Chapter 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 ⸺.