed

“The FEATHER’D ROOM.”

I.

The blue-stocking club, when abandon’d by fame,

On a project resolv’d to revive a lost name,

So for each member’s comfort in life’s chilling gloom,

Old mother M⸺tague feather’d her room.

CHORUS.

Sing a Ballynamona oro,

A fine feather’d chamber for me.

II.

Like old mother Philips, tho’ doubtless her betters,

These blue-stocking ladies are ladies of letters;

Not in love, but in learning, their passions prevail,

And they feather the head whilst they moult at the tail.

III.

An Irish upholsterer Murphy’s the man,

Who furnished my muse with a sketch of this plan;

To guard off the wind that hard by the spot gathers,

He told me she’d paper’d her front room with feathers.

IV.

By the hair-broom of Nature this room was neglected,

Here lay dust undisturbed, and there cobweb collected;

Till a lewd son of Adam, a son of a whore,

To get into the room had burst open the door.

V.

Then wicked wit W⸺ and old lolly-pop Q⸺,

This fine feather’d drawing-room hasten’d to view;

Old Q⸺ first got in, but he soon turn’d about,

For the feathers flew round him and tickl’d his snout.

VI.

W⸺ stood undismay’d at old Q⸺’s queer mishap,

And swore, tho’ the devil should stand in the gap,

Into it he’d wriggle; when in it he got,

He turn’d pale and fell sick, and dropt dead on the spot.

VII.

Birds of passage, alas! all us mortals are here,

Exclaim’d Johnny W⸺ when he spent his last tear;

In his last dying speech, he declar’d with dejection,

He’d not the least hope of a flesh resurrection.

VIII.

Now ere like Johnny W⸺ my muse gives up the ghost,

She leaves, as a legacy, Nature’s first toast;

The front room of Eve Adam fill’d full of sin,

Well feather’d without, and well furnish’d within.

LITTLE PERU,
OR THE
WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.

I.

My sweet native land, the first place of my birth there,

Good luck to you dear if the story be true,

In your bowels I’m told on the face of the earth there,

Lies Mexico’s wealth, a snug little Peru;

Back to Ireland I’ll trot and fall digging for riches,

These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold,

For a pair I’ll get measur’d of ready-made breeches,

And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.

II.

Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters,

Leave nothing behind you but what you can take,

’Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull’s rags and tatters,

No longer at Pat can he fun and game make.

No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies,

No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram,

As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland’s rich God is,

Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.

III.

You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call’d ponies,

Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs,

You’ll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies,

If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares.

I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger,

With big lumps of nature’s coin’d gold in your hand,

When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James’s you stagger,

Bid tabbies go carry themselves and be d⸺d.

IV.

And you flashy captains who oft go recruiting,

’Mongst England’s brisk widows, fond daughters and wives,

Leave war for a peace, and don’t be after shooting

Of Frenchmen, to frighten them out of their lives.

What’s honour and glory to flush ready rhino,

Without which no captain can keep up the ball,

Quick march to Peru, the sweet spot you and I know,

Fill your bellies with full pay and half-pay and all.

V.

Oh! you my Bath Bobadils hunting for acres,

And shaking your elbows, cry seven’s the main,

For the bodies of belles you’re the live undertakers,

But you take them, it’s true, for no prospect of gain.

It’s not for a gold-mine you Bobadils marry,

’Tis all for pure love, beauty, temper, and grace!

’Tis for kindness and tenderness said Captain Larry,

Who kill’d his last wife by too tight an embrace.

VI.

Ye limbs of the law living on little pittances,

Fertile in quibbles, tho’ barren in fees,

Yet pregnant with bother ’bout Irish remittances,

Which you mighty well know never cross the salt seas;

Leave the law’s crooked path for the straight path of pleasure,

The road to Peru is the turnpike to wealth;

And when you walk thro’ it pursuing your treasure,

Pay as you come back, when your purse is in health.

VII.
You gentlemen all in St. Giles’s gay quarter,
To carry a hod, make you shoulder an ass,

My tight peep of day boys, leave stones, bricks, and mortar,

Come one after t’other, rise all in a mass.

Go taste but the water of Wicklow’s clear fountain,

And then, in a moment, you’ll miracles find;

By the stream that runs up to the top of the mountain,

Like a watch case of gold will your bodies be lin’d.

VIII.
And you L⸺M⸺M like penny-post walking,
All up and down London to bother the stones,

In a pair of jack boots there no longer be stalking,

But to Ireland convey yourself, body, and bones.

As an absentee go and dwell on your estate then,

“Lay the root to the axe” of your tenants distress,

A slice of Peru for old Pompey the great then,

Will make him look bigger sure never the less.

IX.

And you father O’Burke, first of Irish defenders,

Of war and corruption, of tyrants and slaves,

Protector of kings, not of humbug pretenders,

So you pray for their lives, and keep digging their graves.

As their old priest and sexton you’ve got a snug pension,

The gift of our king, wealthy, worthy, and wise;

’Twas to make you see clearer, ah! lucky invention,

He threw the gold dust of Peru in your eyes.

X.
Jew Aaron of old, in the absence of Moses,
Set up a gold calf, a strange fancy I think;

When Moses came back, they pull’d each others noses,

Burnt the gold calf, and mixt it with water to drink.

To be sure for pure gold with some silver alloy now,

I shan’t be of worship and gratitude full;

But I make a calf when you know my dear joy now,

For half the expence I can make a nate bull.

XI.

While planning prosperity for brother paddies dear,

I took up the news, called the National Star;

I read it aloud, and was mightily vex’d to hear

Peru had been seiz’d for the king, not the war.

So said I to myself, talking to a bye-stander,

I hate all damn’d wars and their consequent ills;

But Peru for the king, sedition and slander,

’Tis to pay future ministers’ blunders and bills.

THE
BLUE VEIN,
A TRUE WELCH STORY.

I.

Ye fun-loving fellows for comical tales,

Match this if you can, truly current in Wales;

The bible so old, and the testament new,

Have none more authentic, more faithful, or true.

Four frisky maidens, young, handsome, and plump,

Who cou’d each crack a flea on their bubbies or rump,

Took it into their heads, just to bother the tail

Of Ned Natty, a groom, so they jalap’d his ale.

II.

Now Ned on red herrings that ev’ning did sup,

So he drank ev’ry drop of the gripe-giving cup,

Soon his guts ’gan to grumble, and shortly Ned found

His bowels give way, and his body unbound:

The buckskin’s gay leather, by gallows confin’d,

Could not be cut down ’till indecently lin’d,
This made Neddy’s P⸺o, accustom’d to sprout,
Shrink into his belly, and turn up his snout.

III.

The time this damn’d jalap in Ned’s belly lurk’d,

No post-horse like Neddy was ever so work’d,

Three nights and three days he lay squirting in bed,

And neither could hold up his tail nor his head:

The storm, at length, ceasing, purg’d Ned ’gan to think

On some revenge sweet for this damnable stink,

“For I’m damn’d,” exclaim’d Ned, “if these bitches shan’t find

“That I’m cabbag’d before, tho’ I’m loosen’d behind.”

IV.
’Twas early one morn, exercising his steed,
Ned saw an old gipsey hag crossing the mead,

Straight he hail’d her, and said, “Woman, where do you hie?”

She replied, “to tell fortunes of females hard by”:

Now these females Ned found were his jalapping friends,

So he thought it the season to make them amends,

Then he brib’d for the cant, and the gipsey’s old cloaths;

Thus equipp’d, said Ned, trick for trick, damn me, here goes.

V.

First Molly, the cook-maid, he took by the hand,

From her greasy palm, told her what fortune had plann’d,

She was soon to be married, each year have a brat,

“Indeed,” cried the cooky, “how can you tell that?”

“I’ll tell you the number,” said Ned, “let me see

The blue vein that’s low plac’d ’twixt the navel and knee,”

When she pull’d up her cloaths, Ned exclaim’d, “I declare

Your blue vein I can’t see, ’tis so cover’d with hair.”

VI.

Next dairy-maid Dolly, of letchery full,

Swore she was then breeding, for she’d had the bull;

To the gipsey, said Doll, “can you, old woman, tell

Whether bull or cow calf make my belly so swell?”

When he view’d her blue vein, he said, “Doll, by my troth,

You must find out two fathers, for you will have both,”

For the squire and the curate, when heated with ale,

Doll Dairy had milk’d in her amorous pail.

VII.

Now Kitty, the house-maid, so frisky and fair,

Who smelt none the sweeter for carrotty hair,
Presenting her palm to the gipsey so shrewd,
Was candidly told that her nature was lewd:

While feeling the vein near her gold-girted nick,

Kate play’d the old gipsey a slippery trick,

So Kate, that had ne’er been consider’d a whore,

Was told she’d miscarried the morning before.

VIII.

Then came Peggy the prude, who no bawdy could bear,

Yet wou’d tickle the lap-dog while combing his hair;

“Is the butler, my sweetheart,” said Peggy, “sincere,

“And shall we be married, pray, gipsey, this year?”

Quoth the gipsey, “you’ll have him for better or worse,

“But you’ll find that his corkscrew is not worth a curse;

“So when you are wed, ’twill be o’er the town talk’d,

“There goes Peggy, a bottle, most damnably cork’d.”

IX.

Now Ned, thus reveng’d, bid the maidens good day,

But, curious, they ask’d him a moment to stay,

For said Molly, the cook-maid, “we all long to see

“If you’ve a blue vein ’twixt the navel and knee:”

Ned pull’d up his cloaths, Sir, when to their surprise,

They beheld his blue vein of a wonderful size,

The sight Kate the carrotty couldn’t withstand,

She grasp’d the blue vein ’till it burst in her hand.

X.

So alarm’d, the prude Peggy fell into strong fits,

Frighten’d cook and Doll dairy went out of their wits;

Then carrotty Kitty to gipsey Ned spoke,

“We’ll each give a guinea to stifle the joke:”

But Ned swore that no money should silence his tongue,

That the tale should be told in a mirth-moving song;

“As a caution,” cry’d Ned, “to all Abigails frail,

“That there’s more fun in f⸺g than jalapping ale.”

XI.

The story like wildfire o’er Cambria was spread,

From the borders of Chester, to fam’d Holyhead,

In a vein of good humour, the vein that is blue,

Will long be remember’d by me and by you:

Then fill a bright bumper to honour this vein,

A bumper of pleasure to badger all pain;

So hear us, celestials, gay mortals below!

Drink c—t, the blue vein, wherein floods of joy flow.

COUNTRY LIFE.

Written by CAPTAIN MORRIS.

WITH ADDITIONAL STANZAS BY MR. HEWERDINE, MARKED BY INVERTED COMMAS.

Captain Morris’s song is here inserted, for the sake of the answer that follows.

In London I never know what to be at—

Enraptur’d with this, and transported with that;

I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan—

And life seems a blessing too happy for man!

But the Country (Lord bless us!) sets all matters right—

So calm and composing from morning to night:

Oh, it settles the stomach, when nothing is seen

But an ass on a common—a goose on a green!

In London how easy we visit and meet!—

Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat;

Our mornings a round of good humour delight—

And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night!

In the Country how pleasant our visits to make,

Thro’ ten miles of mud, for formality’s sake;

With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,

And no thought in our head—but a ditch or a bog!

In London, if folks ill together are put,

A bore may be roasted, a quiz may be cut.

“In the Country your friends would feel angry and sore,

“Call an old maid a quiz, or a parson a bore.”

In the Country you’re nail’d like a pale in your park,

To some stick of a neighbour cramm’d into the ark;

Or, if you are sick, or in fits tumble down,

You reach death, ere the doctor can reach you from town.

I’ve heard that how love in a cottage is sweet,

When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet:—

I know nothing of that; for, alas, I’m a swain

Who requires (I own it) more links to my chain!

Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees,

And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please:

But a house is much more to my mind than a tree;

And, for groves—oh, a fine grove of chimneys for me!

“In the ev’ning you’re screw’d to your chairs fist to fist,

“All stupidly yawning at sixpenny whist;

“And, tho’ win or lose, ’tis as true as ’tis strange,

“You’ve nothing to pay—the good folks have no change!

“But, for singing and piping, your time to engage,

“You’ve cock and hen bullfinches coop’d in a cage;

“And what music in nature can make you so feel,

“As a pig in a gate stuck, or knife-grinder’s wheel!

“I grant, if in fishing you take much delight,

“In a punt you may shiver from morning to night;

“And, tho’ blest with the patience that Job had of old,

“The devil a thing do you catch—but a cold!

“Yet ’tis charming to hear, just from boarding-school come,

“A Tit-up tune up an old family strum:

“Play God save the King in an excellent tone,

“With the sweet variation of Old Bob and Joan!

“But, what tho’ your appetite’s in a weak state,

“A pound at a time they will push on your plate:—

“’Tis true, as to health, you’ve no cause to complain;

“For they’ll drink it, God bless ’em, again and again!”

Then in Town let me live, and in Town let me die;

For, in truth, I can’t relish the Country—not I.

If I must have a villa in London to dwell,

Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall-mall!

The ANSWER to CAPTAIN MORRIS’s
SONG, “The COUNTRY LIFE.”

I.

As town-bitten bards, bred in fashion and noise,

The country decry, and its health yielding joys;

Let us fairly examine the preference due

To the smoak-smother’d town, o’er the villa’s clear view.

II.

At ev’ry town tavern you turn in to dine,

Tho’ your dinner’s half cold, smoaking hot is your wine;

Then how pleasant and wholesome while picking your bone,

The mix’d odour of other folks food and your own.

III.

Then noisy and drunk, scarcely feeling their legs,

Bucks sup at the M⸺, on hash’d duck, oysters, eggs,

Eggs pregnant with chick, oysters sp—d up before,

The duck dainty fed in the streets common sewer.

IV.

Yet, how charming Vauxhall in a cold rainy night,

To hear dull-hacknied ditties to music so trite;

You’ve a thin slice of ham, town-made wine thick and flat:

View a tinman’s cascade, and a fidler’s cock’d hat!

V.

See Ranelagh! folly and fashion’s resort,

And vapid masqued balls, where Intrigue holds her court;

There girls are “loose fishes,” pull’d up in their turns;

There wives are harpoon’d, and dull husbands get horns.

VI.

The dance is bon ton—and in hot sultry weather

Sticks the sexes like two pats of butter together!

And when you get into the heart of the hop,

You’re pinion’d like fowls in a poulterer’s shop.

VII.

But routes for fine fellows, fine feathers to see,

Strong liqueurs for ladies, who love to make free;

Old tabbies at cards, over old fashion’d fans,

Peeping, cheating, and squinting in each others hands.

VIII.

Then at dinners and concerts see fidlers so fine,

Bolt hot macaroni, drink rare foreign wine;

There musical dames, at each shift and each shake,

Die away, “amoroso,” for fiddle-stick’s sake.

IX.

In a vortex of dust, thro’ the sun’s scorching ray,

A rotten-row ride on a Sunday how gay;

Thro’ a long lane of lacqueys you meet your hard fate,

Screw’d in and screw’d out of a damn’d narrow gate.

X.

Then how cursedly civil when folks in town roam,

To leave cards with their friends, when they know they’re from home;

In the country, glad welcome our visits attends,

We’ve no humbugging, card-dropping, shy-fighting friends.

XI.

In London, while day-light, not long are you clean;

At night you’re bug bitten, scarce fit to be seen;

Thus amusement and exercise fall in your way,

For you’re scratching all night, and you’re scrubbing all day.

XII.

In the streets oft you meet a queer stick of a fellow,

Who pokes in your eye his sharp-pointed umbrella;

But the measure of danger is scarcely half full,

When a flow’r-pot dropt down, breaks itself and your scull.

XIII.

If in London the doctors should shorten life’s date,

To lie long in the grave’s, not the dead bodies fate;

For surgeon, clerk, sexton, and coachman conspire,

To mangle the corpse, and the bones join with wire.

XIV.

In the country we’re healthy, all vigour and spunk,

No doctor we want, but to make him dead drunk;

Nor yet patent-coffins; for, once in the ground,

Our bodies are snug, till the trumpet’s last sound.

XV.
Now suppose you a flat, and addicted to play,
In London a sharp will seize on you as prey;

He’ll the passion promote, make you drink, though not dry,

And filch your fair prospects by loading the die.

XVI.

Then the sports of the field, a fine view of the sea,

Friend and bottle, girl, Cutter, and cottage give me;

At smoak’d rus in urbe let other bards dwell,

Keep me from Pall Mall, Piccadilly, and Hell![1]

[1] A famous gambling-house so called in the vicinity of S. James’s.

ADDITIONAL STANZAS.

I.

At the play among loungers and doxies you’re cramm’d,

To hear wretched stuff that has just not been damn’d;

Take cold with your back ’gainst an open door box,

Get a crick in the neck, and a c⸺ full of p—x!

II.

Sublime your sensations, arise, when you hear

The codless Italian, with pipe shrill and clear;

But we in the country, whom cocknies call clods,

All glory in raising our pipes with our—c⸺ds.

III.

At night, half seas over, returning from club,

You run foul of a nightman, and his nose-gay tub;

And a jordan perhaps, on your noddle may split,

So before you get home, you’re bepiss’d or be-s—t!

IV.

In the country to see us would do your hearts good,

Such pieces we push at, of pure flesh and blood;

Take a flyer in town, ’tis a hot butter’d bun,

And you’re certain to pay thro’ your nose for the fun.

V.

At the playhouse or opera when you approach,

How sweet to be stuck in a stinking hack-coach;

And when you alight, still your patience to try,

A strange hand’s in your pocket, a link’s in your eye.

GOODY BURTON’s ALE.

Tune, The Dusty Miller.

Goody Burton’s ale
Gets into my noddle,
’Tis so stout and pale,
It makes me widdle waddle;
When I came to ask,
Who the brewing taught her,
I found out each cask
Was brew’d by—Goody’s daughter.

Now I long’d to see
Goody’s buxom brewer,
Hoping I should be
The only one to woe her;
When I spoke her soft,
I meant not to fool her,
So I went aloft,
And warm’d her in the cooler.

Oh! what flesh and blood!
Malt, and hop, and water,
Are not near so good
As Goody Burton’s daughter;
I made her heart right glad,
For till I came across it,
She had never had
A spigot in her fauset.

Nightly at my door
Comes a gentle rapping,
’Tis Miss Burton sure,
Who wants her barrel tapping;
When her barrel’s tapp’d,
She with art and cunning,
Turns the patent cock,
And sets the liquor running.

Other folks I hear,
Pant for Betsy Burton,
But I’ve nought to fear,
So I let her flirt on;
If her cask runs low,
Slowly comes the liquor,
Betsy tilts it so,
And makes it come the quicker.

Mellow up and ripe,
I and Parson Cottle,
Sit behind a pipe,
And quaff the ale in bottle;
Goody Burton bye,
Sings to please the parson,
While Miss B. and I
Carry Nature’s—farce on.

By the yeast I swear,
Yielding fermentation,
To the home-brew’d beer,
The neighbour’s admiration,
This the maid will tell,
The Bard’s no bragging talker,
Like ale, to keep her well,
Well, by Jove,—I cork her.

THE
LADIES’ WIGS.

Tune, Moll in the Wad.

You’ll pardon me, ma’am, I’m quite a gig,
Is it your hair, or is it a wig?
Upon my life, I mean no quiz,
But is’t your own, or the barber his friz?
Because if it is, ’tis a very neat friz,
Whether it’s yours—or whether it’s his;
But if it’s a wig, it’s a little too big,
And you’ll dance it off in a reel or a jig.

Post-chaises, coaches, chairs, and gigs,
Are let as jobs like ladies’ light wigs;
And scandal gossips (madam) say
Yours is a jasey hir’d by the day.
Be that as it may, it’s a very cheap way,
Jaseys to lett of all colours but grey;
But, what do I see, that gives me such glee,
You’re cocking your cap and your caxon at me.

Now into a scrape, by love, I’m led,
Your wig, dear ma’am, has twisted my head;
My heart, too, I feel, goes pitty pat,
But what care you or your jasey for that;
Yet I’m no flat—I know what I’m at,

I’ll soon mount a wig of my own to match that:

I care not a fig—the woman I twig

I’ll marry, by jasey, in spite of her wig.

The light or dark, brown, black, or flax,
No jasey pays Pitt’s hair-powder tax;
And when with men, maids romp and play,
How cool to throw the wiggy away;
By night or by day, to frisk, romp, or play,

On carpet, bed, sopha, green grass, or new hay;

Whate’er it’s upon, a little crim. con.,

With a lady’s rough jasey’s expensive bon ton.

Pray, ma’am, does the colour of your scratch

With the hair of your madgery match?

Perhaps as it is the kick and go,

You’ve mounted, ma’am, a merkin below!

But the merkin you’ll find, from water and wind,

Strong torrents before, and stiff breezes behind,

Will not stick at all; but with glue to the cawl,

’Twill stick like a snug swallow’s nest to the wall!

Ah, happy, happy, happy hour,
When I get your wig in my pow’r;
Then we’ll count the coming joys,
Buxom girls, and prattling boys;

Dolls, trinkets, and toys to feast their young eyes,

And lullaby ditties to quiet their noise;

While sweet lolly-pob stops the sigh and the sob,

Sing higgledy, piggledy, jiggummy bob.

CHORUS.
So bibere bob,
Let’s all hob and nob,
To the ladies’ brown bob,
And sing plenty of money in ev’ry fob.

A
GENTLEMAN’s WIG.

Tune, Derry Down.

I sing not of despots, or slaves who submit,

Not of farmer George, Jenky, Dundas, Fox, or Pitt!

My ballad’s the bantling of laughter and gig,

’Tis of an old cock in a c—tified wig.

’Gainst the poll-tax of Pitt this old codger did rave,

Like a felon transported, it forc’d him to shave;

“Tho’ tried for my life,” said th’ old buck, I’ll rob

The tail of some Dolly to build a brown bob.

Near Somerset House he fell in with a tit,

And he thought, for his purpose, the c—tling was fit;

But, when he examin’d her parts, d’ye see,

All the hair of her c—t would’nt make a toupee.

The same night he pick’d up a merry-ars’d wench,

With hair quantum suff. for the wisdom-wig’d bench;

Whilst on her back sleeping as fast as a top,

He with keen-cutting scissars her c—t made a crop.

Away went the thief, and the barber received

The booty, for which a fine cawl he had weav’d;

But strange! whilst old razor the wig had in hand,

The pole in his breeches did constantly stand.

Well pleas’d with his plight, Razor laid by his work,

And lather’d the beard of his wife like a Turk;

Keep the wig, said she, Love, don’t expose it for sale,

’Tis a bob for your head, and a bob for my tail.

The wig frizz’d and curl’d, closely shav’d Codger’s nob;

Away went the barber to try on the bob;

But the bob waxing warm, Codger’s passions did rise,

Which brought tears in his breeches, instead of his eyes.

In rampant condition he flew to a fair,

And per chance met the Dolly he’d robb’d of her hair,

She whipp’d off the wig, cloath’d his parts with the cawl,

So in went his dry bob, and wet bob, and all.

Now we know to be true what anatomists state,

That the fountain of love is supplied from the pate;

’Twas the jasey provoking,—sirs, mark what I say,—

Made his fountain of love in love’s bason to play.

Then take my advice, ye old cocks of the game,

Whenever you find your wild passions grown tame;

Get a wig made of hair, from the spot ye all prize,

And in spite of your prudence your p—o will rise.

AN
IRISH DYING DITTY.

I am in my nature as brisk as a fly,
Resolving to live the day after I die;
And when I am dead, this live body to save,
Plant a peck of potatoes plump over my grave;

Then, hedge me well round with some big pebble stones,

Else father Mai’s pigs will soon root up my bones;

For sure foolish I’d look at the trumpet’s last sound,

When my body’s to rise, and no bones to be found.

As I’ve nothing to leave, so I’ve made my last will,

Chalk’d up on a slate, without paper or quill;

And Judah my wife, the delight of my bed,

Swears she won’t open it till I am dead;

With tears in her eyes too, that did her face souse,

She vows she’ll keep single, tho’ I quit the house;

When I know that the moment my back’s to her face,

She’ll be flying to Paddy O’Blarney’s embrace.

Good luck t’her, say I, for the comfort I’ve had,

For when I was merry, she always was sad;

Dead husbands, she tells me, are not worth a curse,

And live ones are often no better than worse.

When she sleeps all alone, she’s all night wide awake,

And dreams that the devil her conscience will take;

To drive him away from her head, my sweet bride

Must have a live spouse to lie by her backside.

Well, let her be married again, what care I,

I’m off to my grave, other fish I’ve to fry;

I forgive her, God knows, sure without any bother,

Oh, she’ll think of Pat’s thing if she gets such another.

And now, as the breath in my body’s all gone,

A word or two more, and then Paddy has done;

But yet, when I think on’t, I’ve nothing to say,

For to-morrow we’re here, and are all gone to-day.

COFFIN CLUB.

CONSTITUTIONAL DIRGE.

Costume.—Members to appear in black or faded crape cravats, tobacco-boxes in the shape of patent coffins, the end of the pipes to be put in mourning, with black sealing wax, white pocket handkerchiefs (if convenient) to catch the tears.

N. B. A heavy fine on persons indulging in that foolish practice, called laughter.—“Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.”—Secretary. The president, whoever he may be, for the evening, to be called—Mr. Undertaker; and whoever takes the chair, grave subjects will be expected from him.

To the Solemn Tune of “Jack Ran.”

Ye giddy youth, in life’s gay spring,
Who wanton joke, laugh, drink, and sing;
Ah, look at us, and change your ways,
In sackcloth we spend all our days.

CHORUS—WITH A GROAN.

May fate bestow what’s good for you,

Horrors jet black, and devils dark blue.

Did you but know how sweet is grief,
The flowing tears that yield relief;
Sweet sorrow’s sigh, heart-heaving moan,
Your life wou’d be one grunt and groan.

For life’s like bubbles made by rain,
No sooner come, but gone again;
So we must go, as ’tis our doom,
To make for other bubbles room.

Then ne’er rejoice, or e’er look glad,
Keep cloudy front, and visage sad;
For life’s a flake of smoke at best,
And not as poet’s say, “a jest.”

Away with idle hopes and fears,
Cut short your days, and nights, and years;
When desp’rate grown, and hating life
Go off by water, rope, or knife.

Coffins to be shewn.

Then comes this tight-screw’d patent case,

The undertaker’s last embrace;

Fast lock’d in which, four feet in ground,

We’re safe until the trumpet’s sound.

But, hark! the sexton tolls the bell!

So coffin comrades fare ye well.

THE
TOY.

At Hampton-court a mansion stands,
A tavern, called the Toy, sir,
A captain there and ensign came,
A seeming beardless boy, sir;
The waiter shew’d ’em both a room,
And as the story teaches,
He shortly saw the captain’s hand
Within the ensign’s breeches!

The captain damn’d the waiter’s soul,
And bid him straight retire, sir,
The ensign swore, in bouncing tone,
He’d throw him on the fire, sir!
“I beg your pardon, sirs,” said he,
And thus express my sorrow,
“This is the Toy at Hampton-court,
“Not Sodom and Gomorrah!”

Away the waiter ran down stairs,
No waiter e’er ran faster,
Half out of breath he told the tale
To Boniface, his master;
A council at the bar agreed,
That chambermaid and cook, sir,
To give proof of their dirty tricks,
Should thro’ the key-hole look, sir.

So up went cooky first, and spied
The parties billing, cooing,
When to herself, she said, “God’s curse,”
“What nasty work’s a brewing;”
I’ll spit ’em, baste ’em, roast ’em too,
I’ll clyster-pipe the fellows,
Then straight with water scalding hot,
She fill’d the kitchen bellows.

Nell chambermaid next crept up stairs,
Saw th’ ensign on a table,
The captain charging ’twixt his legs,
With bayonet so able;
“I’ll tuck you up, I’ll warm your bed,
“And when warm in your places,”
Said Nell, “I’ll scorch your nasty scuts,
“Throw p—s in both your faces.”

The laundress swore she’d mangle ’em,
The dairy-maid would skim ’em,
The bar-maid vow’d she’d squeeze ’em too,
The ostler swore he’d trim ’em;
The post-boy was for whipping them,
The boots, for brushing, beating,
The scullion was for scow’ring them,
The waiter was for cheating.

The landlord up stairs led the way,
His servants follow’d after,
They found the captain full of play,
The ensign full of laughter;
The captain cry’d out, “Who’s afraid?”
But th’ ensign look’d disgrace, sir,
And carried, as the landlord said,
The colours in his face, sir.

Old Boniface said, “fie for shame!
“Sure, captain, you are no man,
“You lie,” said he, “and look ye here,
“My ensign is a woman;”
And when he ope’d her waistcoat wide,
The parties were struck dumb, sir,
For a pair of bubbies bolted out,
God Cupid’s kettle drums, sir.

The cook said to the ensign gay,
“I’m quite up to the rig, sir,
“You Sodomiters, people say,
“Have breasts as dumplings big, sir;
“And ’till I feel I’ll not believe,
“For I knows dogs from bitches,”
And saying this, she thrust her hand
Into the ensign’s breeches!

The captain, in a passion, flew
To his fair friend’s assistance,
He damn’d the cooky for a whore,
And bid her keep her distance;
She’d laid her hand upon the place,
That spreads the ensign’s p—s, sir,
Then looking humbly in his face,
Said, “beg your pardon miss—sir.”

CATASTROPHE.

The captain drew his sword, and stood
To bear ’gainst all the brunt, sir,
And said—I mount not guard in rear,
But always in the front, sir;

He turn’d ’em one by one down stairs,
And shew’d the cook his ’tarse, sir,
While with his sword, as she pass’d by,
He pink’d her in the a-se, sir.

THE
CROPT COMET.

Tune, I have a Tenement to let.

The Comet passed its perehelion on the 20th of June, 1797, and was seen in the Southern Hemisphere, passing from Argo through Orion, up towards Auriga; near the head of which, it was seen by Miss Caroline Herschell, and to her wonder and disappointment, without a tail.

What’s all this bustle and alarm,
This buzzing ’bout the nation,
A Comet crop’d, now heaves in sight,
A stranger constellation;
Tho’ Newton, Tycho Brahe, Des Cartes,
Concerning Comets vary,
Yet Comets, call them what you will,
Are stars both rough and hairy.

CHORUS.
And some are crop’d,
Nick’d, hog’d, fig’d, dock’d,
Fir’d, bearded, tail’d, and whisker’d,
Doodle, doodle, doodle doo,
Doodle, doodle, dil do.

But truce to all the learned trash,
All vague and loose conjecture,
And take from me, ye Comet skill’d,
A plain and simple lecture;
If this foul fact I fully prove,
No odds will be between us,
This Comet got his tail close crop’d,
By stroking planet Venus.

Now where d’ye think when last you peep’d,
This Comet was a posting,
When he had lost his fiery tail,
Left Venus orbit roasting;
Why? to the planet Mercury,
To state his woeful case, sir,
And rubbing in his recipe,
His nose dropt off his face, sir.

It seems this Comet oft was seen,
With Venus cutting capers,
And Mars had heard his damag’d tail
Emitted noxious vapours;
So off he went to Jupiter,
About his wife’s ellipsis,
For he didn’t like to see her have
So many strange eclipses.

How came, quoth Jupiter to Mars,
Fair Venus out of order,
For I suspect ’twas you old boy
Who gave her this disorder;
It may be so, said planet Mars,
To Jupiter, his king, sir,
For I’ve been in the milky way,
And Saturn’s filthy ring, sir.

This Comet crop’d hangs o’er our heads,
I wish he’d travel faster,
For in his course eccentrical,
He dealeth dire disaster;
Pale Luna’s got the clap of him,
Bright Sol’s reflecting mopsey,
With water too, he’s fill’d our earth,
And given her the dropsy.

Piss M⸺k, B⸺m, both M. D. D.
Ascend by a balloon, sir,
The first, the Comet has call’d in,
The last attends the Moon, sir;
Humbug B. cures her clap,
And Humbug M. gratis,
Undertakes the Comet’s case,
A dreadful Diabetes.

Now if I’m wrong, sirs, set me right,
Banks, Herschell, Loft, and Walkers,
All you who of cropt Comets are,
The astronomic talkers;
Go tell the town I’m nebulous,
Word “caviare to the million,”
Swear radiant Phœbus Cromwell cropt,
The Comet’s perehelion.

Enquirers into nature say,
That bucks, when rutting’s over,
Inter their old-tails in the park,
And new ones soon discover;
The Comet and the buck alike,
With new tails bound and jump, sir,
While old Duke Q., not I or you,
Wags on with his old stump, sir.

This Comet, timid people talk,
Forebodes a revolution,
A total change and overthrow
Of Britain’s constitution;
But still I think we’ve nought to fear,
Tho’ enemies divide us,
Our leading light of freedom is,
The steady Georgium Sidus.

THE
ACTRESSES.

When Momus, laughter-loving boy,
Thalia fill’d with pleasure,
At one home stroke, spring tides of joy
Swept off the virgin treasure:
The stroke gave birth to nature’s child,
A child, like fortune fickle;
So Momus laugh’d, Thalia smil’d,
And out pop’d little Pickle!

When Pickle came to London town,
Plain truth confirm’d this rumour,
A naval duke, of high renown,
Fell in with Pickle’s humour;
For art had lost the pow’r to charm.
Which wakes the passions sleeping,
So He, to quiet love’s alarm,
Took—nature into keeping.

Pickle’s rise gave birth to gall,
She scarcely was respected,
The green-room seem’d a surgeon’s hall,
Her body there dissected;
Tho’, both were sore, she had two eyes,
Said envy’s bitter daughter,
And while she prais’d her legs and thighs,
On c—t she threw cold water.

Syren C⸺h, of luscious look,
Envied Pickle’s belly,
Tho’ she hugg’d a Cornish duke,
And her bravura K—y;
Thus do dukes and dollys meet,
Ye, Gods, how chaste this age is,
When horned husbands, in the suite,
Attend their wives as pages.

Lovely, lively, young, and fair,
M—a may-day blooming,
Skin as sleek as racing mare,
Just after finish’d grooming;
See her fashion, style, and grace,
Hear Polly Peachum warble,
And if your tears don’t wash your face,
Your heart’s a block of marble.

I hate the gothic stately pile,
The comic, tragic, ruin,
Give me the new, not the old style,
Some work of modern doing;
Miss C⸺f⸺d and Miss Ab⸺n,
Both sock and buskin bred, sir,
What would I give, I blush to own,
For both their maidenheads, sir.

Whither is S⸺e fled?

And where’s her cock of wax gone?

Who us’d to rear his crested head

Within her curly caxon!

When Jew Braham’s cabbage came,

She quitted Drury’s station,

To enjoy (was she to blame)

The early vegetation!

Becky W⸺s, who went to pot,
From burton ale and brandy,
Fonder was of Tippy Top,
Than children’s sugar candy;
No more the cut of Tippy’s frock,
No more his strut invites her,
’Tis now the cut of Israel’s cock
That comforts and delights her.

Still Mother M⸺r’s virtues mark;
She lives in chaste condition,
With her hautboy puffing P—k,
Who plays for his admission;
Most titled things I’ve heard her say,
Are dry b—s next-door neighbours,
Before such husky pipes can play,
Their bums are bang’d like tabors.

Jordan laughs at gibes and jeers,
At envy, spite, and spleen, sir,
And says, to mortify their ears,
“Ecod, I may be queen, sir;”
Her keeper, too, keeps up the farce,
Whose love of Jordan such is,
He bids her foes to kiss her a—e,
For he’s made her c—t a Duchess.

Long in love’s hammock may they swing,
Health, wealth, and peace abounding,
With all the bliss that life can bring,
To swell the scene surrounding;
So fill a bumper, ’tis the debt
That’s due from loyal freemen,
Here’s may the press between ’em get
A crew of gallant seamen.

THE
CROP.

Dear ladies attend to the song,
Of a Crop in the prime of gay life,
Young, healthy, and wealthy, and strong,
And languishing for a fond wife.

CHORUS.
Crop’s determin’d to marry,
He’s tir’d of a bachelor’s round,
Crop wants a comely clean woman,
With some dirty acres of ground.

A bachelor wild Crop has been,
But variety’s charms he’ll forsake,
And constancy, maids, will be seen,
To follow the reign of the rake.

Your suitor for conjugal rites,
Promises, maids, to his praise,
To crown, with affection, your nights,
With mirth and good humour your days.

Says Lydia, with love-looking eye,
Vow and promise you bachelors can,
But sure, till his virtues she try,
No maid should decide on her man.

The language of Spintext let’s cite,
’Tis take him for better or worse,
His heart, girls, you’ll find is as light,
Aye! light as a transparent purse.

But Crop’s an estate in the fens,
Deeply dipp’d in the water we hear,
For his steward the reck’ning sends,
And it brings him in nothing a year.

To a widow, some say, he is sold,

Who keeps in the Borough a shop,

As she kill’d her first deary, behold!

A beautiful prospect for Crop.

In an old maid’s affection’s Crop’s place;
But he ne’er will be married, we hope,
To one in whose frost-bitten face
There’s ruin in razors and soap.

Gods! give Crop the girl kind and fair,
Of feminine manners and grace,
Whose skin is not cover’d with hair,
To kiss without scrubbing his face.

Crop once lov’d a boarding-school gig,
All his letters she stitch’d in her stays,
Which made little Tittup look big
With vows, protestations, and praise.

If, present, there be such a lass,
And tho’ but one chemise to her back,
I’ll take her to Gretna’s green grass,
On swift Pegasus poet’s old hack.

The life that is merry and short,
Crop’s reason and passions approve,
A life of all lives, ’tis the sort
To give life to the woman we love.

So Crop’s determin’d to marry,
He’s tir’d of a dull single life,
He’ll not die an old bachelor,
If he can get a young wife.

THE
WHIRLIGIG WORLD.

This song is the joint production of Col. Kirkpatrick and Mr. Hewerdine.

A fig for the cares of this Whirligig World,

Shall still be my maxim wherever I’m twirl’d;

From the spring of my youth, to the autumn of life,

It has cheer’d me and whisk’d me through trouble and strife.

CHORUS.

So this is my maxim wherever I’m twirl’d,

A fig for the cares of this whirligig world.

It has taught me to rise to the summit of ease,

By simply submitting to fortune’s degrees;

Thus I’m rich without pelf, for content is true wealth,

And the best vade mecum in sickness and health.

Just as full of defects as the rest of my kind,

“Give and take” is my measure, for specks in the mind;

For who in another shou’d pry for a spot,

When he knows, in his heart, he has blot upon blot.

Mankind I contemplate as Heaven’s great work,

Whether Christian or Jew, Pagan, Gentoo or Turk;

In a nutshell the creed of my conscience will lie,

To others I do, as I wou’d be done by.

’Gainst chill poverty yet, I have ne’er set my face,

For I hope all my heart’s a benevolent place;

A friend in distress my tobacco shall quaff,

And while I’ve a guinea, he’s welcome to half.

From the Court to the Change as I skim o’er each phiz,

Of the sharp, flat, and blood, natty crop, kiddy quiz;

I read as I walk, without study or plan,

The cunning, the weakness, and folly of man.

Yet my spleen never kicks at the whims that it meets,

For in oddity’s circle each gig a gig greets;

So I laugh and grow fat at the figures I see,

And they’re welcome to fatten by laughing at me.

Of the virtue and zeal of the ins and the outs,

After many years musing I’ve clear’d up all doubts;

The outs wou’d get in, if the ins wou’d get out,

And I think it but fair they shou’d take spell about.

All fanatic dispute and sophistical rant

I leave to the crafty professors of cant;

Content if my course from the day-break of youth,

Has steer’d by the rudder and compass of truth.

Fast wedlock I frankly confess not my whim;

Nay, the man, who best marries, I envy not him;

I love the soft sex, and I know, to my cost,

My love has not always been love’s labour lost.

Light, in freight, as a cutter return’d from a cruize,

Finding little to gain, having little to lose;

My anchor is cast, and my sails are all furl’d,

So a fig for the cares of this Whirligig World.

THE
ZODIAC.

The signs of the Zodiac, learned men say,
Are confin’d to the regions above,
And none yet imagin’d they serve to display
The tokens terrestrial of love;

But my muse, ever merry, will sing to explain,

Tho’ learning look grave and austere,
We cherish the whim of each whirligig brain,
Starch’d gravity enters not here.

Sign Aries, then maids, is your ram or lew’d tup,

A rich pond’rous bag ’twixt his legs,
With juicy-joy pregnant, and closely tied up,
Is the essence of oysters and eggs;
In figure ’tis Cupid with arrow and bow,
Sagittarius, that archer divine,
Letting fly at the target of yielding Virgo,
To prick rouge virginity’s sign.

By twin bubbies, sign Gemini’s amply express’d,

In a maiden just leaning to man,

The ripe blooming fruit of the firm heaving breast,

The flame of love’s passion doth fan;

When exhausted in raptures, how charming to lie

’Twixt love’s hillocks, gay mortals delight,

Feel the heave, hear the sigh, mark the languishing eye,

Which the Signum Salutis invite.

Sign Scorpio, no doubt, is an evil that fled
From Pandora’s combustible box,
A sign you may tell by the tail or the head
Of that hell-born disease call’d the pox.

Sign Cancer’s the cod-clinging crab we all know,

And wifely clings he; for you’ll find
He’s ever in danger, above or below,
Of destruction by water or wind.

Sign Capricorn goatish old Q. doth denote,

Or them who of lust strongly smell,

Teaze, fumble and feel, drivel, dangle, and doat,

On the bawd, or the old batter’d belle;
Sign Pisces too plainly refers to the thing
Sweet and clean, kept by laudable art,

But the bidet neglected, we wind the old ling,

And turn from the fishified part.

Sign Taurus alludes to Old English beef-steaks;

For this cabbaging, love-feeding food,
Gives vigour to age, is a bracer of rakes,
And enriches the brain and the blood;
This Taurus may mean too, the lusty big Pat,
Who bellows about London streets,
whose nose is eternally smelling old hat,
And who mounts ev’ry cow that he meets.

Sign Libra’s the balance that ought to prevail,

In an act we delight to enjoy,

For a feather we’re told will turn nature’s near scale,

When we bob for a girl or a boy;
Aquarius appears as the word doth instruct,
An object, who once was a man,
An Italian castrato’s cut-down aqueduct,
A mere spout for a watering pan.

Brave Leo the lion’s our national sign,

Where foreigners come for good fare,

True freedom, true friendship, good humour, good wine,

We hope they will ever find here;
Our houses alone are the Garter and Star,
Jolly Bacchus the sign of the tun,

Where Venus receives us with smiles at the bar,

To fill up life’s measure of fun.

CHORUS.

But the sign of all signs, good and truly divine,

Is a bumper of heart-cheering generous wine.

IRISH EXTRAVAGANCE,
AND
SCOTCH ŒCONOMY.

An Irishman and Scottishman,
Both full of fun and brogue;
Sly Sawney—for a saving plan,
Big Pat—a spending rogue:

Together, arm in arm, they hied,
From Pall-Mall to the City;
When in a shop by chance they spied
A damsel wond’rous pretty.

“By heavens!” Pat exclaim’d in love,
“In that fair form I trace
“A charming pattern from above,
“Of Angel shape and face.”

While thro’ the window-glass he star’d,
Struck dumb with admiration,
Sawney, too, the rapture shar’d,
Of love’s fond inclination.

Long Paddy then did feast his eyes
On this—the first of belles,
“I’ll go into her shop,” he cries,
“And buy whate’er she sells.

“Two yards of ribbon black, I’ll buy,
“And speak to the dear creature,
“Perhaps,” said he, to Sawney, sly,
“The maid will let me meet her.

“Ha’d your hand,” said Sawney, “do,
“What need of such expence,
“Into the shop we both may go
“With this right good pretence:

“Save your penny while you live,
“The lass looks kind and willing;
“Let’s ask her, civilly, to give
“Twa Tizzys[2] for a shilling.”

[2] A cant term for Sixpences.

AN
EXTRAORDINARY FISH.

This animal (says the learned Zoologist, Mr. Pennant) was esteemed a delicacy by the antients, and is eaten, at present, by the Italians; Rondelius gives us two receipts for the dressing, which may be continued to this day; Athenæus also leaves us the method of making an antique cuttle-fish sausage; and we learn from Aristotle, that those animals are in the highest perfection when pregnant.

Attend wives and widows, and daughters, dear creatures,

To hear of a fish caught off Anglesea Isle,

Be silent, compose all your muscles and features,

Friends and neighbours around who love time to beguile;

Saint Peter took most sorts of fish in his net, sir,

Like so many hooks were his fingers and toes,

But Peter ne’er caught, I wou’d lay any bet, sir,

A fish with one eye, bushy tail, and red nose.

This fish lately found, from the top to the bottom,

Of inches, then measur’d a full half a score,

Girls swallow’d ’em faster than fishermen got ’em,

Yet ne’er were so cloy’d, but they still long’d for more;

’Tis just at low water when crabs are seen crawling,

For shelter beneath heavy tang-cover’d stones,

That girls from all quarters come eagerly calling

For fish full of gristle, hard roes, and no bones.

At the gills of this creature you’ll see them all peeping,

And if as sick damsels they’re livid and pale,

They’ll tell you these fish are no better for keeping,

Like lobsters long caught, they’ve no spring in the tail;

But when fresh and frisky, maids, trout-like, will tickle ’em,

Till in the net of Dame Nature they go,

Where shou’d wanton women e’er take ’em and pickle ’em,

The curing’s a pain and expence we all know.

Two fam’d learned sages, both birds of a feather,

This odd fish to see, left their pigs, plants, and land,

And tho’ they both clubb’d their wise noddles together,

The devil a one did the fish understand;

Yes, M⸺by and B⸺s, who so solemn and grave is,

Knew not, till Pat told ’em, from whence the fish came,

’Tis Ireland that boasts it, their sea-rara avis,

Caught wild in a net, and by stroking made tame.

Star-gazing H⸺l, a knowing old fellow,

As e’er peep’d at bodies above or below,

This man o’-the moon, by strong stingo made mellow,

Thro’ glass microscopic can miracles show;
He call’d it a satellite of Venus centre,
That ⸺ had seen by command of the ⸺,
And that Mercury into its system would enter,

If e’er it were station’d in Saturn’s foul ring.

The B⸺ of King’s place, call’d old wicked-eye’d W⸺,

Who lives upon gudgeons, young ling, and crimp’d cod,

When she saw these odd fish, she took hold of their fins, sir,

And stole off, unnotic’d, two dozen and odd;

For the fish-kettle Windsor had long in possession,

In spite of two leaks, as Tars say, fore and aft,

I’m sure ’twou’d have held, (pray excuse my digression)

The whole of Saint Peter’s miraculous draft.

The news of this fish reach’d ⸺, a bishop,

His chaplain, obedient, was posted away,

And brought from the ferry this odd-looking fish up,

Bound down with a cord in a butcher’s big tray;

When the female fat cooky, of flesh and blood frail, sir,

Took hold of its gills to the ⸺ surprise,

It, Kangaroo like, took a spring from its tail, sir,

And stuck itself fast ’twixt the cooky’s round thighs.

Away, in a fright, flew the ⸺ and ladies,

The folks in the kitchen were put to the rout,

“’Tis the devil,” said ⸺, “and as preaching your trade is,

“Do, good Mister Chaplin, exorcise the scout;”

Said the Chaplin, “Indeed ⸺, begging your pardon,

“Such doctrine is rash, and to danger may tend,

“For why would your ⸺ wish to bear hard on on

“The devil, who always has been our best friend!”

Lord ⸺, large man, whom the women well know, sir,

Examin’d this fish from the root to the snout,

With both hands was seen to take hold of it so, sir,

To keep it from hopping and skipping about;

“Faith it is a large fish,” said the ⸺ in lewd plight, sir,

“I ne’er in my life saw its fellow before,

“Pull out,” said a friend, “all the ladies’ delight, sir,”

He did, and exhibited two inches more.

Girls, take my advice; let this odd fish before you

Be first skinn’d alive, and then dress’d to your taste,

As a standing dish dainty, dear souls, I implore you,

Take in all you can, but let none run to waste;

Old Jonah, who lay in the whale’s blubber’d belly,

Came out weak and feeble, went in strong and stout,

So into your bellies, this fish, need I tell ye,

As stoutly goes in, as he feebly slips out.

LLANDISILIO HOTEL,
SOUTH WALES.

Fam’d ancient South Britain gave birth
To the story my muse means to tell,
Hear it, neighbours, who live on this earth,
And in snug habitations do dwell;
A parson, his wife, son, and Jew,
Drove in by disastrous weather,
A poet pedestrian too,
Pig’d in a mud hut all together.

To supper the quizzes sat down,
The parson eat rabbits, sans legs,
The poet mus’d over bread brown,
The Jew bolted bacon and eggs;
Hot and new from the tub came their ale,
As to spirits they’d none but their own,
Yet each man told his mirth-moving tale,
And the parson’s wife sung Bobbing Joan.

A cradle constructed of wood,
Was prepar’d for the poet to rest,
When the man of mosaical blood
Petition’d to have half the nest;
But Smouch was no chum to his mind,
So the poet said “Smouch, d’ye see,
“Two cocks of a different kind
“In the same roost can never agree.”

First the parson’s wife got into bed,
And close to the wall plac’d her side,
Then the parson, by jealousy led,
Laid his hand o’er the quim of his bride;
But fearing a cross o’ the breed,
The son kept apart th’ unbeliever,
Lest the tube which pass’d Abraham’s seed,
Shou’d enter his mother’s receiver.

Now it seems in the dead of the night,
The parson libidinous grew,
So he nudg’d his fond wife to lie right,
That he might have a family screw;
First having before meat said grace,
He fell too with an appetite craving,
Soon he wriggl’d the Jew from his place,
And bare-bum’d on the floor laid him raving.

“By the coming Messiah,” said Smouch,

“What is all this disturbance about?

“As I was asleep in my couch,

“For what reason I was now kick’d out?

“Master Parson, pray how cou’d you rob

“A poor pedlar of rest and repose?

“You knew there won’t room for the job,

“Yet must do it plump under my nose.”

Tag, the Poet, heard all that had pass’d,
Found the Parson was winding his clock,
There lay he like a sheep when ’tis cast,
While with laughter his cradle did rock;

“Have you broke,” said he, “Smouchy, your bones?

“Do you oft get such damnable knocks?”

“No,” said Smouch, “but the case for my stones

“Is very much pruised by my pox.[3]”

When for room roar’d out Moses in vain,
All the family sham’d fast asleep,
So up the starv’d Jew got again,
And took thro’ the bed-curtains a peep;
The Parson was on his gray mare,
Smouch saw his a—e nod, wag, and waddle,
“Master Parson,” said he, “have a care,

“Or, by G-d, you’ll be thrown off the “saddle.”

While the Parson did Scripture fulfil,
For his text was increase, multiply,
The Poet lay silent and still,
Full of vigour, and ready to fly;
Then his line Alexandrin of love
He put into his hostess’s hand,
Which she willingly straight did remove
To the spot where ’twas properly scan’d.

By swarms of black jumpers, call’d fleas,

All this party were damnably bit,

The priest’s shirt, and his wife’s clean chemise,

The filthy black jumpers b-s—t;
And pending the Parson’s embrace,
Till the critical minute had come,
The fleas were not shook from their place,
Till they’d taken blood tythe of his bum.

Aurora, at dawning of day,
Peep’d into the mansion of mud,
Asses set up their ominous bray,
Ducks and geese quack’d and cackl’d for food;
The cock crow’d and treaded the hen,
The boar got a-back of the sow,
Lewd goats shag’d again and again,
And the bull stuck it into the cow.

Then the Jew, with his box, did depart,
And the Poet took leave of his crib,
But the Parson, unwilling to start,
Took another sly st—ke at his rib;
If you think, then, my tale worth a toast,
As we’ve here no parsonical prig,
I’ll bumper life’s pleasure, and boast
The Parson, his wife, the goat’s fig.

[3] The box he carried was half pushed under the bed, on the corner of which he fell.

THE
B⸺’s BUGBEAR.

A proud pamper’d P⸺e, to hypocrites dear,

With an income, from tythes, of twelve thousand a year,

Hath furnish’d the nation with novel alarms,

’Bout the legs of the French, for he fears not their arms;

He tells us he’s heard, tho’ he’s not seen the truth,

That the minds of our modest ingenuous youth

Are debauch’d by French dancers, who riot young blood

With the sight of that niche, wherein B⸺s have stood.

But how came a B⸺p, ’bove all men, to know

That dancers teetotum themselves on the toe?

Was he seated, disguis’d, in the front of the stage,

To peep at what put his priestcraft in a rage?

No! his female observer went oft to the play,

And told him th’ effect of this am’rous display,

In language so glowing, that D⸺m, amaz’d,

Beheld from his belly the dead she had rais’d.

At his time of life, and grim death near at hand,

’Twas vicious enough, in his crozier to stand,

So thought the still husband, but not so the w—e,

For she yet had a taste for the arbor of life;

Cock-sure of a taste when she told the lewd tale

Of Parisot’s pranks, which prov’d piety frail,

To rouse thus the tail of a head of the c⸺h,

Were better than banging the bottom with Birch!

Now the B⸺p, in senate, his brethren met,

To discuss this affair, youthful morals beset,

He said, “the five daring Directors of France

“Smuggl’d treason in hornpipe and country-dance;”

But he told not their Lordships, for decency sake,

That Parisot’s postures had made him a rake,

That his old ’piscopari up frisky and fresh,

A translation had had to the lust of the flesh.

But Parisot sets up a scriptural plea,

For showing what B⸺s would willingly see!

She proves that King David—(libidinous spark,)

Danc’d naked to all sorts of tunes ’fore the ark;

And when Michal, Saul’s daughter, saw Majesty’s part,

From her window, (’tis said) it revolted her heart;

Tho’ she frown’d at the Monarch, she smil’d at the farce,

A King cutting capers, sans robes to his a—e.

Nay, didn’t King David, proud p⸺e, I pray,
Spy Bathsheba’s bum on a sun-shiny day?
And has Parisot, yet, to so vile a pass come,

As to shew our King, what! what! her uncover’d bum?

Has K⸺n, crim. con. ’em, (chaste man o’-the law,)

Heard she cocks up one leg, and exhibits her flaw?

Let her cock up one leg as she stands, quoth old Q.,

When she’s down to please me, she must cock up her two.

T⸺w growl’d, knit his brows, bit his lip in a rage,

When he heard of the B⸺s reforming the stage

“Old D⸺m,” he cried, “poh! poh! stick to your shop,

“And mind not how foreigners jump, skip, or hop;

“I know ye all, d—n ye! not one of your Bench

“Would privately turn from a plump naked wench,

“You go to the play slyly, see what you’ve felt,

“If you like it not, b—st ye! go home and be gelt!”

Charge to the C⸺y.

Then practice, ye drivelling drones, as you’ve preach’d,

Pray what’s it to you—how a dancer is breech’d?

On the fate of the Pope, pause, and awfully think,

And your mitres will totter, your lawn-sleeves will shrink;

For on beauty and symmetry fancy will feast,
To vigour of body they give mental zest,
Let Parisot’s petticoats beauties disclose,

Ne’er take up such ticklish subjects as those.

BANKING.

Come, I’m prompt for a song on demand,
Of the Bankers and Banks of our nation;
I’ll relate how they fall, how they stand,
Their origin from the creation;
This Banking’s no new-fashion’d trade,
For Eve, that libidinous madam,
The moment she ceas’d to be maid,
Kept a running account with old Adam.

So the first of all Bankers and Banks,
In the garden of Eden began,
When Belzebub play’d his lewd pranks,
And effected the downfall of man;
Disguis’d as a serpent he flew,
To Eve’s Bank, a large payment consign’d,
But, answering the draft when ’twas due,
She damn’d Adam, herself, and mankind.

Pudenda—receiver, cashier,
Always acts upon credit and honor,
And keeps her accounts just and clear,
Of the long and short dates drawn upon her;
Now as Bills of Exchequer must go,
To make paper currency stand,
When her customer’s credits run low,
She takes their affairs in her hand.

Peter Pego’s the entering clerk,
In this house performs principal duty,
He rises as soon as the lark,
And esteem’d is for vigour and beauty;
His out-door assistant is cod,
Who wakes him whenever he’s drowsy,
He wears his own hair, and, what’s odd,
Was never yet known to be lousy.

These Banks, alike, pay and receive
In metal, not bankrupt sign paper,
And payment ne’er stop’d, (I believe,)
Tho’ oft their finances run taper;
They think flimsy paper a hum,
So Pego and Company scout it,
But their neighbour, next door, Master Bum,
Can’t carry on business without it.

’Tis a wonder this Bank isn’t crush’d,
From the numberless drafts it doth take in,
Yet oft as it hath been hard push’d,
It ne’er was in danger of breaking;
Art and nature supply such a store,
Of resources for raising the wind,
That, whenever ’tis close press’d before,
’Tis sure of relief from behind.

Mother Bank has declar’d, since her fall,
That the Ministry forc’d her to stop,
Still she’s bullion enough for ’em all
If they’ll let her re-open her shop;
No, they keep fast the key, we perceive,
Of the padlock they’ve clap’d on her door,
So the lady can’t piss without leave,
Nor squat, nor get f⸺d as before.

A bill drawn, presented, accepted,
And not paid when due, “as above,”
Is noted, protested, rejected,
A dry bob in commerce and love;
A short thing’s—no assets in hand,
A long one’s—an over-drawn note,
A discount’s—a f—g at a stand,
An indorser’s—a b—g—r a-float.

POLITICAL.

Tune, The Vicar of Bray.

When liberty, serenely bright,
Her beams resplendent darted,
O’er this fam’d land, the sacred light,
Its genial power imparted;
Then thickest clouds, that veil’d her rays,
By liberty were driven,
And Britons saw, in William blaze,
The patriot flame from heav’n.

CHORUS.
Britons, revere! with hearts elate,
The glorious revolution,
That firmly fix’d in church and state,
Your heaven-born constitution.

Fair freedom’s temple tyrant James,
With scepter’d sway invaded,
And conscience with her honest claims,
He scouted and degraded;
But freedom rous’d, her legions led,
And William monarch seated,
Then superstition hid her head,
And faction was defeated.

CHORUS.

On Fame’s unfading record stand,
Immortal made by story,
Illustrious worthies of our land,
Proud martyrs to its glory;
They bravely fought against all laws,
That dare fair freedom fetter,
The constitution was their cause,
The spirit and the letter.

CHORUS.

Could Athens, Greece, or Rome, so fam’d,
Can one surviving nation,
A compact boast, so wisely fram’d,
For freedom’s preservation?
Ah, No! but Britons, brave as free,
Wou’d all rejoice to find, sir,
Their own dear rights of liberty
Secur’d to all mankind, sir.

CHORUS.

The system of our club shall be,
To guard what we inherit,
The sacred dome of liberty,
With firmness, strength, and spirit;
And let the plund’ring patriots know,
Who ’gainst our rights contend, sir,
That he is freedom’s fatal foe,
Who is not George’s friend, sir.

CHORUS.

POLITICAL,
Written for a Club in the Country.

I’m a plain, homely, man, and now take up my pen, sir,

To counteract the tenets of Paine’s “Rights of Men,” sir,

Free and happy I enjoy the harvest of my labours,

And never interfere, but to comfort needy neighbours.

CHORUS—Row, row, row,
I’m for peace and quietness,
Not row, row.

I cherish and retain still each old-fashion’d notion,

Of order, freedom, property, security, devotion;

I’d rather have our king, than Tom Paine the lord protector,

And I’ll combat, with my life, ev’ry plund’ring projector.

CHORUS.

Then attend, daring schemers, involv’d in disputation,

Each with plans in your pockets, to renovate the nation,

I’ll oppose to brilliant wit, art, cunning, and sagacity,

Experience the store of my humble mean capacity.

CHORUS.

Liberty we have, tho’ some say it’s farce and fiction,

It’s by law well secur’d, and confirm’d in restriction,

Thus guarded, we are safe from disorder and delusion,

The dogmas of demagogues, and sans-culotte confusion.

CHORUS.

Our property’s defence is the law long enacted,

And sacred to it, our obedience is exacted,

Each social gradation, by which we stand or fall, sir,

Is wisely ordain’d for the welfare of all, sir.

CHORUS.

Virtue, innocence, integrity, I know are protected,

Audacity and crime are punish’d when detected,

True freedom gave the pow’r, in hatred and aversion,

To tyranny in all its forms, excesses, and coercion.

CHORUS.

My religion’s purely christian, the law’s establish’d church, sir,

And I never wish to see alma mater in the lurch, sir,

I’d leave to all dissenters what wisdom left before, sir,

For, give them all they ask, restless souls, they’d still ask more, sir.

CHORUS.

Our compact’s a stranger to violent extremes, sir;

’Tis wisdom and temp’rance; with mildness it teems, sir:

But as old father Time no edifice ere spared, sir,

In due season, when it wants it, let the structure be repair’d, sir.

CHORUS.

I worship no idol when I say that I’m devoted,

To this fabric of Britons, admir’d, esteem’d, and noted;

The blood in these young veins I’d spill in its defence, sir,

And my wish is, May it firmly stand for centuries hence, sir.

CHORUS.

POLITICAL,
Written in the Reign of Robespierre.

Tune, The Roast Beef of Old England.

When the honor of Briton imperiously calls

For her cannons’ loud thunder and death-dealing balls,

Hear Victory shout from her fam’d wooden walls.

CHORUS.

The King and Old England for ever,

True liberty, order, and law.

Shall we who for ages have freedom defended,

With jacobin ruffians and cut-throats be blended;

Kiss, embrace, and shake hands with the devil’s intended?

CHORUS.

See Gallia polluted with crimes past all counting,

Of mercy and justice dried up is the fountain,

There Virtue’s a mole-hill, and Vice is a mountain.

CHORUS.

Religion abandon’d, morality dead,

Worth, honor, and honesty, from the land fled,

And eternity term’d only going to bed.

CHORUS.

Shall we follow France in each social band-breaking,

Eat bread bad and black of old Belzebub’s baking,

And sleep on French litter all quiv’ring and shaking?

CHORUS.

No, we’ve bread white and good, and fam’d English roast-beef,

On the beds we repose, Nature finds sound relief,

Such comforts deserve not each jacobin thief.

CHORUS.

’Tis French Anarchy’s plan all the world to subdue,

O’er each fair peaceful land blood and bodies to strew,

If you don’t conquer them, John, by G—d they will you.

CHORUS.

May the sharp sword of justice then fatally strike,

And each jacobin’s head be transferr’d to his pike,

Such Gallic equality John Bull would like.

CHORUS.

To our brothers in arms for fair freedom’s cause fighting,

And each hero of honour and spirit uniting,

True to their King, in their Country delighting.

CHORUS.

The Glory and Laurels of War.

CONSTITUTIONAL SONG
OF THE
“VIVE LE ROI CLUB!”

When the radiant rob’d Goddess of liberty shed

Her influence divine o’er our isle,
From her power omnipotent—tyranny fled,
And Britannia, long griev’d, wore a smile.

CHORUS.

Vive le Roi, Huzza, Huzza, Vive le Roi!

The soldier, the sailor, the people, impell’d

By freedom’s celestial flame,

King William enthron’d, in whose worth was beheld

Each virtue true freedom cou’d claim:

Vive le Roi, &c.

The vet’ran high soaring on Victory’s wing,

Whose motto is “Conquer or Die!”

To meet the reward of his country and king,

On Hope’s full-plum’d pinion shall fly.

Vive le Roi, &c.

Ne’er shall lawless ambition maintain its career,

Nor shall faction with freedom contend;

For the rights of the Crown we, as Freemen, revere,

And as Britons are bound to defend.

Vive le Roi, &c.

Tho’ foes to the Crown, our mild Monarch’s fair fame

May with envy envenom’d decry;

Yet, such poisonous darts of detraction’s foul aim,

Both his courage and virtue defy.

Vive le Roi, &c.

Each heart then, enliven’d by loyalty’s cause,

Push the soul-stirring wine swiftly round;

Exclaim in a volley of joy and applause,

For the nation re-echoes the sound.

Vive le Roi, &c.

LADY H⸺ to Mrs. P⸺.

Said old Lady H⸺, once a blooming young wench,

But whose head’s now adorn’d with gray hairs,

“I admire the great comfort and taste which the French

Combine in their fashion of chairs;

For English, our frames are both simple and neat;

Yet the French in past times were so puff’d,

That our bottoms were never consider’d complete,

Until sent o’er to France to be stuff’d.”

LINES

Written at Beaumaris, North Wales, on a JAILOR’s DAUGHTER, distinguished for her Beauty.

Cupid, thou gay and mighty God,
Summon all thy magic pow’r,
And in the arms of Kitty Quod,
Lock me for one happy hour.
Fetter’d is my vagrant heart,
By her captivating face;
Haste, thou God of am’rous dart,
Fix her in my fond embrace.
Cupid’s decree was thus reported:
Kitty and you shall be transported.

BOBBY BIRCH’s EPIGRAM,

On the Westminster Boys damning “The Westminster Boy,” a Farce, by Edward Topham, Esq. Author of “The Fool,” and several other Things, produced for the Benefit of Mrs. Wells.

Shrink from satire, O shame! what, shall Westminster school

Stand in awe of that pen which gave birth to “The Fool?”

Is’t liberal, rude boys, thus by anticipation,

Untry’d, to consign any piece to damnation?

Oh! had Busby been living, for damning of farces,

I’ll be damn’d if he wou’d not have tickl’d your ⸺.

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Table of Contents

- HILARIA.

- PRELIMINARY.

- PAT-RIOT, A REVOLUTIONARY SONG.

- THE MARRIAGE MORN.

- CONVIVIAL.

- THE HIGH-METTLED P⸺O.

- BOTANY BAY.

- THE NEWLY-DUBB’D JEW.

- The Flats and the Sharps of the Nation.

- RUNNYMEDE PILLAR.

- THE BANKRUPT BAWD.

- MEDLEY.

- HUMBUG CLUB CONSTITUTIONAL SONG.

- “The FEATHER’D ROOM.”

- LITTLE PERU, OR THE WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.

- THE BLUE VEIN, A TRUE WELCH STORY.

- COUNTRY LIFE.

- The ANSWER to CAPTAIN MORRIS’s SONG, “The COUNTRY LIFE.”

- ADDITIONAL STANZAS.

- GOODY BURTON’s ALE.

- THE LADIES’ WIGS.

- A GENTLEMAN’s WIG.

- AN IRISH DYING DITTY.

- COFFIN CLUB.

- THE TOY.

- CATASTROPHE.

- THE CROPT COMET.

- THE ACTRESSES.

- THE CROP.

- THE WHIRLIGIG WORLD.

- THE ZODIAC.

- IRISH EXTRAVAGANCE, AND SCOTCH ŒCONOMY.

- AN EXTRAORDINARY FISH.

- LLANDISILIO HOTEL, SOUTH WALES.

- THE B⸺’s BUGBEAR.

- Charge to the C⸺y.

- BANKING.

- POLITICAL.

- POLITICAL, Written for a Club in the Country.

- POLITICAL, Written in the Reign of Robespierre.

- CONSTITUTIONAL SONG OF THE “VIVE LE ROI CLUB!”

- LADY H⸺ to Mrs. P⸺.
- LINES
- BOBBY BIRCH’s EPIGRAM,
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE