[][]
DIBDIN's SELECTED SONGS.
[]
A COLLECTION OF SONGS, SELECTED FROM THE WORKS OF Mr. DIBDIN.
YET STILL AM I ENABLED TO BRING UP IN LIFE'S REAR. G. Pen.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR: AND SOLD BY HIM AT HIS WAREHOUSE, NO. 411, STRAND, OPPOSITE THE ADELPHI.
DEDICATION. TO WILLIAM DAVIS, ESQ.
[][]Sir,
If ever dedication had a legitimate motive, this has.
The recollection of a friend's having witneſſed the firſt dawnings of my poetical and muſical ideas—his kind partiality to them—his friendſhip and liberality in promoting a ſcheme for my benefit—his handſome con⯑duct in forgetting that, at the inſtigation of unprin⯑cipled men, I believed him to have been unfaithful to his promiſes: In fine, the variety of inſtances in which he has proved himſelf ſuch a friend as no man but myſelf could ever boaſt of:—
[ii] Theſe not only point out the moſt perfect propriety in my making an acknowledgment of my obligations, but would alſo mark me as very unworthy of them if I neg⯑lected to ſeize ſo becoming an opportunity of inviting the public to bear teſtimony to my high ſenſe of ſuch kind⯑neſs.
You, Sir, are the friend thus deſcribed. The facts I have ſpoken of exiſt. And, as I ſlatter myſelf you will allow that ingratitude makes no part of my diſpo⯑ſition, it cannot ſurprize you that I endeavour to do you common juſtice.
So well, however, do I know you, that you will wonder I ſhould conceive it neceſſary to mention thoſe kindneſſes as a favour which you conferred for your own gratification.
I beg leave, nevertheleſs, to be excuſed if I put in my claim for a little gratification too; for, as nothing ever gave me more pleaſure than this proper addreſs—the ſpirit of which, I beg leave to aſſure you, is us pure [iii] as honour, and the letter as ſincere as truth—ſo I know nothing that could have been a ſeverer mortification to me than to have been prevented from the ſatisfaction of thus telling you how truly
I am Your highly obliged friend, And very grateful humble ſervant, C. DIBDIN.
Strand, April 14, 1790.
PREFACE.
[]So many opinions have been hazarded, by cavillers, on the ſubject of the following ſongs, that it would be almoſt a tacit acquieſcence in the folly, ignorance, and abſurdity of ſuch opinions, were I to do myſelf and the public ſo much injuſtice as to let this oppor⯑tunity paſs without giving them their merited no⯑tice.
Were I diſpoſed to pleaſantry, I might ſay with my Iriſhman, that ‘"the proper notice would be no notice at all:"’—and, indeed, were it not for the ſake of ſimple truth and common juſtice, ſuch calum⯑niators might as well paſs unregarded; for envy is as natural to dunces as hunger, and what ſhould they ſeek to ſatisfy but the cravings of their appetites?
As, however, there is ſomething ſeriouſly material in attending to whatever in the ſlighteſt degree re⯑gards the public, I ſhall go a little into this buſineſs, [ii] if it be only to ſhew how tiny and ineffectual are the yelpings of theſe literary curs, who, like true mon⯑grels, never open but to do miſchief.
It is remarkable that, throughout my whole public career, I have been nibbled at the heel by theſe mon⯑grels of the muſes, theſe ſlinking ſnarlers, who, the reverſe of the dogs that guarded the fane of Diana, fawn upon vice, and cheriſh every thing but virtue.
When I compoſed the muſic of the Padlock, the cry was that I employed ſome Italian, for fifty pounds, to do that of which I was incapable. I ſmiled with contempt at the rumour, and the public very ſoon did me juſtice.
After this I had the temerity to write for myſelf. The villany of ſuch an action was unpardonable; and it was immediately reſolved to brand me with an aſ⯑perſion as falſe as it was invidious. Here I was obliged to aſſert my claim to a public hearing; and the conſequence was, the town choſe to allow that I [iii] had as much right as any other perſon to the privi⯑leges of a ſubject, and the feelings of a man.
This terrible diſappointment to the ſnarlers awed them into a kind of ſulky growl, which has never ſince broke out but very partially; and as petulance and ſoreneſs generally interpret every thing the wrong way, and defeat their own ends, ſo the malig⯑nity of their ſarcaſms have not been more remarkable than their folly. They have attributed my ſea ſongs to men who knew no more of nautical terms than an Engliſh ſailor does of art or hypocriſy; they have made more blunders in detecting my Iriſh ſongs than the ſongs contain themſelves; and in the inveſtigation of my hunting ſongs they have been perpetually at fault.
A friend of mine, one evening, dropt in at a coffee-houſe where a number of theſe literary jurymen were holding an inqueſt over my murdered reputation.—He humoured the jeſt, and, before he had finiſhed, proved, to the ſatisfaction of every one preſent, that [iv] Poor Jack was a poſthumous work of Dr. Johnſon, that the Race Horſe was written by the jockey who rode the famous Flying Childers, and that Blow high Blow low was the production of Admiral Keppel, who dictated the words to his ſecretary as he lay in his cot, after the memorable battle of the twenty-ſeventh of July, waiting for the French to try their force with him handſomely the next morning.
But the miſchief of it is, theſe poor devils cannot diſcern that all they do to injure me gives me real conſequence. The public are always ſure to take up a man at whom the ſhafts of rancour are levelled.—If his efforts be nothing more than inoffenſive, he is ſecure of protection in favour of his intentions; if meritorious, they know too well their own dignity not to rank him according to his deſerts.
To that public I would make a ſolemn declaration that I am the ſole author of every thing this book contains, but that they too well know the hue of truth [v] to need an elucidation of it by any light I can place it in.
As however I do not wiſh to cruſh this vermin—on the contrary, I would have them crawl and nibble, for vermin are as neceſſary in the ſyſtem of literature as in the ſyſtem of the creation—I am willing to allow that there are plenty of faults in this work.
Yet, leſt ſuch reptiles ſhould extend any fang with pleaſure at theſe delicious tidings, I muſt inſiſt that I could very often have written better had it not been for muſical neceſſity, which, in ſome inſtances, precludes nerve, and, in others, requires it, when the reverſe would probably have made the poetry read better.
All theſe conſiderations are very ſafe with the public at large, to whom I never can addreſs myſelf without confeſſing more incapacity of expreſſion than is attributed to me by the ſourneſs of my heart-burnt enemies.
[vi] To theſe poor creatures, did I wiſh their deſerts, I ſhould be more cruel and injurious than they have it in their power to be to me.
[] DIBDIN's SELECTED SONGS.
SONG.
IN THE WEDDING RING.
I SAW what ſeem'd a harmleſs child,
With wings and bow,
And aſpect mild,
Who ſobb'd, and ſigh'd, and pin'd,
And begg'd I would ſome boon beſtow
On a poor little boy ſtone blind.
Not aware of the danger, I inſtant comply'd,
When he drew from his quiver a dart, Cry'd
' My power you ſhall know;'
Then he levell'd his bow,
And wounded me right in the heart.
THE MILLER's DAUGHTER.
IN THE DESERTER.
[2]THERE was a miller's daughter
Liv'd in a certain village,
Who made a mighty ſlaughter:—
For I'd have you to know,
Both friend and foe,
The clown and the beau,
She always laid low;
And her portion, as I underſtand,
Was three acres of land,
Beſides a mill,
That never ſtood ſtill,
Some ſheep and a cow,
A harrow and plough,
And other things for tillage:—
What d'ye think of the miller's daughter?
II.
This miller's pretty daughter
Was a damſel of ſuch fame, ſir,
That knights and ſquires ſought her;
But they ſoon were told
That ſome were too bold,
[3] And ſome too cold,
And ſome too old;
And ſhe gave them to underſtand
That, though they were grand,
She'd never be ſold:
For ſays Betty, ſays ſhe,
' Since my virtue to me
' Is dearer than gold,
' You may go from whence you came, ſir.'
What d'ye think of my miller's daughter.
III.
But when this miller's daughter
Saw Ned, the morrice dancer,
His perſon quickly caught her;
For who ſo clean
Upon the green,
As Ned was ſeen,
For her his queen:—
Then blithe as a king,
His bells he'd ring,
And dance, and ſing,
Like any thing:—
Says he, 'My life,
' Woot be my wife?'
A bluſh, and yes, was Betty's anſwer.
What d'ye think of my miller's daughter?
SONG.
IN THE WATERMAN.
[4]Two youths for my love are contending in vain;
For, do all they can,
Their ſufferings I rally, and laugh at their pain:
Which, which is the man
That deſerves me the moſt? Let me aſk of my heart,
Is it Robin, who ſmirks, and who dreſſes ſo ſmart?
Or Tom, honeſt Tom, who makes plainneſs his plan?
Which, which is the man?
II.
Indeed, to be prudent, and do what I ought,
I do what I can:—
Yet ſurely pappa and mamma are in fault;
To a different man
They, each, have advis'd me to yield up my heart:
Mamma praiſes Robin, who dreſſes ſo ſmart;
Pappa honeſt Tom, who makes plainneſs his plan:
Which, which is the man?
III.
Be kind then, my heart, and but point out the youth,
I'll do what I can
[5] His love to return, and return it with truth;
Which, which is the man?
Be kind to my wiſhes, and point out, my heart,
Is it Robin, who ſmirks, and who dreſſes ſo ſmart?
Or Tom, honeſt Tom, who makes plainneſs his plan?
Which, which is the man?
BALLAD.
IN THE WATERMAN.
AND did you not hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Black-friar's bridge uſed for to ply;
And he feather'd his oars with ſuch ſkill and dexterity,
Winning each heart, and delighting each eye.
He look'd ſo neat, and he row'd ſo ſteadily,
The maidens all flock'd in his boat ſo readily,
And he eyed the young rogues with ſo charming an air,
That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.
II.
What ſights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry,
'Twas clean'd out ſo nice, and ſo painted withal;
He was always firſt oars when the fine city ladies
In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall.
[6]
And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering,
But 'twas all one to Tom, their gibing and jeering,
For loving, or liking, he little did care,
For this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.
III.
And yet, but to ſee how ſtrangely things happen,
As he row'd along thinking of nothing at all,
He was ply'd by a damſel ſo lovely and charming,
That ſhe ſmil'd and ſo ſtraightway in love he did fall.
And would this young damſel but baniſh his ſorrow,
He'd wed her to-night before to-morrow:
And how ſhould this waterman ever know care,
When he's marry'd, and never in want of a fare.
BALLAD.
IN THE WATERMAN.
THEN farewel my trim-built wherry,
Oars, and coat, and badge, farewel;
Never more at Chelſea ferry
Shall your Thomas take a ſpell.
[7]II.
But to hope and peace a ſtranger,
In the battle's heat I'll go,
Where, expos'd to every danger,
Some friendly ball ſhall lay me low.
III.
Then, may-hap, when homeward ſteering,
With the news my meſs-mates come,
Even you, the ſtory hearing,
With a ſigh, may cry—poor Tom!
BALLAD.
IN THE WATERMAN.
INDEED, Miſs, ſuch ſweet-hearts as I am,
I fancy you'll meet with but few;
To love you more true I defy them,
I always am thinking of you.
There are maidens would have me in plenty,
Nell, Cicely, Priſcilla, and Sue,
But inſtead of all theſe were there twenty,
I never ſhould think but of you.
[8]II.
Falſe hearts all your money may ſquander,
And only have pleaſure in view;
Ne'er from you a moment I'll wander,
Unleſs to get money for you.
The tide, when 'tis ebbing or flowing,
Is not to the moon half ſo true;
Nor my oars to their time when I'm rowing,
As my heart, my fond heart, is to you.
BALLAD.
IN THE COBLER.
'TWAS in a village, near Caſtlebury,
A cobler and his wife did dwell;
And for a time no two ſo merry,
Their happineſs no tongue can tell.
But to this couple, the neighbours tell us,
Something did happen that caus'd much ſtrife,
For, going to a neighb'ring alehouſe,
The man got drunk and beat his wife.
[9]II.
But though he treated her ſo vilely,
What did this wife, good creature, do?
Kept ſnug, and found a method ſlily,
To wring his heart quite through and through:
For Dick the tapſter, and his maſter,
By the report that then was rife,
Were both in hopes, by this diſaſter,
To gain the cobler's pretty wife.
III.
While things went on to rack and ruin,
And all their furniture was ſold,
She ſeem'd t' approve what each was doing,
And got from each a purſe of gold.
So when the cobler's cares were over,
He ſwore to lead an alter'd life,
To mind his work, ne'er be a rover,
And love no other but his wife.
BALLAD.
IN THE SERAGLIO.
[10]THE world's a ſtrange world, child, it muſt be confeſs' [...]
We all of diſtreſs have our ſhare;
But ſince I muſt ſtruggle to live with the reſt,
By my troth 'tis no great matter where.
We all muſt put up with what fortune has ſent,
Be therefore ones lot poor or rich;
So there is but a portion of eaſe and content,
By my troth 'tis no great matter which.
II.
A living's a living, and ſo there's an end;
If one honeſtly gets juſt enow,
And ſomething to ſpare for the wants of a friend,
By my troth 'tis no great matter how.
In this world about nothing we buſy'd appear,
And, I've ſaid it again and again,
Since quit it one muſt, if ones conſcience is clear,
By my troth 'tis no great matter when.
RONDEAU.
IN THE SERAGLIO.
[11]BLOW high, blow low, let tempeſts tear
The main-maſt by the board;
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,
And love well ſtor'd,
Shall brave all danger, ſcorn all fear,
The roaring winds, the raging ſea,
In hopes on ſhore
To be once more
Safe moor'd with thee.
Aloft while mountains high we go,
The whiſtling winds that ſcud along,
And the ſurge roaring from below,
Shall my ſignal be
To think on thee,
And this ſhall be my ſong:
Blow high, blow low, &c.
And on that night when all the crew
The mem'ry of their former lives,
O'er flowing cans of flip renew,
And drink their ſweethearts and their wives,
[12] I'll heave a ſigh, and think on thee;
And, as the ſhip rolls through the ſea,
The burthen of my ſong ſhall be,
Blow high, blow low, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE SERAGLIO.
THE little birds, as well as you,
I've mark'd with anxious care,
How free their pleaſures they purſue,
How void of every care.
But birds of various kinds you'll meet,
Some conſtant to their loves;
Are chatt'ring ſparrows half ſo ſweet
As tender, cooing doves?
II.
Birds have their pride, like human kind,
Some on their note preſume,
Some on their form, and ſome you'll find
Fond of a gaudy plume.
[13]
Some love a hundred; ſome you'll meet
Still conſtant to their loves;
Are chatt'ring ſparrows half ſo ſweet
As tender, cooing doves?
RONDEAU.
IN THE SERAGLIO.
THE ſignal to engage ſhall be
A whiſtle and a hollow,
Be one and all but firm like me,
And conqueſt ſoon will follow.
You Gunnel keep the helm in hand,
Thus, thus boys, ſteady, ſteady;
Till right a head you ſee the land,
Then, ſoon as we are ready,
The ſignal, &c.
Keep boys a good look out, d'ye hear,
'Tis for old England's honour;
Juſt as you've brought your lower tier
Broadſide to bear upon her,
The ſignal, &c.
[14]
All hands then, lads, the ſhip to clear,
Load all your guns and mortars,
Silent as death th' attack prepare,
And, when your all at quarters,
The ſignal, &c.
SONG.
IN POOR VULCAN.
VENUS now no more behold me,
But an humble village dame,
Coarſe and homely trappings fold me,
And Miſtreſs Maudling is my name.
Yet here no leſs is paid that duty
Ever due to Venus' worth,
Not more inſenſible of beauty
Than gods in heaven are men on earth.
BALLAD.
IN POOR VULCAN.
[15]THAT nature's every where the ſame,
Each paſſing day diſcovers;
For that in me,
Some charms they ſee,
Behold me, though a country dame,
Leading a crowd of lovers.
II.
My ſporting ſquire to keep at bay
The courſe I'll double over;
While he, intent
On a wrong ſcent,
Shall always find me ſtole away
When he cries 'Hark to cover.'
III.
With new-coin'd oaths, my grenadier,
May think to ſtorm and bluſter,
And ſwear by Mars,
My eyes are ſtars
That light to love:—he'll ſoon find here
Such ſtuff will ne'er paſs muſter.
[16]IV.
Thus will I ſerve thoſe I diſtruſt,
Firſt laugh at, then refuſe 'em.
But, ah! not ſo
The ſhepherd Joe:—
He like Adonis look'd, when firſt
I preſs'd him to my boſom.
BALLAD.
IN POOR VULCAN.
THE moment Aurora peep'd into my room,
I put on my cloaths, and I call'd to my groom;
And, my head heavy ſtill, from the fumes of laſt night,
Took a bumper of brandy to ſet all things right;
And now were well ſaddled Fleet, Dapple, and Grey,
Who ſeem'd longing to hear the glad ſound hark away.
II.
Will Whiſtle by this had uncoupl'd his hounds,
Whoſe extacy nothing could keep within bounds:
Firſt forward came Jowler, then Scentwell, then Snare.
Three better ſtaunch harriers ne'er ſtarted a hare;
[17] Then Sweetlips, then Driver, then S [...]aunch, and then Tray,
All ready to open at hark, hark away.
III.
'Twas now by the clock about five in the morn,
And we all gallop'd off to the ſound of the horn;
Jack Gater, Bill Babler, and Dick at the gun,
And by this time the merry Tom fairplay made one,
Who, while we were jogging on blitheſome and gay,
Sung a ſong, and the chorus was—Hark, hark away.
IV.
And now Jemmy Lurcher had every buſh beat,
And no ſigns of madam, nor trace of her feet;
Nay, we juſt had begun our ſad fortunes to curſe,
When all of a ſudden out ſtarts Mrs. Puſs;
Men, horſes, and dogs all the glad call obey,
And echo was heard to cry—Hark, hark away.
V.
The chaſe was a fine one, ſhe took o'er the plain,
Which ſhe doubled, and doubled, and doubled again;
Till at laſt ſhe to cover return'd out of breath,
Where I and Will Whiſtle were in at the death;
Then in triumph for you I the hare did diſplay,
And cry'd to the horns, my boys, hark, hark away.
BALLAD.
IN POOR VULCAN.
[18]COME all ye gem'men volunteers,
Of glory who would ſhare,
And leaving with your wives your fears,
To the drum head repair;
Or to the noble Serjeant Pike,
Come, come, without delay,
You'll enter into preſent pay,
My lads the bargain ſtrike.
A golden guinea and a crown,
Beſides the lord knows what renown,
His majeſty the donor,
And if you die,
Why then you lie
Stretch'd on the bed of honour.
II.
Does any prentice work too hard,
Fine cloaths would any wear,
Would any one his wife diſcard,
To the drum head repair.
Or to the, &c.
[19]III.
Is your eſtate put out to nurſe,
Are you a caſt-off heir,
Have you no money in your purſe,
To the drum head repair.
Or to the, &c.
BALLAD.
IN POOR VULCAN.
COME, every man now give his toaſt,
Fill up the glaſs, I'll tell you mine,
Wine is the miſtreſs I love moſt,
This is my toaſt—now give me thine.
II.
Well ſaid my lad, ne'er let it ſtand,
I give you Chloe, nymph divine,
May love and wine go hand in hand;
This is my toaſt—now give me thine.
[20]III.
Fill up your giaſſes to the brink,
Hebe let no one dare decline;
'Twas Hebe taught me firſt to drink:
This is my toaſt—now give me thine.
IV.
Gemmen, I give my wife d'ye ſee;
May all to make her bleſt combine;
So ſhe be far enough from me:
This is my toaſt—now give me thine.
V.
Let conſtant lovers at the feet
Of pale fac'd wenches ſigh and pine,
For me, the firſt kind girl I meet
Shall be my toaſt—now give me thine:
VI.
You toaſt your wife, and you your laſs,
My boys and welcome; here's the wine,
For my part, he who fills my glaſs
Shall be my toaſt—now give me thine.
[21]VII.
Spirit, my lads, and toaſt away,
I have ſtill one with yours to join;
That we may have enough to pay:
This is my toaſt—now give me thine.
BALLAD.
IN POOR VULCAN.
MADAM, you know my trade is war,
And what ſhould I deny it for?
Whene'er the trumpet ſounds from far,
I long to hack and hew;
Yet, madam, credit what I ſay,
Were I this moment call'd away,
And all the troops drawn in array,
I'd rather ſtay with you.
II.
Did drums and ſprightly trumpets ſound,
Did Death and Carnage ſtalk around,
Did dying horſes bite the ground,
Had we no hope in view:
[22]
Were the whole army loſt in ſmoke,
Were they the laſt words that I ſpoke,
I'd ſay, and dam'me if I joke,
I'd rather ſtay with you.
III.
Did the foe charge us front and rear,
Did e'en the braveſt face appear
Impreſs'd with ſigns of mortal fear,
Though never veteran knew
So terrible and hot a fight,
Though all my laurels it ſhould blight,
Though I ſhould loſe ſo fine a ſight,
I'd rather ſtay with you.
DUET.
INTENDED FOR POOR VULCAN.
JOE.
WHEN Serjeant Belſwagger, that maſculine brute,
One day had been drinking to ſwear a recruit,
He kiſs'd you, I ſaw him, or elſe may I die,
And you, cruel Maudlin, ne'er once cry'd, O fie!
[23]
Again, when the ſquire had come home from the chaſe,
You receiv'd him, O gods, with a ſmile on your face,
Henceforth, then, my ſheep harum ſkarum may run,
For Maudlin is faithleſs, and I am undone.
MAUDLIN.
Ah, Joe! you're a good one; one day in my place—
My huſband at home—I was forc'd to ſend Grace:
I know for a truth, which you cannot gainſay,
You touzled her well on a cock of new hay.
Nay, ſwore you'd be hers—and, what is worſe yet,
That you only lov'd me juſt for what you could get;
As for charms then, I ne'er will believe I have one,
For Joey is faithleſs, and I am undone.
JOE.
Will you know then the truth on't: I touz'd her I own,
Though I rather by half would have let it alone;
But I did it to ſee if you jealous would prove,
For that, people ſay, is a ſure ſign of love.
MAUDLIN.
And for me, if the ſquire ſaid ſoft things in my ear,
I ſuffer'd it, thinking he'd call for ſtrong beer;
And as to the ſerjeant, 'tis always a rule,
One had better be kiſs'd than be teaz'd—by a fool.
BALLAD.
IN THE QUAKER.
[24]I lock'd up all my treaſure,
I journey'd many a mile,
And by my grief did meaſure
The paſſing time the while.
II.
My buſineſs done and over,
I haſten'd back amain;
Like an expecting lover,
To view it once again.
III.
But this delight was ſtifled
As it began to dawn:
I found the caſket rifled,
And all my treaſure gone.
SONG.
IN THE QUAKER.
[25]WOMEN are Will o' the Wiſps, 'tis plain,
The cloſer they ſeem ſtill the more they retire;
They teaze you, and jade you,
And round about lead you,
Without hopes of ſhelter,
Ding dong, helter ſkelter,
Through water and fire;
And, when you believe every danger and pain
From your heart you may baniſh,
And you're near the poſſeſſion of what you deſire,
That inſtant they vaniſh,
And the devil a bit can you catch them again.
By ſome they're not badly compar'd to the ſea,
Which is calm and tempeſtuous within the ſame hour,
Some ſay they are Sirens, but take it from me,
They're a ſweet race of angels o'er man that have pow'r,
His perſon, his heart, and his reaſon to ſeize,
And lead the poor devil wherever they pleaſe.
BALLAD.
IN THE QUAKER.
[26]A kernel from an apple's core
One day on either cheek I wore,
Lubin was plac'd on my right cheek,
That on my left did Hodge beſpeak;
Hodge in an inſtant drop'd to ground,
Sure token that his love's unfound,
But Lubin nothing could remove,
Sure token his is conſtant love.
II.
Laſt May I ſought to find a ſnail,
That might my lover's name reveal,
Which finding, home I quickly ſped,
And on the hearth the embers ſpread;
When, if my letters I can tell,
I ſaw it mark a curious L:
O may this omen lucky prove,
For L's for Lubin and for Love.
RONDEAU.
IN THE QUAKER.
[27]WHILE the lads in the village ſhall merrily ah,
Sound their tabors, I'll hand thee along,
And I ſay unto thee that merrily ah,
Thou and I will be firſt in the throng.
Juſt then, when the youth who laſt year won the dow'r
And his ma [...]e ſhall the ſports have begun,
When the gay voice of gladneſs reſounds from each bow'r
And thou long'ſt in thy heart to make one,
While the lads, &c.
Thoſe joys that are harmleſs what mortal can blame?
'Tis my maxim that youth ſhould be free;
And to prove that my words and my deeds are the ſame
Believe thou ſhall preſently ſee,
While the lads, &c.
BALLAD.
IN ROSE AND COLIN.
[28]I loſt my poor mother
When only a child,
And I fear'd ſuch another,
So gentle and mile,
Was not to be found;
But I ſaw my miſtake,
For ſcarce was ſhe gone,
But I prov'd I had father and mother in one.
And though, at this minute he makes my heart ach,
There's not ſuch another ſearch all the world round.
II.
I'd reach'd my teens fairly,
As blithe as a bee,
His care, late and early,
Being all to pleaſe me;
No one thing above ground
Was too good for his Roſe;
At wake or at fair
I was dreſs'd out ſo gaily, lord, people would ſtare,
And I ſay it again, though he's peeviſh, God knows,
There's not ſuch another, ſearch all the world round.
[29]III.
But love, who, they tell us,
Does many ſtrange things,
Makes all the world jealous,
And mad—even kings,
They ſay he can wound.
This love is the ſore,
Since Colin came here,
This father ſo kind is a father ſevere;
Yet ſtill will I ſay, though he ſcolds more and more,
There's not ſuch another ſearch all the world round.
BALLAD.
IN ROSE AND COLIN.
HERE's all her geer, her wheel, her work,
Theſe little bobbins to and fro,
How oft I've ſeen her fingers jirk,
Her pretty fingers, white as ſnow.
Each object to me is ſo dear,
My heart at ſight on't throbbing goes;
'Twas here ſhe ſat her down, and here
She told me ſhe was Colin's Roſe.
[30]II.
This poſy, for her, when ſhe's dreſs'd,
I've brought, alas! how happy I,
Could I be, like theſe flowers careſs'd,
And, like them, on her boſom die.
The violet and pink I took,
And every pretty flower that blows;
The roſe too, but how mean 'twill look
When by the ſide of my ſweet Roſe.
BALLAD.
IN ROSE AND COLIN.
THERE was a jolly ſhepherd lad,
And Colin was his name,
And, all unknown to her old dad,
He ſometimes to ſee Peggy came.
The object of his flame.
One day, of his abſence too ſecure,
Her father thunder'd at the door,
When, fearing of his frown,
Says ſhe, dear love, the chimney climb;
I can't, cries he, there is not time,
Beſides I ſhould tumble down.
[31]II.
What could they do, ta'en unawares?
They thought, and thought again;
In cloſets underneath the ſtairs,
To hide himſelf, 'twere all in vain,
He'd ſoon be found 'twere plain:
Get up the chimney, love, you muſt,
Cried ſhe, or elſe the door he'll burſt,
I would not for a crown;
Young Colin ſeeing but this ſhift,
E'en mounted up, Peg lent a lift,
And cry'd don't tumble down.
III.
With throbbing heart, now to the door,
Poor Peggy runs in haſte;
Thinking to trick her father ſure,
But haſte, the proverb ſays, makes waſte,
Which proverb here's well-plac'd;
Her father ſcolded her his beſt,
Call'd names, and ſaid, among the reſt,
Pray have you ſeen that clown?
She ſcarce had time to anſwer, no,
When, black all over as a crow,
Young Colin tumbled down.
BALLAD.
IN ROSE AND COLIN.
[32]EXCUSE me, pray ye do, dear neighbour,
But Roſe, you know, and I,
Have oft partook one ſport or labour,
While you have pleas'd ſtood by.
And ſince, from little children playing,
You've kindly call'd me ſon,
I thought, to Roſe, I might be ſaying
" Good-day," and no harm done.
II.
When you and father gravely counted,
One morning in the barn,
To how much in a day it mounted,
That both of us could earn,
Since then you down the law were laying,
And calling me your ſon,
I thought to Roſe I might be ſaying
" Good day," and no harm done.
BALLAD.
IN ANNETTE AND LUBIN.
[33]YOUNG, and void of art or guile,
From ill intentions free,
If love I've cheriſh'd all this while,
It came in ſpight of me.
When you've to me, and I've to you,
Try'd who could kindeſt prove,
If that was love—what then to do,
To fly from this ſame love?
II.
When abſent from you I have mourn'd,
And thought each hour a ſcore;
When, on a ſudden, you return'd,
I've thrill'd with joy all o'er;
They ſay 'twas love—I thought 'twas you
Had made my heart thus move;
Alas! what can a poor girl do
To fly from this ſame love?
[34]III.
To every thing that you can aſk,
What ſhould I ſay but yes!
It is becauſe I like the taſk,
I freely grant each kiſs.
You're all to me—I'm all to you—
This truth our deaths would prove,
Were we to part—What then to do,
To fly from this ſame love?
DUET.
IN ANNETTE & LUBIN.
BAILIFF.
THEY tell me you liſten to all that he ſays;
That each hour of the day you are full of his praiſe;
That you always together your flocks lead to graze:
Is this true, damſel?
ANNETTE.
Yes, Miſter Bailly.
[35]BAILIFF.
They tell me, alſo, you are ſo void of grace,
As to brag that dear form, and that ſweet pretty face,
That young dog ſhall be welcome to kiſs and embrace:
Is this true damſel?
ANNETTE.
Yes, Miſter Bailly.
BAILIFF.
The neighbours all ſay, though I credit them not,
They have heard you declare, that content with your lot,
Any king you'd refuſe for that lout and a cot:
Is this true damſel?
ANNETTE.
Yes, Miſter Bailly.
BAILIFF.
But one thing I vow frights me out of my life,
'Tis allow'd on all hands, that is barring the ſtrife,
That you both liv'd together juſt like man and wife:
Is this true damſel?
ANNETTE.
Yes, Miſter Bailly.
DUET.
IN ANNETTE & LUBIN.
[36]LUBIN.
'Tis true that oft, in the ſame mead,
We both have led our flocks to feed,
Where by each other's ſide we've ſat;
ANNETTE.
Alas! there was no harm in that.
LUBIN.
'Tis true for thee this cot I roſe,
Where thou tak'ſt pleaſure to repoſe;
For which I found the greeneſt plat;
ANNETTE.
Alas! there was no harm in that.
LUBIN.
'Tis true when tired thou fain would reſt,
And thy dear lips to mine I've preſs'd,
Thy breath, ſo ſweet! I've wondered at:
ANNETTE.
Alas! there was no harm in that.
[37]LUBIN.
Ah, but 'tis true, when thou haſt ſlept,
Cloſer and cloſer have I crept;
And while my heart went pit-a-pat—
ANNETTE.
Alas! there was no harm in that.
BALLAD.
IN ANNETTE & LUBIN.
A plague take all ſuch grumbling elves,
If they will rail, ſo be it;
Becauſe we're happier than themſelves,
They can't endure to ſee it.
For me, I never ſhall repine,
Let whate'er fate o'ertake us;
For love and Annette ſhall be mine,
Though all the world forſake us.
II,
Then, dear Annette, regard them not,
The hours ſhall paſs on gayly,
[38] In ſpight of every ſnare and plot,
Of that old doating Bailly.
No never, Annette, thou'lt repine,
Let whate'er fate o'ertake us;
For love and Lubin ſhall be thine,
Though all the world forſake us.
BALLAD.
IN ANNETTE & LUBIN.
MY Lord, and pleaſe you, him and I,
Morn, noon, and night, in every weather,
From little children, not this high,
In the ſame cottage liv'd together,
Our parents left me to his care,
Saying, let no one put upon her:
No, that I won't, ſays he, I ſwear;
And he ne'er lies, and like your honour.
II.
As I was ſaying, we grew up,
For all the world, ſiſter and brother;
[39] One never had nor bit nor ſup,
Unleſs it was partook by t'other:
And I am ſure, inſtead of me,
Were it a ducheſs, he had won her;
He is ſo good, and I've, d'ye ſee,
A tender heart, and like your honour.
III.
But, woe is ours, now comes the worſt,
To-day our ſorrows are beginning,
What I thought love—oh, I ſhall burſt—
That naſty Bailly ſays was ſinning.
With Lubin, who, of all the bliſs
I ever taſted, is the donor,
I took delight to toy and kiſs,
'Till I'm with child, and like your honour.
BALLAD.
IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
BROTHER ſoldiers why caſt down?
Never, boys, be melancholy:
You ſay our lives are not our own,
But therefore ſhould we not be jo'ly?
[40]
This poor tenement, at beſt,
Depends on fickle chance: Mean while,
Drink, laugh, and ſing; and, for the reſt,
We'll boldly brave each rude campaign;
Secure, if we return again,
Our pretty landlady ſhall ſmile.
II.
Fortune his life and yours commands,
And this moment, ſhould it pleaſe her
To require it at your hands,
You can but die, and ſo did Caeſar.
Our ſpan, though long, were little worth,
Did we not time with joy beguile;
Laugh then the while you ſtay on earth,
And boldly brave, &c.
III.
Life's a debt we all muſt pay,
'Tis ſo much pleaſure which we borrow,
Nor heed, if on a diſtant day
It is demanded, or to-morrow.
The bottle ſays we're tardy grown;
Do not the time and liquor ſpoil;
Laugh out the little life you own,
And boldly brave, &c.
RONDEAU.
IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
[41]If deep thy poignard thou would'ſt drench,
In blood, to venge old Blenheim's woes,
My enemies, boy, are the French,
And all who are my country's foes.
Shall I receive an added day
Of life, when crimes your name ſhall brand?
No, never let detraction ſay,
That virtue arm'd a murderer's hand.
If deep, &c.
Of anger then, no ſingle breath,
Reſpire for my poor ſake—but ſince
You've ſpirit to encounter death,
Die for your country, and your prince.
If deep, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
[42]SING the loves of John and Jean,
Sing the loves of Jean and John;
John, for her, would leave a queen,
Jean, for him the nobleſt don.
She's his queen,
He's her don;
John loves Jean,
And Jean loves John.
II.
Whate'er rejoices happy Jean
Is ſure to burſt the ſides of John,
Does ſhe, for grief, look thin and lean,
He inſiantly is pale and wan:
Thin and lean,
Pale and wan,
John loves Jean,
And Jean loves John.
[43]III.
'Twas the lily hand of Jean
Fill'd the glaſs to happy John;
And, heavens! how joyful was ſhe [...]een
When he was for a licenſe gone!
Joyful ſeen,
They'll dance anon,
For John weds Jean,
And Jean weds John.
IV.
John has ta'en to wife his Jean,
Jean's become the ſpouſe of John,
She no longer is his queen,
He no longer is her don.
No more queen,
No more don;
John hates Jean,
And Jean hates John.
V.
Whatever 'tis that pleaſes Jean,
Is certain now to diſpleaſe John;
With ſcolding their grown thin and lean,
With ſpleen and ſpite they're pale and wan.
[44]
Thin and lean,
Pale and wan,
John hates Jean,
And Jean hates John.
VI.
John prays heaven to take his Jean,
Jean at the devil wiſhes John;
He'll dancing on her grave be ſeen,
She'll laugh when he is dead and gone.
They'll gay be ſeen,
Dead and gone,
For John hates Jean,
And Jean hates John.
SONG.
IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
WHEN thou ſhalt ſee his boſom ſwelling,
When ſoft compaſſion's tear ſhall ſtart,
As my poor father's woes thou'rt telling,
Come back and claim my hand and heart.
[45]
The cauſe bleſt eloquence will lend thee;
Nay, haſte, and eaſe my ſoul's diſtreſs;
To judge thy worth, I'll here attend thee,
And rate thy love by thy ſucceſs.
BALLAD.
IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
'TWAS not her eyes, though orient mines,
Can boaſt no gem ſo bright that glows;
Her lips, where the deep ruby ſhines,
Her cheeks that ſhame the bluſhing roſe.
Nor yet her form, Minerva's mien,
Her boſom white as Venus' dove,
That made her my affection's queen,
But 'twas alone her filiál love.
II.
The ruby lip, the brilliant eye,
The roſy cheek, the graceful form,
In tura for commendation vie,
And juſtly the fir'd lover charm,
[46]
But tranſient theſe—the charm for life,
Which reaſon ne'er ſhall diſapprove,
Which, truly, ſhall enſure a wife,
Faithful and kind, is filial love.
SONG.
IN THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.
LET your courage boy be true t'ye,
Hard and painful is the ſoldier's duty;
'Tis not alone to bravely dare,
To fear a ſtranger,
Each threat'ning danger,
That whiſtles through the duſky air;
Where thund'ring jar
Conflicting arms,
All th' alarms,
And dreadful havock of the war.
Your duty done, and home returning,
With ſelf-commended ardour burning,
If this right pride
Foes ſhould deride,
And from your merit turn aſide.
[47] Though than the war the conflict's more ſevere,
This is the trial you muſt learn to bear.
BALLAD.
IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.
WHILE up the ſhrouds the ſailor goes,
Or ventures on the yard,
The landman, who no better knows,
Beheves his lot is hard.
But Jack with ſmiles each danger meets,
Caſts anchor, heaves the log,
Trims all the ſails, belays the ſheets,
And drinks his can of grog.
II.
When mountains high the waves that ſwell
The veſſel rudely bear,
Now ſinking in a hollow dell,
Now quiv'ring in the air.
Bold Jack, &c.
[48]III.
When waves gainſt rocks and quickſands roar,
You ne'er hear him repine,
Freezing near Greenland's icy ſhore,
Or burning near the line,
Bold Jack, &c.
IV.
If to engage they give the word,
To quarters all repair,
While ſplinter'd maſts go by the board,
And ſhot ſing through the air.
Bold Jack, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.
I ſail'd in the good ſhip the Kitty,
With a ſmart blowing gale and rough ſea,
Left my Polly, the lads call ſo pretty,
Safe here at an anchor, Yo Yea.
[49]II,
She blubber'd ſalt tears when we parted,
And cry'd now be conſtant to me;
I told her not to be down hearted,
So up went the anchor, Yo Yea.
III.
And from that time, no worſe nor no better,
I've thought on juſt nothing but ſhe;
Nor could grog nor flip make me forget her,
She's my only ſheet anchor, Yo Yea.
IV.
When the wind whiſtled larboard and ſtarboard,
And the ſtorm came on weather and lea,
The hope I with her ſhould be harbour'd
Was my cable and anchor, Yo Yea.
V.
And yet, my boys, would you believe me,
I return'd with no rhino from ſea,
Miſtreſs Polly would never receive me,
So again I heav'd anchor, Yo Yea.
BALLAD.
IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.
[50]IF 'tis love to wiſh you near,
To tremble when the wind I hear,
Becauſe at ſea you floating rove,
If of you to dream at night,
To languiſh when you're out of ſight,
If this be loving—then I love.
II.
If, when you're gone, to count each hour,
To aſk of every tender power
That you may kind and faithful prove;
If, void of falſehood and deceit,
I feel a pleaſure now we meet,
If this be loving—then I love.
III.
To wiſh your fortune to partake,
Determin'd never to forſake,
[51] Though low in poverty we ſtrove;
If, ſo that me your wife you'll call,
I offer you my little all;
If this be loving—then I love.
BALLAD.
IN THE FRIENDLY TARS.
YET though I've no fortune to offer,
I've ſomething to put on a par;
Come then, and accept of my proffer,
'Tis the kind, honeſt heart of a tar.
II.
Ne'er let ſuch a trifle as this is,
Girls, be to my pleaſures a bar,
You'll be rich, though 'tis only in kiſſes,
With the kind, honeſt heart of a tar.
III.
Beſides, I am none of your ninnies;
The next time I come from afar,
I'll give you your lap full of guineas,
With the kind, honeſt heart of a tar.
[52]IV.
Your lords, with ſuch fine baby faces,
That ſtrut in a garter and ſtar,
Have they, under their tambour and laces,
The kind, honeſt heart of a tar?
V.
I have this here to ſay, now, and mind it,
If love, that no hazard can mar,
You are ſeeking, you'll certainly find it,
In the kind, honeſt heart of a tar.
BALLAD.
IN THE OLD WOMAN OF EIGHTY.
COME here ye rich, come here ye great,
Come here ye grave, come here ye gay,
Behold our bleſt, though humble fate,
Who, while the ſun ſhines, make our hay.
II.
The gay plum'd lady, with her ſtate,
Would ſhe in courts a moment ſtay,
[53] Could ſhe but gueſs our happy fate,
Who, while the ſun ſhines, make our hay?
III.
Nature we love, and art we hate,
And blithe and chearful as the day,
We ſing, and bleſs our humble fate,
And, while the ſun ſhines, make our hay.
IV.
Hodge goes a courting to his mate,
Who ne'er coquets, nor ſays him nay,
But ſhares content an humble fate,
And, while the ſun ſhines, they make hay.
V.
The captain puts on board his freight,
And cuts through waves his dangerous way
But we enjoy a gentler fate,
And, while the ſun ſhines, make our hay.
VI.
See Hodge, and Dick, and Nell, and Kate,
In the green meadow friſk and play,
And own that happy is our fate,
Who, while the ſun ſhines, make our hay.
[54]VII.
Come then, and quit each glitt'ring bait,
Simplicity ſhall point the way
To us, who bleſs our humble ate,
And, while the ſun ſhines, make our hay.
BALLAD.
IN THE OLD WOMAN OF EIGHTY.
How kind and how good of his dear majeſty,
In the midſt of his matters ſo weighty,
To think of ſo lowly a creature as me,
A poor old woman of eighty.
II.
Were your ſparks to come round me, in love with each charm,
Say I have nothing to ſay t'ye;
I can get a young fellow to keep my back warm,
Though a poor old woman of eighty.
[55]III.
John Strong is as comely a lad as you'll ſee,
And one that will never ſay nay t'ye;
I cannot but think what a comfort he'll be
To me, an old woman of eighty.
IV.
Then fear not, ye fair ones, though long paſt your youth,
You'll have lovers in ſcores beg and pray t'ye,
Only think of my fortune, who have but one tooth,
A poor old woman of eighty.
BALLAD.
IN THE TOUCHSTONE.
Parents may fairly thank themſelves
Should love our duty maſter,
Checking his power, the ſenſeleſs elves
But tie the knot the faſter.
To trick ſuch dotards, weak and vain,
Is duty and allegiance,
[56] Whilſt love, and all his pleaſing train,
To fly were diſobedience.
II.
As fickle fancy, or caprice,
Or headſtrong whim, adviſes,
Children, and all their future peace,
Become the ſacrifices:
Then trick theſe dotards, weak and vain,
'Tis duty and allegiance;
Whilſt Love and all his pleaſing train
To fly were diſobedience.
SONG.
IN THE TOUCHSTONE.
THIS life is like a troubled ſea,
Where, helm a weather or a lea,
The ſhip will neither ſtay nor wear,
But drives, of every rock in fear;
All ſeamanſhip in vain we try,
We cannot keep her ſteadily:
[57] But, juſt as fortune's wind may blow,
The veſſel's toſticated to and fro;
Yet, come but love on board,
Our hearts with pleaſure ſtor'd,
No ſtorm can overwhelm,
Still blows in vain
The hurricane,
While he is at the helm.
BALLAD.
IN THE TOUCHSTONE.
MY name's Ted Blarney, I'll be bound
And man and boy upon this ground,
Full twenty years I've beat my round,
Crying Vauxhall watch:
And as that time's a little ſhort,
With ſome ſmall folks that here reſort,
To be ſure I have not had ſome ſport,
Crying Vauxhall watch.
Oh of pretty wenches dreſs'd ſo tight,
And macaronies what a ſight,
Of a moonlight morn I've bid good night,
Crying Vauxhall watch.
[58]II.
The lover cries no ſoul will ſee,
You are deceiv'd my love, cries ſhe,
Dare's dat Iriſh tafe there—meaning me—
Crying Vauxhall watch.
So they goes on with their amorous talk,
Till they gently ſteals to the dark walk,
While I ſteps aſide, no ſport to balk,
Crying Vauxhall watch.
Oh of pretty wenches, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE WIVES' REVENGE.
CURTIS was old Hodges wife,
For vartue none was ever ſuch,
She led ſo pure, ſo chaſte a life,
Hodge ſaid 'twas vartue over much.
For ſays ſly old Hodge, ſays he,
Great talkers do the leaſt, d'ye ſee.
[59]II.
Curtis ſaid, if men were rude,
She'd ſcratch their eyes out, tear their hair;
Cry'd Hodge, I believe thou'rt wond'rous good,
However, let us nothing ſwear.
For ſays, &c.
III.
One night ſhe dreamt a drunken fool
Be rude with her in ſpight would fain;
She makes no more, but, with joint ſtool,
Falls on her huſband might and main.
Still ſays, &c.
IV.
By that time ſhe had broke his noſe,
Hodge made ſhift to wake his wife;
Dear Hodge, ſaid ſhe, judge by theſe blows,
prize my vartue as my life.
Still ſays, &c.
V.
I dreamt a rude man on me fell;
However, I his project marr'd:
[60] Dear wife, cried Hodge, 'tis mighty well,
But next time don't hit quite ſo hard.
For ſays, &c.
VI.
At break of day Hodge croſs'd a ſtile,
Near to a field of new-mown hay,
And ſaw, and curſt his ſtars the while,
Curtis and Numps in am'rous play.
Was not I right, ſays Hodge, ſays he,
Great talkers do the leaſt d'ye ſee.
GLEE.
IN THE WIVES' REVENGE.
YOUNG Paris was bleſt juſt as I am this hour,
When proud Juno offer'd him riches and power,
When ſtately Minerva of war talk'd and arms,
When Venus beam'd on him a ſmile full of charms.
Venus' charms gain'd the prize, what an idiot was he!
The apple of gold I'd have parted in three;
And, contenting them all by this witty device,
Given Juno, and Pallas, and Venus a ſlice.
BALLAD.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
[61]When jealous out of ſeaſon,
When deaf and blind to reaſon,
Of truth we've no belief;
With rage we're overflowing,
Not why, or whether, knowing,
And the heart goes throb with grief.
II.
But when the fit is over,
And kindneſs from the lover,
Does every doubt deſtroy;
Away fly thoughts alarming,
Each object appears charming,
And the heart goes throb with joy.
BALLAD.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
[62]BY love and fortune guided,
I quit the buſy town;
With cot and ſheep provided,
And veſtments of a clown.
Thus have I barter'd riches
For a ſhepherd's little ſtock;
A crook, to leap o'er ditches,
And well to climb each rock;
A faithful dog, my ſteps to guide,
A ſcrip and hautboy by my ſide;
And my horn, to give the alarm
When wolves would harm
My flock.
II.
Ah, ſay then, who can blame me?
For beauty 'tis I roam;
But, if the chaſe ſhould tame me,
Perhaps I may come home.
'Till then I'll give up riches, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
[63]THE riſing ſun Lyſander found,
Shedding tears o'er Phillis's tomb,
Who ſwore he ne'er would leave the ground,
But paſs his life in that dear gloom.
Tearing his hair, the frantic youth
Cry'd, "food and raiment I deny;
" And with my life ſhall end my truth,
" For love of Phillis will I die."
II.
The radiant god made half his tour,
The kine ſought ſhelter from his heat,
Which paſs'd within the cottage door,
Where poor Lyſander drank and eat.
His dinner finiſh'd, up he roſe,
Stalk'd, ſighing, ſilently and ſlow,
To where were hung his Sunday's clothes,
Then took a walk to chaſe his woe.
[64]III.
The ſun to Thetis made his way,
When underneath a friendly ſhade,
A ſhepherd ſung, in accents gay,
His paſſion for a gentle maid.
O lovers, what are all your cares!
Your ſighs! your ſufferings! tell me what?
To Daphne 'tis Lyſander ſwears,
And lovely Phillis is forgot.
SONG.
IN THE TOUCHSTONE.
MY tears—alas! I cannot ſpeak!
Muſt thank this goodneſs, ſure, divine!
For had I words—words are too weak,
Too poor, to vent ſuch thoughts as mine.
The ſun, in its meridian height,
Will gratitude like this inſpire;
Whoſe kindly heat, and piercing light,
We wonder at, and we admire.
BALLAD.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
[65]THE coy Paſtora Damon woo'd,
Damon the witty and the gay;
Damon, who never fair purſued,
But ſhe became an eaſy prey.
Yet with this nymph, his ev'ry power
In vain he tries, no language moves;
Thus do we ſee the tender flower
Shrink from the ſun whoſe warmth it loves.
II.
Piqued at the little angry puſs,
Cried he, "ſhe ſets me all on fire!
" Then plagues herſelf, and makes this fuſs,
" Only to raiſe her value higher.
" For, that ſhe loves me every hour,
" Each moment ſome new inſtance proves:
" Thus do we ſee the tender flower
" Shrink from the ſun, whoſe warmth it loves.
[66]III.
" How to reſolve then? what reſource?
" By fair means ſhe will ne'er come to;
" What of a little gentle force,
" Suppoſe I try what that will do?
" I know ſhe'il tears in torrents pour;
" I know her cries will pierce the groves:
" Thus do we ſee the tender flower
" Shrink from the ſun, whoſe warmth it loves."
RONDEAU.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
Ah men what ſilly things you are,
To woman thus to humble;
Who, fowler like, but ſpreads her ſnare,
Or at her timid game
Takes aim,
Pop, pop, and down you tumble.
She marks you down, fly where you will,
O'er clover, graſs, or ſtubble;
[67] Can wing you, feather you, or kill,
Juſt as ſhe takes the trouble.
Ah men, &c.
Then fly not from us, 'tis in vain,
We know the art of ſetting,
As well as ſhooting, and can train
The ſhyeſt man our net in.
Ah men, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
BRIGHT gems that twinkle from afar,
Planets, and every leſſer ſtar,
That darting each a downward ray,
Conſole us for the loſs of day,
Begone, e'en Venus, who ſo bright,
Reflects her viſions pure and white;
Quick diſappear, and quit the ſkies,
For lo! the moon begins to riſe.
[68]II.
Ye pretty warblers of the grove,
Who chant ſuch artleſs tales of love;
The throſtle, gurgling in his throat,
The linnet, with his ſilver note;
The ſoaring lark, the whiſtling thruſh,
The mellow blackbird, goldfinch, huſh,
Fly, vaniſh, diſappear, take wing,
The nightingale begins to ſing.
BALLAD.
IN THE SHEPERDESS OF THE ALPS.
HERE ſleeps in peace, beneath this ruſtic vaſe,
The tendereſt lover a huſband could prove;
Of all this diſtreſs, alas, I am the cauſe
So much I adored him, heaven envied my love.
The ſighs I reſpire ev'ry morn I ariſe,
The miſery I cheriſh, the grief, and the pain
The thouſand of tears that fall from my eyes,
Are all the ſad comforts for me that remain.
[69]II.
When, his colours diſplay'd, honour call'd him to arms,
By tender perſuaſions I kept him away,
His glory forgetting for thoſe fatal charms,
And to puniſh me he is depriv'd of the day.
Since when to his memory I've rais'd this ſad tomb,
Where to join him, alas! I ſhall ſhortly deſcend;
Where ſorrow, nor pain, nor affliction can come,
And where both my love and my crime ſhall have end.
BALLAD.
IN HARLEQUIN FREE-MASON.
In all your dealings take good care,
Inſtructed by the friendly ſquare,
To be true, upright, juſt, and fair,
And thou a fellow-craft ſhalt be:
The level ſo muſt poiſe thy mind,
That ſatisfaction thou ſhalt find,
When to another fortune's kind:—
And that's the drift of maſonry.
[70]II.
The compaſs t'other two compounds,
And ſays, though anger'd on juſt grounds,
Keep all your paſſions within bounds,
And thou a fellow-craft ſhalt be.
Thus, ſymbols of our order are
The compaſs, level, and the ſquare;
Which teach us to be juſt and fair:
And that's the drift of maſonry.
BALLAD.
IN HARLEQUIN FREE-MASON.
THE Sun's a free-maſon, he works all the day,
Village, city, and town to adorn,
Then from labour at reſt,
At his lodge in the weſt,
Takes with good brother Neptune a glaſs on his way,
Thence ripe for the fair,
He flies from all care,
To Dame Thetis charms,
Till rous'd from her arms
By the morn.
[71] So do we, our labour done,
Firſt the glaſs,
And then the laſs,
And then
Sweet ſlumbers give freſh force
To run our courſe,
Thus with the riſing ſun.
II.
The courſe of the ſun all our myſteries defines:
Firſt maſonry roſe in the eaſt,
Then, to no point confin'd,
His rays cheer mankind;
Beſides, who'll deny that he well knows the ſigns?
The Grand Maſter he
Then of maſons ſhall be,
Nor ſhall aught the craft harm,
Till to ſhine and to warm
He has ceas'd.
Then like him, our labour done, &c.
BALLAD.
IN HARLEQUIN FREE-MASON.
[72]AT a jovial meeting of gods once on high,
Ere Bacchus was hatch'd from old Jupiter's thigh,
This one told his ſtory, and that ſung his ſong,
And did what he could leſt the time ſhould ſeem long.
Apollo read verſes, the Graces wreath'd flowers,
The Muſes of harmony ſung forth the powers,
Bully Mars crack'd his joke, and ſly Momus his jeſt;
Yet their mirth wanted ſomething to give it a zeſt.
II.
Said Jove, our aſſembly to-day's pretty full,
Yet, I don't know how 'tis, we are horridly dull;
We have all the ingredients that mirth ſhould inſpire,
But ſome clay-born alloy damps our heav'nly fire.
I have it—in this I'll a mixture incloſe
Of all the delights whence good fellowſhip flows,
And we'll taſte of its produce, for mirth's bad at beſt
When there's any thing wanting to give it a zeſt.
[73]III.
So ſaying, ſo doing, he buried the ſhrine,
Which quickly ſprung up in the form of a vine,
The leaves broad and verdant, the fruit deepeſt blue,
Whence a juice flow'd, that health, love, or youth might renew.
Its influence to feel, they came round it in ſwarms;
Mars took draughts of courage, and Venus drank charms;
Momus ſwallow'd bon mots, Cupid love—ſo the reſt,
While Jove, ſpurning nectar, cry'd—This is the zeſt.
BALLAD.
IN HARLEQUIN FREE-MASON.
HERE I was my good maſters, my name's Teddy Clinch,
My cattle are ſound, and I drives to an inch;
From Hyde Park to White Chapel I well know the town,
And many's the time I've took up and ſet down:
In ſhort, in the bills I'll be bound for't there's not
A young youth who, like Teddy, can tip the long trot.
[74]II.
Oh the notions of life that I ſee from my box,
While fares of all kinds come about me in flocks:
The ſot, whom I drive home to ſleep out the day,
The kind one, who plies for a fare at the play;
Or, your gents of the law, there, who, four in a lot,
To Weſtminſter Hall I oft tip the long trot.
III.
My coach receives all, like the gallows and ſea,
So I touch but my fare you know all's one to me;
The men of the gown, and the men of the ſword,
A ma'am or a gambler, a rogue, or a lord;
To wherever you're going I well know the ſpot,
And, do you tip a tizzy, I'll tip the long trot.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
THE ladies' faces, now adays,
Are various as their humours,
And on complexions oft we gaze,
Brought home from the perfumers.
[75]
For, hid as it were beneath a cloak,
The beauty's falſe that wins you,
Then pardon me, by way of joke,
If I prefer my Dingy.
II.
A handkerchief can rub away
Your roſes and your lilies;
The more you rub, the more you may,
My Dingy, dingy ſtill is.
Beſides, her hair is black as jet,
Her eyes are gems from India;
Rail as you liſt then, I ſhall yet,
For joke's ſake, love poor Dingy.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
DID fortune bid me chuſe a ſtate,
From all that's rich, and all that's great,
From all that oſtentation brings,
The ſplendor, pride, and pomp of kings;
[76]
Theſe gifts, and more, did ſhe diſplay,
With health, that felt not life's decay,
I'd ſpurn with ſcorn the uſeleſs lot,
Were my Camilla's name forgot.
II.
But did ſhe for my fate aſſign,
That I ſhould labour in a mine;
Or, with many wretches more,
In ſlavery chain me to an oar;
Or from the ſight of men exil'd
Send me to a Siberian wild,
For this and more would ſhe atone,
Were my Camilla all my own.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
WHEN Yanko dear fight far away,
Some token kind me ſend;
One branch of olive, for dat ſay
Me wiſh the battle end.
[77]
The poplar tremble while him go,
Say of dy life take care,
Me ſend no laurel, for me know
Of dat he find him ſhare.
II.
De ivy ſay, my heart be true,
Me droop, ſay willow tree,
De torn he ſay me ſick for you,
De ſun-flower, tink of me.
Till laſt me go weep wid de pine,
For fear poor Yanko dead;
He come, and I de myrtle twine,
In chaplet for him head.
SONG.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
I'LL mount the cliffs, I'll watch the coaſt,
Anxious ſome welcome tidings ſoon to bear,
Nor let your fortitude be loſt,
Confiding ſtill in honeſt Yanko's care.
[78]
Though to my comrades I'm untrue,
Honour ſhall infidelity applaud,
And call, in charity to you,
My broken faith to them a pious fraud.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
ORRA no talk, no ſay fine word,
No dreſs him, no look gay,
Vay little ſing you hear von bird,
Him mate be gone away.
Orra tell true, ſhe have no grace,
Of lady for him part,
Dare beauty all be in him face,
And Orra in him heart.
II.
Orra do little, all ſhe do,
Forgive, for ſhe no gall;
To every ting ſhe promiſe true,
Love Yanko, and dat all.
But Orra, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
[79]POOR Orra tink of Yanko dear,
Do he be gone for ever,
For he no dead, he ſtill live here,
And he from here go never.
Like on a ſand me mark him face,
De wave come roll him over,
De mark him go, but ſtill de place
'Tis eaſy to diſcover.
II.
I ſee fore now de tree de flower,
He droop like Orra, ſurely,
And den by'm bye dere come a ſhower,
He hold him head up purely:
And ſo ſome time me tink me die,
My heart ſo ſick, he grieve me,
But in a lilly time me cry
Good deal, and dat relieve me.
SONG.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
[80]PASSION is a torrent rude,
Which rapid bears down ev'ry height,
A turbulent, unruly flood,
Which with the ocean would unite.
Reaſon's a fountain, clam, ſerene,
Which near gay fields, and laughing bow'rs,
While it reflects th' enchanting ſcene,
Is borne among a bed of flowers.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
A bed of moſs we'll ſtraight prepare,
Where near him gently creeping,
We'll pat his cheeks, and ſtroke his hair,
And watch him while he's ſleeping.
[81]II.
Sweet flowers of every ſcent and hue,
Pinks, violets, and roſes,
And blooming Hyacynths we'll ſtrew,
As ſweetly he repoſes.
III.
And we'll with fond emotion ſtart,
And while, with admiration,
We ſoftly feel his fluttering heart,
Partake its palpitation.
BALLAD.
IN THE ISLANDERS.
COME, courage lads, and drink away,
A man upon his wedding day,
Ought rarely well his part to play
At Stingo or October:
For, who would be that ſtupid elf,
For whim, caprice, or love, or pelf,
To poiſon, hang, or drown himſelf,
Or marry when he's ſober.
[82]II.
For Madam's will at nothing ſtops,
She muſt have balls, and routs, and ſops,
And often ranſacks all the ſhops,
In gay attire to robe her:
Then drink the day you take a wife,
As the laſt comfort of your life;
For, ever after, noiſe and ſtrife,
Are ſure to keep you ſober.
BALLAD.
INTENDED FOR THE QUAKER.
THOU'ST heard thoſe old proverbs, ne'er lean one ruſh,
A bird in the hand is worth two in the buſh,
'Tis the money paid down that decides who's the winner,
Who waits upon fortune's ne'er ſure of a dinner:
Out of ſight out of mind, delaying breeds danger,
He ought to be cozen'd who truſts to a ſtranger;
Heaven take my friend, and the old one my brother,
Promiſing's one thing, performing another.
[83]II.
Much may fall out 'twixt the cup and the lip,
The builder's receipt's the beſt ſail in the ſhip,
Tis a good thing to lend, but a better to borrow,
Pay me to-day, and I'll truſt you to-morrow:
Brag is a good dog, but Hold-faſt a better,
You may gueſs at a word when you know the firſt letter;
There's not the moſt fire where you ſee the moſt ſmother,
Promiſing's one thing, performing another.
BALLAD.
IN THE MISCHANCE.
O think on the time when you came home at night,
And ſupp'd upon muſcles, no lily more white,
When I uſed to provide you with many a treat
Of as fine Melton oyſters as ever were eat.
Now ſee what a change! all the muſcles for me
May be trod under foot, or thrown into the ſea;
My Joey is falſe! and the once ſprightly tone
With which I cry'd oyſters is ſunk to a drone.
[84]II.
When the laſt kit of ſalmon we ſat down to broach,
And you told me your heart was as ſound as a roach,
How ſweet was my temper, what joys did I feel!
Little thinking you'd ſlip through my hands like an eel.
But my temper's now chang'd—I, that once was ſo mild,
And was thought to be gentle and meek as a child;
So cruſty am grown I ne'er ſpeak a word civil,
And my cuſtomers ſay I'm as croſs as the devil.
III.
My ſtall was ſo clean, and my tubs were ſo white,
They were perfectly—people would tell me—a ſight:
I liſten'd with joy when the folks told me ſo,
For my ſtall and my tubs were both ſcower'd for Joe:
But now they're all dirty, neglected they lie,
I oft take them up, and as oft throw them buy;
For his ſake I pleaſure in cleaning them found,
He has left me, and now they're as black as the ground.
BALLAD.
IN PANDORA.
[85]What naughty things we women are,
Who long for fruit forbidden;
Though 'twere our bane, we cannot bear
The leaſt thing from us hidden.
But what we ſee will we believe,
Though ill on ill we're heaping,
Though to this day, from mother Eve,
We've always paid for peeping.
II.
Thus curious girls, urg'd by their youth,
Thoughtleſs what they were doing,
Have falſehood found diſguis'd like truth,
And maſk'd like pleaſure, ruin.
Inſtead of ſmiling who muſt grieve,
Whoſe joys are turn'd to weeping,
And who too late, like mother Eve,
Find they have paid for peeping.
[86]III.
Should I to my deſires give way,
I may encounter ſorrow,
And that I think a good to-day,
May prove an ill to-morrow.
Yet, cautious prudence, by your leave,
The ſecret's in my keeping;
I am weak woman, and, like Eve,
Cannot refrain from peeping.
BALLAD.
IN PANDORA.
—In the character of Punch—
WHAT a pity 'twill be, odds babies and lambs,
To poſſeſs the young things by the ſide of their mams,
Not with innocent love, but, odds pranks and curvett⯑ings,
With oglings, and leerings, and airs, and coquettings.
What a pity a widow, odds prayers and religion,
Who has mourn'd for her huſband like any tame pigeon,
Should all on a ſudden, odds fruit that is mellow,
To comfort her find out a ſturdy young fellow.
[87]
And digadon deer,
Go on her career,
Digadon, digadon,
Odds right turn'd to wrong;
Odds bridewells and whipping-poſts, pillories and ſtocks,
When Madam Pandora has open'd her box.
II.
What a pity 'twill be—odds hearts and odds hands,
That the man whoſe large ſoul generous pity expands,
Should turn quick as thought, odds per cent and per annum,
A hunter of heirs, with a view to trepan 'em.
What a pity a ſtateſman, odds good of the nation,
Who for hours without penſion would make an oration,
Should plump in an inſtant, odds Janus's faces,
Shut his mouth up till given half a dozen places.
And digadon deer, &c.
III.
What a pity 'twill be, odds confuſions and ſcars,
That the world for ambition ſhould plunge into wars;
What a pity young fellows, odds rakes and hard livers,
Should fall in their youth, through conſumptions and fevers.
[88]
What a pity 'twill be, odds priſon and palace,
That a judge ſhould erect, and a thief fear the gallows;
And what pity, odds veniſon, and ſturgeon, and trout,
That eating and drinking ſhould give us the gout.
And digadon deer,
BALLAD.
IN THE REASONABLE ANIMALS.
—A wolf who had been a lawyer—
By roguery, 'tis true,
I opulent grew,
Juſt like any other profeſſional ſinner,
An orphan, d'ye ſee,
Would juſt waſh down my tea,
And a poor friendleſs widow would ſerve me for dinner
I was, to be ſure,
Of the helpleſs and poor
A guardian appointed to manage the pelf;
And I manag'd it well,
But how—ſays you—tell?
Why I let them all ſtarve to take care of myſelf.
[89]II.
With theſe tricks I went on
Till, faith Sir, anon
A parcel of ſtupid, mean-ſpirited ſouls,
As they narrowly watch'd me,
Soon at my tricks catch'd me,
And, in their own words, haul'd me over the coals.
In the pillory—that fate
For rogues, ſoon or late—
I ſtood, for the ſport of a diſſolute mob;
Till my neck Maſter Ketch
Was ſo eager to ſtretch,
That I gave the thing up as a dangerous job.
III.
Now a wolf, from their dams
I ſteal plenty of lambs,
Pamper'd high, and well fed—an inſatiable glutton—
In much the ſame ſphere
When a man, I move here;
Hake and break laws at pleaſure, and kill my own mut⯑ton.
Then ſince, for their ſport,
No one here moves the court,
Nor am I amenable to an employer,
[90] I ſhall ever prefer,
With your leave, my good ſir,
The life of a wolf to the life of a lawyer.
BALLAD.
IN THE REASONABLE ANIMALS.
—A hog who had been an alderman.
FOR dainties I've had of them all,
At taverns, Lord Mayor's, and Guildhall,
Where the purveyors, nothing ſtingy,
To fill the wallet,
And pamper the palate,
Have rarities brought from India.
Then what ſignifies what one takes in,
For, when one's cram'd up to the chin,
Why, really, good friend, to my thinking,
If on veniſon and wines,
Or on hogwaſh one dines,
At laſt 'tis but eating and drinking.
Beſides, I've no books I arrange,
Nor at two need I e'er go to change;
Have no buſineſs with note, bond, or tally,
[91] Nor need I, from any ill luck,
Either bull, or a bear, or lame duck,
Ever fear waddling out of the alley.
For dainties, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE REASONABLE ANIMALS.
—A bull who had been an Iriſhman—
IS'T my ſtory you'd know?—I was Patrick Mulrooney,
A jolman, and Ireland my nation:
To be ſure I was not a tight fellow too honey,
Before my tranſmogrification.
I did not at all talk of flames and of darts,
To conquer the fair—the dear jewels!
And [...] huſbands, becauſe why I won their wives hearts
I did not fight plenty of duels.
Then arrah, bodder how you can,
You'll ne'er perſuade me, honey,
For I ſhall always, bull or man,
Be Patric Mulrooney.
[92]II.
When at Almack's, or White's, or at Brooke's, or Boodle's,
I've ſat up all night in the morning,
'Mongſt black legs, and coggers, and pigeons, and noodles,
The calling to uſe I was born in;
To be ſure many honeſt gold guineas it yields,
But ſince 'tis a ſervice of danger,
I'm a better man now I'm a bull in the fields,
To popping and tilting a ſtranger.
BALLAD.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
WERE Patience kind to me,
Oh he de nos!
Far plyther than a coat I'd be,
Oh he de nos!
Leap, ſkip, and pound, would poor Ap Hugh,
And capriole and caper too,
And friſk, and jump, and dance, look you,
Oh he de nos!
[93]II.
But Patience very cruel is,
Oh he de nos!
With jibes, cheers, and mockeries,
Oh he de nos!
Which makes to ſigh and ſob, Ap Hugh,
And whining his ſad fortune rue,
And crieve, and crean, and crunt, look you,
Oh he de nos!
BALLAD.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
WHEN faintly gleams the doubtful day,
Ere yet the dew-drops on the thorn
Borrow a luſtre from the ray
That tips with gold the dancing corn,
Health bids awake, and homage pay
To him who gave another morn.
And well with ſtrength his nerves to brace,
Urges the ſportſman to the chaſe.
[94]II.
Do we purſue the timid hare,
As trembling o'er the lawn ſhe bounds?
Still of her ſafety have we care,
While ſeeming death her ſteps ſurrounds,
We the defenceleſs creature ſpare,
And inſtant ſtop the well-taught hounds.
For cruelty ſhould ne'er diſgrace
The well-earn'd pleaſure of the chaſe.
III.
Do we purſue the ſubtle fox,
Still let him breaks and rivers try,
Through marſhes wade, or climb the rocks,
The deep-mouth'd hounds ſhall following fly;
And while he every danger moeks,
Unpitied ſhall the culprit die:
To quell his cruel, artful race
Is labour worthy of the chaſe.
IV.
Return'd, with ſhaggy ſpoils well ſtored,
To our convivial joys at night,
We toaſt, and firſt our country's lord,
Anxious who moſt ſhall do him right;
[95] The fair next crowns the ſocial board,
Britons ſhould love as well as fight,
For he who ſlights the tender race,
Is held unworthy of the chaſe.
SONG.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
WHO to my wounds a balm adviſes,
But little knows what I endure;
The patient's pain to torture riſes
When medicine's try'd and fails to cure.
What can the wiſeſt council teach me,
But ſad remembrance of my grief?
Alas! your kindneſs cannot reach me,
It gives but words—I aſk relief.
BALLAD.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
[96]JACK Ratlin was the ableſt ſeaman,
None like him could hand, reef, and ſteer;
No dangerous toil but he'd encounter,
With ſkill, and in contempt of fear:
In fight a lion; the battle ended,
Meek as the bleating lamb he'd prove;
Thus Jack had manners, courage, merit—
Yet did he ſigh, and all for love.
II.
The ſong, the jeſt, the flowing liquor,
For none of theſe had Jack regard;
He, while his meſſmates were carouſing,
High ſitting on the pendant yard,
Would think upon his fair-one's beauties,
Swear never from ſuch charms to rove;
That truly he'd adore them living,
And, dying, ſigh—to end his love.
[97]
The ſame expreſs the crew commanded
Once more to view their native land,
Among the reſt brought Jack ſome tidings,
Would it had been his love's fair hand!
Oh fate!—her death defac'd the letter,
Inſtant his pulſe forgot to move;
With quiv'ring lips, and eyes uplifted,
He heav'd a ſigh—and dy'd for love.
GLEE.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
WHAT if my pleaſures fools condemn,
Becauſe I am not dull like them,
Becauſe no minute I let paſs,
Unmark'd by a convivial glaſs?
Or elſe, return'd from ſtrife and noiſe,
I tempt the fair to ſofter joys;
A mortal with a ſoul divine,
Alternate crown'd with love and wine.
II.
Theſe ſhall on earth my being ſhare,
And when I'm gone, if in my heir
[98] My ſpirit live, let him not mourn,
But ſee emboſs'd upon my urn
Bacchus and Venus in a wreath,
With this inſcription underneath:
" This mortal had a ſoul divine,
" Alternate crown'd with love and wine."
BALLAD.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
WHEN fairies are lighted by night's ſilver queen,
And feaſt in the meadow, or dance on the green,
My Lumkin aſide lays his plough and his flail,
By yon oak to ſit near me, and tell his fond tale.
And though I'm aſſur'd the ſame vows were believ'd
By Patty and Ruth he forſook and deceiv'd,
Yet ſo ſweet are his words, and like truth ſo appear,
I pardon the treaſon, the traitor's ſo dear.
II.
I ſaw the ſtraw bonnet he bought at the fair,
The roſe-colour'd ribbon to deck Jenny's hair;
[99] The ſhoe-ties of Bridget, and, ſtill worſe than this,
The gloves he gave Peggy for ſtealing a kiſs.
All theſe did I ſee, and, with heart-rending pain,
Swore to part; yet I know when I ſee him again,
His words and his looks will like truth ſo appear,
I ſhall pardon the treaſon, the traitor's ſo dear.
BALLAD.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
SEE the courſe throng'd with gazers, the ſports are be⯑gun,
The confuſion but hear!—I'll bet you fir—done, done;
Ten thouſand ſtrange murmurs reſound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockies aſſail the tir'd ear.
While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his creſt,
Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd, his head touching his breaſt,
Scarcely ſnuffing the air, he's ſo proud and elate,
The high-mettled racer firſt ſtarts for the plate.
II.
Now reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch ruſh,
[100] [...][101] [...][98] [...][99] [...][100] Hounds, horſes, and huntſmen, all hard at his bruſh;
They run him at length, and they have him at bay,
And by ſcent and by view, cheat a long tedious way:
While, alike born for ſports of the field or the courſe,
Always ſure to come thorough, a ſtaunch and fleet horſe;
When fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.
III.
Grown aged, uſed up, and turn'd out of the ſtud,
Lame, ſpavin'd, and windgall'd, but yet with ſome blood;
While knowing poſtilions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won this ſweepſtakes, his ſire gain'd that race;
And what matches he won to the oſtlers count o'er,
As they loiter their time at ſome hedge alehouſe door,
While the harneſs ſore galls, and the ſpurs his ſides goad,
The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.
IV.
Till at laſt, having labour'd, drudg'd early and late,
Eow'd down by degrees, he bends on to his fate
Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,
Or draws ſand, till the ſand of his hourglaſs ſtands ſtill:
[101]
And now, cold and lifeleſs, expoſed to the view,
In the very ſame cart which he yeſterday drew,
While a pitying crowd his ſad relicks ſurrounds,
The high-mettled racer is ſold for the hounds.
BALLAD.
IN LIBERTY-HALL.
Do ſalmons love a lucid ſtream?
Do thirſty ſheep love fountains?
Do Druids love a doleful theme?
Or goats the craggy mountains?
If it be true theſe things are ſo,
As truly ſhe's my lovey,
And os wit I yng carie I
Rooi fit dwyn de garie di
As ein, dai, tree, pedwar, pimp, chweck go
The bells of Aberdovey.
II.
Do keffels love a whiſp of hay?
Do ſprightly kids love prancing?
[102] Do curates crowdies love to play?
Or peaſants morice dancing?
If it be true, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE BENEVOLENT TAR.
A plague of thoſe muſty old lubbers,
Who tell us to faſt and to think
And patient fall in with life's rubbers,
With nothing but water to drink.
A can of good ſtuff, had they twigg'd it,
'Twould have ſet them for pleaſure agog,
And, ſpight of the rules
Of the ſchools,
The old fools
Would have all of 'em ſwigg'd it,
And ſwore there was nothing like grog.
II.
My father, when laſt I from Guinea
Return'd, with abundance of wealth,
Cry'd Jack, never be ſuch a ninny
To drink:—ſaid I—father, your health.
[103]
So I ſhew'd him the ſtuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it ſet the old codger agog,
And he ſwigg'd, and mother,
And ſiſter, and brother,
And I ſwigg'd, and all of us ſwigg'd it,
And ſwore there was nothing like grog.
III.
Tother day, as the chaplain was preaching,
Behind him I curiouſly ſlunk,
And while he our duty was teaching,
As how we ſhould never get drunk,
I ſhew'd him the ſtuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it ſoon ſet his rev'rence agog,
And he ſwigg'd, and Nick ſwigg'd,
And Ben ſwigg'd, and Dick ſwigg'd,
And I ſwigg'd, and all of us ſwigg'd it,
And ſwore there was nothing like grog.
IV.
Then truſt me there's nothing like drinking,
So pleaſant, on this ſide the grave;
It keeps the unhappy from thinking,
And makes e'en more valiant the brave.
[104]
As for me, from the moment I twigg'd it,
The good ſtuff has ſo ſet me agog,
Sick or well, late or early,
Wind foully or fairly,
Helm a-lee or a weather,
For hours together
I've conſtantly ſwigg'd it,
And, dam'me, there's nothing like grog.
BALLAD.
IN THE BENEVOLENT TAR.
WHAT argufies pride and ambition?
Soon or late death will take us in tow:
Each bullet has got its commiſſion,
And when our time's come we muſt go.
Then drink and ſing—hang pain and ſorrow,
The halter is made for the neck;
He that's now life and luſty—to-morrow
Perhaps may be ſtretch'd on the deck.
[105]
There was little Tom Linſtock of Dover
Got kill'd, and left Polly in pain,
Poll cry'd—but her grief was ſoon over,
And then ſhe got marry'd again.
Then drink, &c.
III.
Jack Junk was ill uſed by Bet Crocker,
And ſo took to guzzling the ſtuff,
Till he tumbled in old Davy's locker,
And there he got liquor enough.
Then drink, &c.
IV.
For our prize money then to the proctor,
Take of joy while 'tis going our freak;
For what argufies calling the doctor
When the anchor of life is apeak.
Then drink, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE BENEVOLENT TAR.
[106]A ſailor's love is void of art,
Plain ſailing to his port, the heart,
He knows no jealous folly:
'Twere hard enough at ſea to war
With boiſterous elements that jar—
All's peace with lovely Polly.
II.
Enough that, far from ſight of ſhore,
Clouds frown, and angry billows roar,
Still is he briſk and jolly:
And while carouſing with his mates,
Her health he drinks—anticipates
The ſmiles of lovely Polly.
III.
Should thunder on the horizon preſs,
Mocking our ſignals of diſtreſs,
E'en then dull melancholy
[107]
Dares not intrude:—he braves the din,
In hopes to find a calm within
The ſnowy arms of Polly.
BALLAD.
IN THE MILK-MAID.
SWEET ditties would my Patty ſing,
Old Chevy Chace, God ſave the King,
Fair Roſemy, and Sawny Scot,
Lilebularo, the Iriſh Trot,
All theſe would ſing my blue-ey'd Patty,
As with her pail ſhe'd trudge along,
While ſtill the burden of her ſong
My hammer beat to blue-ey'd Patty.
II.
But nipping froſts and chilling rain
Too ſoon, alas! chok'd every ſtrain;
Too ſoon, alas! the miry way
Her wet-ſhod feet did ſore diſmay,
And hoarſe was heard my blue-ey'd Patty:
[108]
While I for very mad did cry;
Ah could I but again, ſaid I,
Here the ſweet voice of blue-ey'd Patty!
III.
Love taught me how, I work'd, I ſung,
My anvil glow'd, my hammer rung,
Till I had form'd from out the fire,
To bear her feet above the mire,
An engine for my blue ey'd Patty.
Again was heard each tuneful cloſe;
My fair one on the patten roſe,
Which takes its name from blue-ey'd Patty
BALLAD.
IN HARVEST HOME.
As Derm of toil'd one ſummer's day,
Young Shelah, as ſhe ſat beſide him,
Fairly ſtole his heart away—
Oh den to hear how ſhe'd deride him.
[109]
Where, poor Dermot, is it gone,
Your lilly lilly loodle?
They've left you nothing but the drone,
And that's yourſelf, you noodle.
Beum bum boodle loodle loo,
Poor Dermot's pipe is loſt and gone,
And what will the poor devil do?
II.
Fait now I am undone and more,
Cry'd Dermot—ah will you be eaſy?
Did not you ſtale my heart before?
Is it you'd have a man run crazy?
I've nothing left me now to moan,
My lilly lilly loodle,
That uſed to cheer me ſo, is gone—
Ah Dermot thou'rt a noodle.
Beum bum boodle loodle lo,
My heart, and pipe, and peace are gone—
What next will cruel Shelah do?
III.
But Shelah hearing Dermot vex,
Cry'd ſhe, 'twas little Cupid mov'd me,
Ye fool, to ſteal it out of tricks,
Only to ſee how much you lov'd me.
[110]
Come cheer thee Dermot, never moan,
But take your lilly loodle,
And for the heart of you that's gone,
You ſhall have mine you noodle.
Beum bum boodle loodle loo,
Shelah's to church with Dermot gone,
And for the reſt, what's dat to you.
BALLAD.
IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.
This this my lad's a ſoldier's life,
He marches to the ſprightly fife,
And in each town, to ſome new wife,
Swears he'll be ever true:
He's here—he's there—where is he not?
Variety's his envied lot,
He eats, drinks, ſleeps, and pays no ſhot,
And follows the loud tattoo.
II.
Call'd out to face his country's foes,
The tears of fond domeſtic woes
[111] He kiſſes off, and boldly goes
To earn of fame his due.
Religion, liberty, and laws,
Both his are, and his country's cauſe—
For theſe, through danger, without pauſe,
He follows the loud tattoo.
III.
And if at laſt, in honour's wars,
He earn his ſhare of danger's ſcars,
Still he feels bold, and thanks his ſtars
He's no worſe fate to rue:
At Chelſea, free from toil and pain,
He wields his crutch, points out the ſlain,
And in fond fancy once again
Follows the loud tattoo.
BALLAD.
IN TOM THUMB.
Is it little Tom Thumb that you mean, and his battles?
Arrah ſend him for playthings ſome whiſtles and rattles:
At the ſight of a ſword all his nerves would be quaking,
He fight! he kill giants! is it game you are making?
[112]
As well may you tell us that eagles fear larks,
That mice eat up lions, and ſprats ſwallow ſharks:
Then talk not of any ſuch nonſenſe to me—
Wid your confounded boderum bumboodle liddle let.
II.
Tom Thumb! ſuch a ſhrimp ſure no eyes ever ſaw—
He handles his arms as a fly hugs a ſtraw:
To be ſure in the wars danger's certain to quit him,
For the tafe's ſuch a flea dares no bullet can hit him.
And then as to courage, my jewel—hoot, hoot—
Arrah did not I find him chin deep in my boot?
Then talk not of any ſuch nonſenſe to me,
Wid your confounded boderum bumboodle liddle lee.
III.
Tom Thumb marry you!—muſha honey be eaſy,
Were it not for your ſenſe I ſhould think you gone crazy:
Shall a fine ſtately oſtrich thus wed a cock ſparrow?
'Twere a halbard ſtuck up by the ſide of an arrow—
Or a fly on a church, or a mountain and mouſe,
Or a piſmire that crawls by the ſide of a houſe:
Then talk not of any ſuch nonſenſe to me,
With your confounded boderum bumboodle liddle lec.
BALLAD.
[113]THAT all the world is up in arms,
And talks of nought but Celia's charms;
That crowds of lovers, near and far,
Come all to ſee this blazing ſtar,
Is true—who has not heard on't?
But that ſhe all at diſtance keeps,
And that her virtue never ſleeps—
I don't believe a word on't.
II.
That for one lover had ſhe ten,
In ſhort, did ſhe from all the men
Her homage due each day receive,
She has good ſenſe, and, I believe,
Would never grow abſurd on't:
But for ſoft dalliance ſhe'd refuſe
Some favourite from the crowd to chuſe—
I don't believe a word on't.
III.
That in the face of ſtanders-by
She's modeſty itſelf's no lie;
[114] That then were men rude things to ſay,
'Twould anger her—oh I would lay
A bottle and a bird on't.
But to her bedchamber, d'ye ſee,
That Betty has no private key,
I don't believe a word on't.
BALLAD.
SPIRITS of diſtreſs, of ev'ry occupation,
Perſuaſion, mode, complexion, temper, climate, in⯑clination,
Come here! come here!
Spirit of a friar obliged to go to maſs,
Spirit of a ſailor who leaves his pretty laſs,
Spirit of a drunkard deprived of his glaſs,
Appear! appear!
II.
Spirit of a virgin old and antiquated,
Who forty long winters has ſigh'd out unmated,
Come here! come here!
Spirit of a quaker, deceiv'd in pretty Ruth,
[115] Spirit of an old man who apes the tricks of youth,
Spirit of an hypocrite oblig'd to ſpeak the truth,
Appear! Appear!
III.
Spirit of a Briton juſt arriv'd gay France in,
Who, 'ſtead of beef and fighing, meets with nought but frogs and dancing,
Come here! come here!
Spirit of an alderman, the dinner thrown down,
Spirit of a lover who has juſt receiv'd a frown,
Spirit of a beauty diſappointed of her gown,
Appear! appear!
BALLAD.
I'LL tell you a ſtory—a ſtory that's true,
A ſtory that's tragic and comical too,
'Tis of a miſchance that was ready to fall
On this realm through the ſkylight of Weſtminſter-hall.
Sing bags and briefs, bands, gowns, and other like rigs,
Queues, bags, ties, and full-bottom wigs, wigs, wigs.
[116]II.
The court was juſt open'd, and each learned brother
Preparing which readieſt could puzzle the other,
When on top of the houſe a poor ignorant wench
Puzzled judge, jury, counſel, and all the whole bench.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
III.
Some ſay they a knotty diſpute were upon,
Of ſome trifle like perjury, bail, or crim. con.
When this maid, with goodnature alone for her object,
Waſh'd the windows to let in ſome light on the ſubject.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
IV.
Others ſay, and that boldly, this ſly little quean
Was determined to waſh all their conſciences clean;
But that would have taken, ſo wrong was her notion,
Inſtead of ſome drops, more than all the whole ocean.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
V.
But the lawyers, with conſciences ever awake,
Did the poor girl's civility ſtrangely miſtake,
[117] And augmenting this mouſe to a mountain of evil,
Took her mop for a pitch-fork, and her for the devil,
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
VI.
One appearing, however, leſs ſcar'd than the reſt,
Their abſurd apprehenſions ſoon turn'd to a jeſt;
Crying, courage! old Nick will not take you this bout,
He'll be punctual ne'er fear, but your time is not out.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
VII.
And now, leſt the roof on their noddles ſhould fall,
In two minutes deſerted was Weſtminſter-hall,
Pris'ner, judge, and jew-bail 'gainſt each other did ſqueeze,
And the counſel bags, wigs, and all loſt—but their fees.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
VIII.
No longer let France then her Joan of Arc boaſt,
Of her country's ſtout foes who ſubdu'd a whole hoſt,
On the maid of the ſkylight more honour ſhall fall,
For ſhe routed the lawyers from Weſtminſter-hall.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
BALLAD.
[118]FAIT, honey, in Ireland, I'd find out a flaw
In each capias, each batt'ry and action;
For dere—oh my ſoul—ſatisfaction is law,
And, what's better, fait law's ſatisfaction.
When to cut your friend's trote dat affronts you's the word,
From dat argument none will be ſhrinking;
For we clear knotty points by the point of the ſword,
And make flaws large enough with our pinking.
And great is the pleaſure it yield,
While our ſeconds are hard at our back,
And boldly we both take the field,
Wid our tierce and our carte—ſa, ſa, whack!
II.
Arrah troth were a jolman purſued at his heel
By a conſtable, fait, or a baily,
To be ſure in three minutes the taef would not feel
O'er his ſconce a tight bit of ſhelaly.
Then for actions and bonds, and dat charming long liſt,
Of returns dat in law cut a figure,
[119] Oh we make out returns by a turn of the wriſt,
And draw bonds by the pull of a trigger.
And great are the pleaſures it yield,
When our ſeconds are hard at our back,
When boldly we both take the field,
Wid our tierce and our carte—ſa, ſa, whack!
BALLAD.
I thought we were fiddle and bow,
So well we in concert kept time,
But, to ſtrike up a part baſe and low,
Without either reaſon or rhime:
What a natural was I ſo ſoon
With pleaſure to quaver away!
For I'm humm'd, I think, now to ſome tune,
She has left me the piper to pay.
II.[] [...][] [...][118] [...][119] [...]
I plainly perceive ſhe's in glee,
And thinks I ſhall be ſuch a flat
As to ſhake, but ſhe's in a wrong key,
For ſhe never ſhall catch me at that.
[120]
Whoe'er to the crotchets of love
Lets his heart dance a jig in his breaſt,
'Twill a bar to his happineſs prove,
And ſhall ſurely deprive him of reſt.
BALLAD.
I ſing of a war ſet on foot for a toy,
And of Paris, and Helen, and Hector, and Troy,
Where on women, kings, gen'rals, and coblers you ſtumble,
And of mortals and gods meet a very ſtrange jumble.
Sing didderoo bubberoo oh my joy,
How ſweetly they did one another deſtroy,
Come fill up your bumpers, the whiſky enjoy,
May we ne'er ſee the like of the ſiege of Troy.
II.
Menelaus was happy wid Helen his wife,
Except dat ſhe led him a devil of a life,
Wid dat handſome taef Paris ſhe'd toy and ſhe'd play,
Till they pack'd up their alls and they both ran away.
Sing didderoo, &c.
[121]III.
Agamemnon, and all the great chiefs of his houſe,
Soon took up the cauſe of this hornified ſpouſe;
While Juno ſaid this thing, and Venus ſaid that,
And the gods fell a wrangling they knew not for what.
Sing didderoo, &c.
IV.
Oh den ſuch a ſlaughter and cutting of trotes,
And ſlaying of bullocks, and off'ring up goats;
Till the cunning Ulyſſes, the Trojans to croſs,
Clapt forty fine fellows in one wooden horſe.
Sing didderoo, &c.
V.
Oh den for to ſee the maids, widows, and wives,
Crying ſome for their virtue and ſome for their lives;
Thus after tin years they'd definded their town,
Poor dear Troy in tin minutes was all burnt down.
Sing didderoo, &c.
VI.
But to ſee how it ended's the beſt joke of all,
Scarce had wrong'd Menelaus aſcended the wall;
[122] But he blubb'ring ſaw Helen, and, oh ſtrange to tell,
The man took his mare, and ſo all was well.
Sing didderoo, &c.
BALLAD.
I ſing Ulyſſes and thoſe chiefs
Who, out of near a million,
So luckily their bacon ſav'd
Before the walls of Ilion.
Yankee doodle doodle doo,
Black Negro he get fumbo,
And when you come to our town
We'll make you drunk with bumbo.
II.
Who have taken ſack'd and burnt
That very firſt of cities,
Return'd in triumph, while the bards
All ſtruck up amorous ditties.
Yankee doodle, &c.
[123]III.
The Cyclops firſt we viſited,
Ulyſſes made him cry out,
For he eat his mutton, drank his wine,
And then he pok'd his eye out.
Yankee doodle, &c.
IV.
From thence we went to Circe's land,
Who faith a girl of ſpunk is,
For ſhe made us drunk, and chang'd us all
To aſſes, goats, and monkies.
Yankee doodle, &c.
V.
And then to hell and back again,
Then where the Syrens Cara
Swell cadence, trill, and ſhake, almoſt
As well as Madam Mara.
Yankee doodle, &c.
VI.
To fell Charibdis next, and then
Where yawning Scylla grapples
[124] Six men at once, and eats them all
Juſt like ſo many apples.
Yankee doodle, &c.
VII.
From thence to where Apollo's bulls
And ſheep all play and ſkip ſo,
From whence Ulyſſes went alone
To the iſland of Calypſo.
Yankee doodle, &c.
VIII.
And there he kiſs'd, and toy'd, and play'd,
Tis true upon my life Sir,
Till, having turn'd his miſtreſs off,
He's coming to his wife Sir.
Yankee doodle, &c.
GLEE.
WE, on the preſent hour relying,
Think not of future, nor of paſt,
[125] But ſeize each moment as 'tis flying,
Perhaps the next may be our laſt.
Perhaps old Charon, at his ferry,
This moment waits to waft us o'er;
Then charge your glaſſes, and be merry,
For fear we ne'er ſhould charge them more.
II.
With brow auſtere, and head reclining,
Let envy, age, and haggard care
Grow ſour, and at our joy repining,
Blame pleaſures which they cannot ſhare.
Put round the glaſſes, and be jolly,
In ſpite of all ſuch idle ſtuff,
Whether 'tis wiſdom, or 'tis folly,
'Tis pleaſure boys, and that's enough.
BALLAD.
I've made to marches Mars deſcend,
Juſtice in jigs her ſcales ſuſpend,
Magicians in gavots portend,
And Furies black wigs briſtle.
[126]
To preſtos Pallas' Aegis blaze,
Snakes twiſt to fugues a thouſand ways,
And Jove whole towns with lightning raze,
At ſound of the prompter's whiſtle.
II.
I've made a ſun of poliſh'd tin,
Dragons of wood, with ghaſtly grin,
A canvas ſea, the which within
Did leather dolphins caper;
I've ſtrung with packthread Orpheus' lyre,
Made ſheep and oxen dance with wire,
And have deſtroyed, with painted fire,
Grand temples of cartridge paper.
III.
I've made a ſwain, his love aſleep,
Chide warbling birds and bleating ſheep,
While he himſelf did bawling keep,
Like boatman at a ferry.
I've racks made that no blood could ſpill,
Foul poiſon that could do no ill,
And daggers queens and princes kill,
Who are alive and merry.
BALLAD.
[127]WHEN laſt from the ſtraits we had fairly caſt anchor,
I went, bonny Kitty to hail,
With quintables ſtor'd, for our voyage was a ſpanker,
And bran new was every ſail:
But I knew well enough how, with words ſweet as honey,
They trick us poor tars of our gold,
And when the ſly gipſies have finger'd the money,
The bag they poor Jack give to hold.
II.
So I chas'd her, d'ye ſee, my lads, under falſe colours,
Swore my wiſhes were all at an end,
That I ſported away all my good-looking dollars,
And borrow'd my togs of a friend.
Oh then had you ſeen her, no longer my honey,
'Twas varlet, audacious, and bold,
Begone from my ſight now you've ſpent all your money,
For Kitty the bag you may hold.
III.
With that I took out double handfuls of ſhiners,
And ſcornfully bid her good bye,
[128] 'Twould have done your heart good had you then ſeen her fine airs,
How ſhe'd leer, and ſhe'd ſob, and ſhe'd ſigh,
But I ſtood well the broadſide—while jewel and honey
She call'd me, I put up the gold,
And bearing away, as I ſack'd all the money,
Left the bag for Ma'am Kitty to hold.
BALLAD.
THOU man of firmneſs turn this way,
Nor time by abſence meaſure;
The ſportive dance, the ſprightly lay
Shall wake thee into pleaſure.
Spite of thy formal outward man,
Thou'rt gay, as we ſhall prove thee,
Then cheer thee, laugh away thy ſpan,
And let the ſpirit move thee.
II.
None are more juſt, more true, more fair,
More upright in their dealings,
Than men of thy perſuaſion are—
But are they without feelings?
[129]
E'en now I know thy honeſt heart
Full ſorely doth reprove thee;
Be gay then, in our mirth take part,
And let the ſpirit move thee.
BALLAD.
IN Paris, as in London,
Vice thrives, and virtue's undone;
Errors, paſſions, want of truth,
Folly, in age as well as youth,
Are things by no means rare:
But honeſt uſurers, friends ſincere,
And judges with their conſcience clear,
C'eſt qu'on ne voit guere.
II.
In Paris all things vary,
Sixteen and ſixty marry;
Men preſuming on their purſe,
Heirs with their eſtates at nurſe,
Are things by no means rare:
[130]
But doctors who refuſe a fee,
And wives and huſbands who agree,
C'eſt qu'on ne voit guere.
III.
In Paris idle paſſion
And folly lead the faſhion;
Attention paid to ſhew and dreſs,
Modeſt merit in diſtreſs,
Are things by no means rare:
But friendſhip in ſarcaſtic ſneers,
And honeſty in widows' tears,
C'eſt qu'on ne voit guere.
BALLAD.
Behold the fairies' jocund band,
Who firm, though low of ſtature,
'Gainſt giant vice ſhall make a ſtand,
Portraying human nature.
We've characters of every mould,
All tempers, forms, and ſizes,
[131] The grave, the gay, the young, the old,
Hid under quaint diſguiſes.
They hey for the faries, &c.
II.
We have a prieſt who never ſwears,
But who is always ready
With money, or advice, or prayers,
To help the poor and needy.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
III.
A man and wife who both on crutch
Are now oblig'd to hobble,
Who fifty years, or near as much,
Have never had a ſquabble.
They hey for the faries, &c.
IV.
A magiſtrate upright and wife,
To whom no bribe is given,
And who before two charming eyes
Can hold the balance even.
They hey for the faries, &c.
[132]V.
A learn'd phyſician of great ſkill,
All cures, like Galen, pat in,
Who never does his patients kill,
Take fees, or jabber latin.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
VI.
A country ſquire who hates the ſmell
Of Stingo and October;
A modern poet who can ſpell,
And a muſician ſober.
They hey for the faries, &c.
VII.
Away then, comrades, beat to arms,
Diſplay your ſportful banners,
Strike hard at vice, explore falſe charms,
And catch the living manners.
They hey for the faries, &c.
BALLAD.
[133]Chairs to mend, old chairs to mend.
Like mine to botch is each man's fate,
Each toils in his vocation—
One man tinkers up the ſtate,
Another mends the nation:
Your parſons preach to mend the heart;
They cobble heads at college;
Phyſicians patch with terms of art
And latin, want of knowledge.
But none for praiſe can more contend
Than I,
Who cry
Old chairs to mend.
II.
Your lawyer's tools are flaws and pleat;
They manners mend by dancing;
Wigs are patches for degrees,
And lovers uſe romancing:
Fortunes are mended up and made,
Too frequently, with places—
[134] With rouge, when their complexions fade,
Some ladies mend their faces.
But none for praiſe, &c.
BALLAD.
A tinker I am,
My name's Natty Sam,
From morn to night I trudge it;
So low is my fate,
My perſonal eſtate
Lies all within this budget.
Work for the tinker ho! good wives,
For they are lads of mettle—
'Twere well if you could mend your lives
As I can mend a kettle.
II.
The man of war,
The man of the bar,
Phyſicians, prieſts, free-thinkers,
[135] That rove up and down
Great London town,
What are they all but tinkers?
Work for the tinker, &c.
III.
Thoſe 'mong the great
Who tinker the ſtate,
And badger the minority,
Pray what's the end
Of their work, my friend,
But to rivet a good majority.
Work for the tinker, &c.
IV.
This mends his name
That cobbles his fame,
That tinkers his reputation:
And thus, had I time,
I could prove, in my rhyme,
Jolly tinkers of all the nation.
Work for the tinker, &c.
BALLAD.
[136]ART one of thoſe mad wags, whoſe brain,
Intruder reaſon can't contain,
Who are of ſuch unruly minds,
They buffet waves and ſplit the winds;
In blanket robe, and crown of ſtraw,
Who to mad ſubjects deal mad law?
If this 'tis makes thy boſom ſwell,
Hie good Demoniac to thy cell.
II.
Or art thou drunk—a frenzy too,
One of that hair-brain'd, noiſy crew,
Who vigils keep at Bacchus' ſhrine,
And drown good reaſon in bad wine;
Every deſire in life who think
Compris'd in a deſire to drink?
If by this demon thou'rt poſſeſſed,
Hie thee good drunkard home to reſt.
III.
Or art in love, and ſo gone mad?
Doſt go with folded arms? art ſad?
[137] Doſt ſigh? doſt languiſh? doſt play pranks?
For which contempt is all thy thanks?
Doſt pant? doſt long for ſome frail charms,
Devoted to another's arms?
Is this thy madneſs, ſtupid elf?
Hie thee away, and hang thyſelf!
BALLAD.
IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.
WHEN in order drawn up, and adorn'd in his beſt,
If my ſoldier appears with more grace than the reſt,
If his gaiters are jet, his accoutrements fine,
If his hair's tied up tight, and his arms brightly ſhine,
Let him turn, wheel, or face, march, kneel, ſtoop, or ſtand,
Anxious ſtill to obey every word of command;
Erect like an arrow, or bending his knee,
'Tis not for the general, 'tis all to pleaſe me.
II.
If with ſmoke and with duſt cover'd over by turns,
To gain a ſham height, or falſe baſtion he burns;
[138] If of danger in ſpight, and regardleſs of fear,
He ruſhes to fight when there's nobody near:
In ſhort, let him turn, &c.
BALLAD.
IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.
A novice in love, and a ſtranger to art,
As pure as my wiſhes my unpractis'd heart;
When I roſe with the lark, and out-warbled the thruſh,
Free from falſhood or guile, for I knew not to bluſh:
Thoſe paſt days I deplore.
When innocence guarded my unſullied fame,
When to think, and to act, and commend were the ſame;
When on my face,
With artleſs grace,
Danc'd frolick, ſport, and pleaſure—now no more.
II.
Ere I liſten'd and lov'd, ere man ſmil'd and betray'd,
Ere by horror appall'd, and of conſcience afraid;
[139] Loſt to each fond delight that e'er woman adorn'd,
By a hard judging world look'd at, pity'd, and ſcorn'd:
Thoſe paſt joys I deplore.
Thoſe joys, ere by man's artful treach'ry forſook,
Which, guiltleſs and pleas'd, with the world I par⯑took;
When on my face,
With artleſs grace,
Danc'd frolick, ſport, and pleaſure—now no more.
DUET.
IN CLUMP AND CUDDEN.
PLATOON.
Say, Fanny, wilt thou go with me?
Perils to face by land and ſea
That tongue can never tell ye?
And wilt thou all theſe dangers ſcorn,
Whilſt in theſe arms
I hold thy charms,
Enraptured ev'ry op'ning morn,
When the drum beats reveillez.
[140]FANNY.
Yes, yes, Platoon—I'll go with thee,
In danger whatſoe'er it be—
Believe 'tis truth I tell you;
My conſtant mind ſhall peril ſcorn,
Brave all alarms,
So in my arms
I hold thee every op'ning morn,
When the drum beats reveillez.
PLATOON.
Still Fanny wilt thou go with me?
Suppoſe the cruel fates decree,
Alas! how ſhall I tell you?
The news ſhould come—thy ſoldier fell,
And thou ſhalt hear,
Appall'd with fear,
Next morn his fatal paſſing bell,
When the drum beats reveillez.
FANNY.
Still fearleſs will I go with thee,
Reſign'd to cruel fate's decree,
And bravely this I tell you:
[141]
When on the ſpot my ſoldier fell
I'd ſhed a tear
The world ſhould hear,
Mingling with his, my paſſing bell,
When the drum beats reveillez.
BOTH.
To the world's end I'd go with thee,
Where thou art, danger ne'er can be;
My joy no tongue can tell you:
And ſure ſuch love may perils ſcorn,
Brave all alarms,
While in my arms
I hold thee ev'ry op'ning morn,
When the drum beats reveillez.
BALLAD.
NOSEGAYS I cry, and, though little you pay,
They're ſuch as you cannot get every day.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis noſegays I cry.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis noſegays I cry.
[142]
Each mincing, ambling, liſping blade,
Who ſmi [...]es, and talks of bliſſes
He never felt, is here portray'd
In form of a narcifſus.
Noſegays I cry, &c.
Stateſmen, like Indians, who adore
The ſun, by courting power,
Cannot be ſhewn their likeneſs more
Than in th' humble ſun-flower.
Noſegays I cry, &c.
Poets I've here in ſprigs of bays,
Devils in the buſh are friars;
Nettles are critics, who damn plays,
And ſatiriſts are briars.
Noſegays I cry, &c.
BALLAD.
IN TOM THUMB.
THE younker, who his firſt eſſay
Makes in the front of battle,
[143] Stands all aghaſt while cohorts play,
And bullets round him rattle.
But pride ſteps in, and now no more
Fell fear his javlin lances;
Like dulcet flutes the cannons roar,
And groans turn country dances.
II.
So frights and flurries, and what not,
Upon my fancy ruſhes,
I fear I know not why or what,
I'm cover'd o'er with bluſhes.
But let the honey ſeaſon fly,
To ſecond well my clapper,
The kitchen's whole artillery
Shall grace my huſband's knapper.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
'Tis ſaid we venturous die-hards, when we leave the ſhore,
[144] Our friends ſhould mourn,
Left we return
To bleſs their ſight no more.
But this is all a notion
Bold Jack can't underſtand,
Some die upon the ocean,
And ſome on the land:
Then ſince 'tis clear,
Howe'er we ſteer,
No man's life's under his command,
Let tempeſts howl,
And billows roll,
And danger preſs:
Of thoſe in ſpight, there are ſome joys
Us jolly tars to bleſs,
For Saturday night ſtill comes my boys
To drink to Poll and Beſs.
II.
One ſeaman hands the ſails, another heaves the log,
The purſer ſwops
Our pay for ſlops,
The landlord ſells us grog:
Thus each man to his ſtation,
To keep life's ſhip in trim,
What argufies noration?
The reſt is all a whim:
[145]
Cheerly my hearts,
Then, play your parts,
Boldly reſolv'd to ſink or ſwim;
The mighty ſurge
May ruin urge,
And danger preſs:
Of thoſe in ſpight, &c.
III.
For all the world's juſt like the ropes aboard a ſhip;
Each man's rigg'd out
A veſſel ſtout,
To take for life a trip;
The ſhrouds, and ſtays, and braces
Are joys, and hopes, and fears;
The halliards, ſheets, and traces,
Still, as each paſſion veers,
And whim prevails,
Direct the ſails,
As on the ſea of life he ſteers:
Then let the ſtorm
Heaven's face deform,
And danger preſs;
Of thoſe in ſpight, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[146]THE grey-ey'd Aurora, in ſaffron array,
'Twixt my curtains in vain took a peep,
And though broader and broader ſtill brightened the day,
Nought could rouſe me, ſo ſound did I ſleep.
At length roſy Phoebus look'd full in my face,
Full and fervent, but nothing would do,
Till the dogs yelp'd impatient, and long'd for the chaſe,
And ſhouting appear'd the whole crew.
Come on, yoics honies, hark forward my boys,
There ne'er was ſo charming a morn,
Follow, follow, wake Echo, to ſhare in our joys—
Now the muſic, now echo—mark! mark!
Hark! hark!
The ſilver-mouth'd hounds, and the mellow-ton'd hom.
II.
Freſh as that ſmiling morning from which they dr [...] health,
My companions are rang'd on the plain,
[147] Bleſt with roſy contentment, that nature's beſt wealth,
Which monarchs aſpire to in vain:
Now ſpirits like fire every boſom invade,
And now we in order ſet out,
While each neighbouring valley, rock, woodland, and glade,
Re-vollies the air-rending ſhout.
Come on, yoics honey, &c.
III.
Now reynard's unearth'd and runs fairly in view,
Now we've loſt him, ſo ſubtly he turns,
But the ſcent lies ſo ſtrong, ſtill we fearleſs purſue,
While each object impatiently burns;
Hark, Babler gives tongue, and Fleet, Driver and Sly,
The fox now the covert forſakes;
Again he's in view, let us after him fly,
Now, now to the river he takes.
Come on, yoics honies, &c.
IV.
From the river poor reynard can make but one puſh,
No longer ſo proudly he flies,
Tir'd, jaded, worn out, we are cloſe to his bruſh,
And conquer'd, like Caeſar, he dies.
[148]
And now in high glee to the board we repair,
Where ſat, as we jovially quaff,
His portion of merit let every man ſhare,
And promote the convivial laugh.
Come on, yoics honey, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
FROM prudence let my joys take birth,
Let me not be paſſion's ſlave,
Approv'd by reaſon, ſweet's the mirth,
Vice of pleaſure is the grave.
Then ſtill to reaſon's dictates true,
Select the ſweets of life like bees;
Thus your enjoyments will be few
But ſuch as on reflection pleaſe.
III.
Wine exhilarates the ſoul,
Inſpires the mirth of every feaſt,
But gluttons ſo may drain the bowl,
Till man degenerates to beaſt;
[149]
Then mirth and wiſdom keep in view,
And freely on the bottle ſeize;
What though your pleaſures are but few,
They're ſuch as on reflection pleaſe.
III.
Love the ſource of human joys,
The mind with bliſs that ſweetly fills,
Too often its own end deſtroys,
And proves the ſource of human ills:
Here reaſon's dictates keep in view,
Or, farewel freedom, farewel eaſe,
The real joys of life are few
But ſuch as on reflection pleaſe.
IV.
Then while we meet, let's only own
Joys that do honour to the heart,
And ceaſing to prize theſe alone,
Deplore our frailty, ſigh, and part;
Meanwhile to reaſon's dictates true,
Select the ſweets of life like bees,
Thus your enjoyments will be few
But ſuch as on reflection pleaſe.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[150]THE ſpangled green confeſs'd the morn,
The roſe-bud dropt a tear,
And liquid priſms bedeck'd the thorn,
When Sandy ſought his dear;
Sure never loon was e'er ſo croſs'd—
Ye ſhepherds ſwains impart,
Where did ſhe gang? ah me! I've loſt
The laſſy of my heart.
II.
Her charms are felt as ſoon as kenn'd,
Eyne bright as brilliant gem,
But of her beauties there's no end,
Why need I talk of them?
Each ſhepherd ſwain finds to his coſt,
What power they can impart,
But moſt poor Sandy, who has loſt
The laſſy of his heart.
[151]III.
But mine's the fault and mine's the grief,
How could I raſhly dare;
Oh I have ſin'd beyond relief,
'Gainſt all that's ſweet and rare:
But ſee ſhe comes! ceaſe heart to bound,
Some comfort ah impart;
She ſmiles! ah ſhepherds I have found
The laſſy of my heart!
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
OF all ſenſations pity brings,
To proudly ſwell the ample heart,
From which the willing ſorrow ſprings,
In others grief that bears a part.
Of all ſad ſympathy's delights,
The manly dignity of grief,
A joy in mourning that excites,
And gives the anxious mind relief:
[152]
Of theſe would you the feeling know,
Moſt gen'rous, noble, greatly brave,
That ever taught a heart to glow,
'Tis the tear that bedews a ſoldier's grave.
II.
For hard and painful is his lot,
Let dangers come he braves them all;
Valiant perhaps to be forgot,
Or undiſtinguiſh'd doom'd to fall:
Yet wrapt in conſcious worth ſecure,
The world, that now forgets his toils,
He views from a retreat obſcure,
And quits it with a willing ſmile.
Then trav'ler one kind drop beſtow,
'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave;
Nought ever taught the heart to glow
Like the tear that bedews a ſoldier's grave.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[153]Go patter to lubbers and ſwabs d'ye ſee
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like,
A tight water boat and good ſea room give me,
And t'ent to a little I ſtrike;
Though the tempeſt top gallant maſts ſmack ſmooth ſhould ſmite,
And ſhiver each ſplinter of wood,
Clear the wreck, ſtow the yards, and bouze every thing tight,
And under reef'd foreſail we'll ſcud:
Avaſt, nor don't think me a milk-ſop ſo ſoft
To be taken for trifles aback,
For they ſays there's a providence ſits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
II.
Why I heard the good chaplain palaver one day
About ſouls, heaven, mercy, and ſuch,
And, my timbers, what lingo he'd coil and belay,
Why 'twas juſt all as one as high Dutch:
[154]
But he ſaid how a ſparrow can't founder, d'ye ſee,
Without orders that comes down below,
And many fine things that prov'd clearly to me,
That providence takes us in tow;
For ſays he, do you mind me, let ſtorms e'er ſo oft
Take the top-ſails of ſailors aback,
There's a ſweet little cherub that ſits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
III.
I ſaid to our Poll, for you ſee ſhe would cry,
When laſt we weighed anchor for ſea,
What argufies ſniv'ling and piping your eye?
Why what a damn'd fool you muſt be:
Can't you ſee the world's wide and there's room for us all,
Both for ſeamen and lubbers aſhore;
And if to old Davy I ſhould go friend Poll,
Why you never will hear of me more:
What then, all's a hazard, come don't be ſo ſoft,
Perhaps I may laughing come back,
For d'ye ſee there's a cherub ſits ſmiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
IV.
D'ye mind me a ſailor ſhould be every inch
All as one as a piece of a ſhip,
[155] And with her brave the world without offering to flinch
From the moment the anchor's a trip:
As for me, in all weathers, all times, ſides, and ends,
Nought's a trouble from duty that ſprings,
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino my friend's,
And as for my life 'tis the king's:
Even when my time comes ne'er believe me ſo ſoft
As with grief to be taken aback,
That ſame little cherub that ſits up aloft
Will look out a good birth for poor Jack.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
WHAT though from Venus Cupid ſprung,
No attribute divine,
Whate'er the bawling bards have ſung,
Had he, his bow till Bacchus ſtrung,
And dipp'd his darts in wine:
Till old Silenus plung'd the boy
In nectar from the vine,
Then love, that was before a toy,
Became the ſource of mortal joy;
[156] The urchin ſhook his dewy wings,
And careleſs levelled clowns and kings,
Such power has mighty wine.
II.
When Theſeus on the naked ſhore
Fair Ariadne left,
D'ye think ſhe did her fate deplore,
Or her fine locks or boſom tore,
Like one of hope bereft:
Not ſhe indeed, her fleeting love
From mortal turns divine,
And as gay Bacchus' tigers move,
His car aſcends amidſt a grove
Of vines, ſurrounded by a throng,
Who lead the jolly pair along,
Almoſt half gone with wine.
III.
Ma'am Helen lov'd the Phrygian boy,
He thought her all his own,
But hoteſt love will ſooneſt cloy,
He ne'er had brought her ſafe to Troy
But for the wife of Thone.
She, merry goſſip, mixed a cup
Of tipple, right divine;
[157] To keep love's flagging ſpirits up,
And Helen drank it every ſup;
This liquor is, 'mongſt learned elves,
Nepenthe call'd, but, 'twixt ourſelves,
'Twas nothing more than wine.
IV.
Of Lethe and its flowery brink
Let muſty poets prate,
Where thirſty ſouls are ſaid to drink,
That never they again may think
Upon their former ſtate.
What is there in this ſoulleſs lot,
I pray you ſo divine?
Grief finds the palace and the cot,
Which for a time were well forgot;
Come here then, in our lethe ſhare,
The true oblivion of your care
Is only found in wine.
RONDEAU.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[158]SMILING grog is the ſailor's beſt hope, his ſheet anchor,
His compaſs, his cable, his log,
That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker
Though dangers around him
Unite to confound him,
He braves them and tips off his grog.
'Tis grog, only grog,
Is his rudder, his compaſs, his cable, his log,
The ſailor's ſheet anchor is grog.
What though he to a friend, in truſt,
His prize money convey,
Who to his bond of faith unjuſt,
Cheats him, and runs away,
What's to be done? he vents a curſe
'Gainſt all falſe hearts aſhore,
Of the remainder clears his purſe,
And then to ſea for more.
There ſmiling grog, &c.
What though his girl, who often ſwore
To know no other charms,
[159] He finds, when he returns aſhore,
Claſp'd in a rivals arms;
What's to be done? he vents a curſe,
And ſeeks a kinder ſhe,
Dances, gets groggy, clears his purſe,
And goes again to ſea.
To croſſes born, ſtill truſting there,
The waves leſs faithleſs than the fair;
There into toils to ruſh again,
And ſtormy perils brave—what then
Smiling grog, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
YANKO he tell, and he no lie,
We near one pretty brook,
Him floming hair him lovely yiei
Sweetly on Orra look:
Him ſee big world fine warrior men,
Grand cruel king love blood;
Great king! but Yanko ſay what den
If he no honeſt good?
[160]
Virtue in foe be virtue ſtill,
Fine ſtone be found in mine,
The ſun one dale, as well one hill,
Make warm where'er him ſhine.
II.
You broder him, him broder you,
So all de world ſhould call,
For nature ſay, and ſhe ſay true,
That men be broder all.
If cruel man, like tiger grim,
Come bold in thirſt of blood,
Poor man:—be noble—pity him,
That he no honeſt good:
Virtue in foe be virtue ſtill,
Fine ſtone be found in mine,
The ſun one dale, as well one hill,
Make warm where'er him ſhine.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[161]I am a jolly fiſherman,
I catch what I can get,
Still going on my betters plan,
All's fiſh that comes to net;
Fiſh, juſt like men, I've often caught,
Crabs, gudgeons, poor John, codfiſh,
And many a time to market brought
A dev'liſh ſight of odd fiſh.
Thus all are fiſhermen through life,
With wary pains and labour,
This baits with gold, and that a wife,
And all to catch his neighbour;
Then praiſe the jolly fiſherman,
Who takes what he can get,
Still going on his betters' plan,
All's fiſh that comes to net.
II.
The pike, to catch the little fry,
Extends his greedy jaw,
[162] For all the world, as you and I,
Have ſeen your man of law:
He who to lazineſs devotes
His time, is ſure a numb fiſh,
And members who give ſilent votes
May fairly be called dumb fiſh:
Falſe friends to eels we may compare,
The roach reſembles true ones;
Like gold-fiſh we find old ones rare,
Plenty as herrings new ones.
Then praiſe, &c.
III.
Like fiſh then mortals are a trade,
And trapp'd, and ſold, and bought;
The old wife and the tender maid
Are both with tickling caught;
Indeed the fair are caught 'tis ſaid,
If you but throw the line in,
With maggots, flies, or ſomething red,
Or any thing that's ſhining:
With ſmall fiſh you muſt lie in wait
For thoſe of high condition,
But 'tis alone a golden bait
Can catch a learn'd phyſician.
Then praiſe, &c.
SONG.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[163]ARM'D with javelin, arm'd with dart,
With mighty arm and ſteady heart,
We to the battle go;
Yet, ere we part,
We join with all our friends ſo dear,
And fervent adoration pay,
To the bright orb that gave us day.
Then void of fear,
We ruſh to meet the foe:
Stationed on impervious ground,
We watch their numbers ſcatter'd round;
The ſubtle ambuſh then prepare,
And ſee! they fall into the ſnare:
Hid as in the woods we lay,
They tread the unſuſpected way;
Sudden and fierce from every buſh,
Upon the aſtoniſh'd foe we ruſh,
Bold and reſolved:—and now around,
Hark! the dreadful war-whoop ſound,
Confuſion, terror, and diſmay,
It ſcatters as it wings its way:
They fly! confuſion in their train,
And ſanguine ſlaughter treads the plain!
[164] Hark of our friends the welcome cry,
Proclaims for us the victory!
Then fervent adoration pay.
To the bright orb that gave us day.
See the feſtive train advance,
Breath the muſic lead the dance!
Sound the cymbals!
Beat the tymbals!
Haſte, in glad proceſſion come
To our anxious friends at home,
For our reception who prepare,
While acclamations rend the air,
And loudly a whole nation cry
Honour, glory, victory.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
BE it known to all thoſe whoſoe'er it regards,
That we ſingers of ballads were always call'd bards;
And from Ida to Grub-ſtreet the muſes who follow
Are each mother's ſon the true ſpawn of Apollo;
[165]
Thus recording great men, or a flea, or a ſtar,
Or the ſpheres, or a jew's-harp, we're all on a par;
Nor in this do I tell you a word of a lie,
For Homer ſung ballads and ſo do I.
II.
Don't you know what the ancients were?—great things they talk'd,
How they rode upon Pegaſus—that's to ſay, walk'd;
That near kindred gods they drove Phoebus's chariot,
The Engliſh of which is—they liv'd in a garret:
And thus they went forward, Diogenes quaff'd,
Heraclitus cried, and Democritus laugh'd,
Menander made multitudes both laugh and cry,
But Homer ſung ballads and ſo do I.
III.
Thus did they ſtrange whimſical notions purſue,
Some argued on one leg, and ſome upon two;
To which laſt my pretenſions are not hypothetic,
For 'tis certainly clear I'm a parapatetic:
Lycurgus and Solon 'bout laws made a pother,
Which went in at one ear, and then out at t'other,
Old ſongs ſuch as mine are will nobody buy
Come, Homer ſung ballads and ſo do I.
[166]IV.
Hiſtoric was Pliny, and Plato divine,
Ovid wrote about love, and Anacreon wine,
Great Cicero argued to every man's palate,
And when he was out—'twas a hole in the ballad:
Thus to great men of old, who have made ſuch a rout,
My claim to call couſin I've fairly made out,
And if any hereafter my right ſhould deny,
Tell 'em Homer ſung ballads, and ſo do I.
BALLAD.
IN THE BY-STANDER.
LOOK fairly all the world around,
And, as you truth deliver,
Tell me what character is found
A real ſavoir vivre?
Who truly merits ſober fame—
To find you need not wander,
None can detect life's fraudful game
So well as they By-ſtander.
[167]II.
The lover cogs, and palms, and ſlips,
The eaſy fair to buffle,
And ſtill, to win that ſtake her lips,
Will deal, and cut, and ſhuffle:
Still will he ply each ſubtle art,
Till he has quite trapann'd her,
And then is ſure to trump her heart,
If abſent the By-ſtander.
III.
Preferment is a bowling green
Where, placed in each poſition,
Bowls joſtling in and out are ſeen,
To reach the Jack ambition.
The bias int'reſt ſtill they try,
Twiſt, turn, and well meander,
Yet their manoeuvres, rub or fly,
Are known to the By-ſtander.
IV.
The law's a game at whiſt, wherein
The parties nine are both in,
Where tricks alone the game can win,
And honours go for nothing;
[168]
And while they, a ſure game to nick,
Their clients money ſquander,
Full many more than one odd trick
Diſcovers the By-ſtander.
V.
The coxcomb plays at ſhuttlecock,
The wit commands and queſtions,
The carping cits to commerce flock,
Each follows his ſuggeſtions:
Yet he alone who merits fame,
Who blunts the ſhafts of ſlander,
And on the ſquare life's motley game
Beſt plays, is the By-ſtander.
BALLAD.
IN THE GRACES.
AT firſt like an infant appearing,
With neither his bow nor his dart,
To his wiles we attend without fearing,
Till he creeps by degrees to our hearts:
[169]
When ſoon for our folly requited,
This gueſt the ſole maſter we find,
For ſcarce to the boſom invited,
He lords it at will o'er the mind.
BALLAD.
IN THE GRACES.
SAY flutt'ring heart,
Why after days of ſweet delight,
Where conſcious innocence bore part,
Serene as ſmiling morn, peaceful as ſilver night,
Or gay as noon, when Phoebus' beams ſhone bright.
Say, how one hour,
One little inſtant, could remove
That vacant careleſs joy? what power
Inflict the torments we now prove;
Cynthia forbid it ever ſhould be love.
Dear goddeſs, for fair honour's ſake,
Relieve the torments we partake!
Teach us to cure our am'rous fires,
Or elſe permit us our deſires;
[170]
And this with zealous care perform,
Swift as the wind that rules the ſtorm;
Swift as the glowing god of day
Darts from afar a downward ray,
And ſo ſhall vot'ries to thy praiſe
A thouſand, thouſand altars raiſe.
BALLAD.
IN THE HONEST IMPOSTOR.
THAT girl who fain would chuſe a mate,
Should ne'er in fondneſs fail her,
May thank her lucky ſtars if fate
Should ſplice her to a ſailor.
He braves the ſtorm, the battle's heat,
The yellow boys to nail her?
Diamonds, if diamonds ſhe could eat,
Would ſeek her honeſt ſailor.
II.
If ſhe'd be conſtant, ſtill his heart
She ſure will never fail her;
For, though a thouſand leagues apart,
Still faithful is her ſailor,
[171]
If ſhe be falſe, ſtill he is kind,
And abſent does bewail her,
Her truſting as he truſts the wind,
Still faithleſs to the ſailor.
III.
A butcher can procure her prog,
Three-threads to drink a tailor,
What's that to biſcuit and to grog,
Procured her by her ſailor.
She who would ſuch a mate refuſe,
The devil ſure muſt ail her;
Search round, and, if your wiſe, you'll chuſe
To wed an honeſt ſailor.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
'Twas in the good ſhip Rover
I ſailed the world around,
And for three years and over
I ne'er touch'd Britiſh ground;
[172]
At length in England landed,
I left the roaring main,
Found all relations ſtranded,
And went to ſea again.
II.
That time bound ſtraight to Portugal,
Right fore and aft we bore;
But, when we'd made Cape Ortugal,
A gale blew off the ſhore:
She lay, ſo did it ſhock her,
A log upon the main;
Till, ſav'd from Davy's locker,
We put to ſea again.
III.
Next in a frigate ſailing,
Upon a ſqually night,
Thunder and lightening hailing
The horrors of the fight,
My precious limb was lopped off,
I, when they'd eas'd my pain,
Thank'd God I was not popped off,
And went to ſea again.
[173]IV.
Yet ſtill am I enabled
Do bring up in life's rear,
Although I'm quite diſabled,
And lie in Greenwich tier;
The king, God bleſs his royalty,
Who ſaved me from the main,
I'll praiſe with love and loyalty,
But ne'er to ſea again.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
THE morning breaks,
Thoſe ruddy ſtreaks
Proclaims the opening day,
With glowing health,
The ſportſman's wealth,
Away boys, come away.
The mellow horn
On the ſtill morn
Pours ſounds which echo mocks,
[174] While following bound
Man, horſe, and hound,
T' unearth the wily fox.
Hark echo mocks
The winding horn,
That on the expanded wing of morn,
Though ſweet the ſound in dreadful yell,
Tolls out a knell
To the devoted fox.
II.
Now off he's thrown,
The day's our own,
See yonder where he takes;
To cheat our eyes,
In vain he tries
The rivers and the brakes.
The mellow horn
Breaks on the morn,
And leads o'er hills and rocks;
While following bound
Man, horſe, and hound,
T' entrap the wily fox.
Hark echo mocks, &c.
[175]III.
Now now he's ſeized,
The dogs well pleaſed
Behold his eye-balls roll;
He yields his breath,
And from his death
Is born the flowing bowl.
The mellow horn
That through the morn
Led over hills and rocks,
Now ſounds a call
To ſee the fall
Of the expiring fox.
Hark echo mocks, &c.
GLEE.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
Come round me and weep, to your hearts take deſpair:
'Tis a cauſe that all nature muſt mourn,
Poor Hylas of love who from all had a ſhare,
From our wiſhes for ever is torn.
[176]That Hylas to whom we look'd up for a ſmile,
As we bleſſings from heaven would obtain,
Whoſe form was ſo faultleſs, whoſe tongue knew no guile,
Is gone, and our wiſhes are vain.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
'TIS true the marks of many years
Upon my wrinkled front appears,
Yet have I no ſuch idle fears
This will my fortune ſpoil:
Gold ſtill ſome happineſs beſtows,
E'en where no youthful ardour glows;
For proof, dear girl, take theſe rouleaus,
And give me a ſweet ſmile.
II.
'Tis true upon my haggard face,
No marks of beauty can you trace,
Nor wears my figure ought of grace,
To enſure the lover's bliſs:
[177]
Yet am I no ſuch horrid fright,
But that bank notes may ſet things right,
Take then theſe bills all drawn at ſight,
And give me a ſweet kiſs.
III.
'Tis true I know not to be kind,
And that within my hardened mind
No more a jewel can you find
Than beauty in my face:
But one within this caſket here,
May make amends, its luſtre's clear,
Nor ſhall I think I've ſold it dear,
Paid by a ſweet embrace.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
COME painter, with thy happieſt ſlight,
Portray me every grace,
In that bleſt region of delight,
My charming Sylvia's face:
[178]
And hear me painter, to enhance
The value of thine art,
Steal from her eyes that very glance
That ſtole away my heart.
II.
Her forehead paint, in ſway and rule,
Where ſits, with pleaſure grac'd,
A form like Venus beautiful,
And like Diana chaſte:
Then paint her cheeks, come paint and gaze,
Guard well thy heart the while,
And then her mouth, where Cupid plays
In an eternal ſmile.
III.
Next draw—preſumptuous painter hold;
Ah think'ſt to thee twas given
To paint her boſom?—would'ſt ſo bold
Preſume to copy heaven!
Nay leave the taſk, for 'tis above,
Far, far above thine art;
Her portrait's drawn—the painter love,
The tablet my fond heart.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[179]A ſailor's life's a life of woe,
He works now late now early,
Now up and down, now to and fro,
What then he takes it cheerly:
Bleſt with a ſmiling can of grog,
If duty call,
Stand, riſe, or fall,
To fate's laſt verge he'll jog:
The cadge to weigh,
The ſheets belay,
He does it with a wiſh;
To heave the lead,
Or to cat-head
The pond'rous anchor fiſh:
For, while the grog goes round,
All ſenſe of danger drown'd,
We deſpiſe it to a man:
We ſing a little, and laugh a little,
And work a little, and ſwear a little,
And fiddle a little, and foot it a little,
And ſwig the flowing can.
[180]II.
If howling winds and roaring ſeas
Give proof of coming danger,
We view the ſtorm, our hearts at eaſe,
For Jack's to fear a ſtranger;
Bleſs'd with the ſmiling grog we fly,
Where now below
We headlong go,
Now riſe on mountains high:
Spight of the gale
We hand the ſail,
Or take the needful reef,
Or man the deck
To clear ſome wreck,
To give the ſhip relief:
Though perils threat around,
All ſenſe of danger's drown'd,
We deſpiſe it to a man.
We ſing a little, &c.
III.
But yet think not our fate is hard,
Though ſtorms at ſea thus treat us,
For coming home, a ſweet reward!
With ſmiles our ſweethearts greet us!
[181] Now too the friendly grog we quaff,
Our am'rous toaſt,
Her we love moſt,
And gayly ſing and laugh:
The ſails we furl,
Then for each girl
The petticoat diſplay;
The deck we clear,
Then three times cheer,
As we their charms ſurvey;
And then the grog goes round,
All ſenſe of danger drown'd,
We deſpiſe it to a man:
We ſing a little, &c.
CATCH.
IN THE BY-STANDER.
HERE lies a philoſopher, knowing and brave,
From whom Madam Nature ne'er hid the leaſt won⯑der,
Who looking to heaven, tumbled into his grave,
And diſdain'd that ſame earth where he rotting lies under.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[182]AWAY and join the rendezvous,
Good fellowſhip reigns here;
Joys ſtandard flying in your view,
To invite each volunteer.
Hark, pleaſure's drum
Cries come, come, come,
Obey the kind ſalute,
The echoing hall
Reſounds the call,
To welcome each recruit.
II.
Behold the dinner in array,
A column it appears;
While pyramids of whips diſplay
A corps of grenadiers.
Hark pleaſure's drum, &c.
III.
See rivers, not of blood, poured out,
But nectar, clear and ſtrong,
[183] Young Ganemede's become a ſcout,
Hebe an aid-de-camp.
Hark pleaſure's drum, &c.
IV.
Mow down the ranks, ſee, ſee, they fly,
Attack them glaſs in hand;
Cloſe quarters, rally, fight or die,
'Tis Bacchus gives command.
Hark pleaſure's drum, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
To Bachelor's Hall we good fellows invite,
To partake of the chaſe that makes up our delight;
We have ſpirits like fire, and of health ſuch a ſtock,
That our pulſe ſtrikes the ſeconds as true as a clock.
Did you ſee us, you'd ſwear, as we mount with a grace,
That Diana had dubb'd ſome new gods of the chaſe.
Hark away, hark away, all nature looks gay,
And Aurora with ſmiles uſhers in the bright day.
[184]II.
Dick Thickſet came mounted upon a fine black,
A better fleet gelding ne'er hunter did back;
Tom Trig rode a bay, full of mettle and bone,
And gayly Bob Buxom rode proud on a roan;
But the horſe of all horſes that rivall'd the day
Was the ſquire's Neck-or-Nothing, and that was a grey
Hark away, &c.
III.
Then for hounds, there was Nimble, ſo well that climbs rocks,
And Cocknoſe, a good one at ſcenting a fox:
Little Plunge, like a mole who will ferret and ſearch,
And beetle-brow'd Hawk's-eye, ſo dead at a lurch.
Young Sly-looks, who ſcents the ſtrong breeze from the ſouth,
And muſical Echo-well, with his deep mouth.
Hark away, &c.
IV.
Our horſes thus all of the very beſt blood,
'Tis not likely you'll eaſily find ſuch a ſtud;
[185] And for hounds, our opinions with thouſands we'd back,
That all England throughout can't produce ſuch a pack.
Thus, having deſcribed you dogs, horſes, and erew,
Away we ſet off, for the fox is in view.
Hark away, &c.
V.
Sly renard's brought home, while the horns ſound a call,
And now you're all welcome to Bachelor's Hall,
The ſav'ry ſirloin grateful ſmoaks on the board,
And Bacchus pours wine-from his favourite hoard.
Come on then, do honour to this jovial place,
And enjoy the ſweet pleaſures that ſpring from the chaſe;
Hark away, hark away, all nature looks gay,
Let us drink to the joys of the next coming day.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
LET bards elate
Of Sue and Kate
[186] And Moggy take their fill o,
And pleas'd rehearſe
In jingling verſe
The laſs of Richmond hill o:
A laſs more bright
My am'rous flight,
Impell'd by love's fond workings,
Shall loudly ſing,
Like any thing,
'Tis charming Peggy Perkins.
II.
Some men compare
The favourite fair
To every thing in nature;
Her eyes divine
Are ſuns that ſhine,
And ſo on with each feature.
Leave, leave, ye fools,
Theſe hackneyed rules,
And all ſuch ſubtle quirkings,
Sun, moon, and ſtars
Are all a farce,
Compared to Peggy Perkins.
[187]III.
Each twanging dart
That through my heart
From Cupid's bow has morriced,
Were it a tree,
Why I ſhould be
For all the world a foreſt;
Five hundred fops,
With ſhrugs and hops,
And leers, and ſmiles, and ſmirkings,
Moſt willing ſhe
Would leave for me,
Oh what a Peggy Perkins.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
'TWAS Saturday night, the twinkling ſtars
Shone on the rippling ſea,
No duty call'd the jovial tars,
The helm was laſh'd a-lee;
[188]
The ample can adorn'd the board,
Prepar'd to ſee it out,
Each gave the laſs that he adored,
And puſh'd the grog about.
II.
Cried honeſt Tom, my Peg I'll toaſt,
A frigate neat and trim,
All jolly Portſmouth's favourite boaſt:
I'd venture life and limb,
Sail ſeven long years, and ne'er ſee land,
With dauntleſs heart and ſtout,
So tight a veſſel to command,
Then puſh the grog about.
III.
I'll give, cried little Jack, my Poll,
Sailing in comely ſtate,
Top gan'tſails ſet, ſhe is ſo tall,
She looks like a firſt rate:
Ah! would ſhe take her Jack in tow,
A voyage for life throughout,
No better birth I'd wiſh to know,
Then puſh the grog about.
[189]IV.
I'll give, cried I, my charming Nan,
Trim, handſome, neat, and tight,
What joy ſo fine as ſhip to man?
She is my heart's delight!
So well ſhe bears the ſtorms of life,
I'd ſail the world throughout,
Brave every toil for ſuch a wife,
Then puſh the grog about.
V.
Thus to deſcribe Poll, Peg, or Nan,
Each his beſt manner tried;
Till, ſummoned by the empty can,
They to their hammocks hied:
Yet ſtill did they their vigils keep,
Though the huge can was out,
For, in ſoft viſions, gentle ſleep
Still puſh'd the grog about.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[190]THAN marriage and muſic can ought be more like?
Both are bound and cemented by ſtrong chords;
Hymen's chains, tho' they gall, yet with ecſtaſy ſtrike,
Exactly like diſcords and concords:
Like hooting of owls and of bats on the wing,
Strife all wedding happineſs garbles,
But when hearts born for pleaſure in uniſon ſing,
'Tis the mellow-ton'd nightingale warbles.
II.
When the wife or the huſband a note ſounds too ſharp,
In alt both immediately ſoar;
On family diſcords they mutually harp,
Nor will either come down a note lower.
They like, &c.
III.
All harmony's powers in wedlock we trace,
Dutch harmony, not Italiano;
[191] She thunders the counter, he grumbles the baſs,
And the children ſquall out the ſoprano.
They like, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
ALAS where ſhall I comfort find?
My peace is gone, diſtreſſed my mind;
My heart beats high,
I know not why,
Poor heart! ah me, ah me!
So tender, artleſs, and ſo young,
I liſtened to his flatt'ring tongue,
Nor did I e'er
Suſpect a ſnare
From one who went to ſea.
For ſailors kind and honeſt are,
They injured virtue make their care,
One, only one, did e'er depart
From that prov'd rule, and he,
Ah me!
Was born to break my ſimple heart.
Alas, &c.
[192]
When abſent from my longing arms,
Each hour was fraught with new alarms,
Each riſing morn beheld my tears,
The ſofteſt breeze in my fond fears
Did the horizon ſtraight deform,
And Zephyr grew into a ſtorm:
Yet to be cheated of my bliſs,
And was I then ſo kind for this?
Alas, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
How much I love thee girl would'ſt know?
Better than roſin loves the bow,
Than treble ſhrill the growling baſs,
Or ſpruce guitars a tawdry caſe.
No more then let us ſolo play,
To Hymen's temple jig away,
There, when we get
In a duet,
Of pleaſure will we take our ſwing,
Joy's fiddles ſhall play,
Love's bells ſhall ring:
[193]And, while we celebrate the day,
We'll friſk away,
And laugh and play,
And dance and ſing,
And friſk away like any thing.
II.
I love thee more, I really think,
Than dancers jigs, or fiddlers drink;
Than dancing-maſters love a kit,
Or jolly ſailors fal dral tit.
No more then, &c.
III.
I love thee Griddy, oh much more,
Than ſingers love a loud encore,
Than curates crowdies love to ſcratch,
Or roaring drunkards love a catch.
No more then, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[194]THE wind was huſh'd, the fleecy wave
Scarcely the veſſel's ſides could lave,
When in the mizen top his ſtand
Tom Clueline taking, ſpied the land.
Oh what reward for all his toil!
Once more he views his native ſoil,
Once more he thanks indulgent fate,
That brings him to his bonny Kate.
II.
Soft as the ſighs of Zephyr flow,
Tender and plaintive as her woe,
Serene was the attentive eve,
That heard Tom's bonny Kitty grieve.
' Oh what avails,' cried ſhe, 'my pain?
' He's ſwallow'd in the greedy main:
' Ah never ſhall I welcome home,
' With tender joy, my honeſt Tom.'
[195]III.
Now high upon the faithful ſhroud,
The land awhile that ſeemed a cloud,
While objects from the miſt ariſe,
A feaſt preſents Tom's longing eyes.
A ribband near his heart which lay,
Now ſee him on his hat diſplay,
The given ſign to ſhew that fate
Had brought him ſafe to bonny Kate.
IV.
Near to a cliff whoſe heights command
A proſpect of the ſhelly ſtrand,
While Kitty fate and fortune blamed,
Sudden, with rapture, ſhe exclaimed,
' But ſee, oh heaven! a ſhip in view,
' My Tom appears among the crew,
' The pledge he ſwore to bring ſafe home,
' Streams on his hat—'tis honeſt Tom.
V.
What now remains were eaſy told,
Tom comes, his pockets lined with gold,
Now rich enough no more to roam,
To ſerve his king, he ſtays at home;
[196]
Recounts each toil, and ſhews each ſcar,
While Kitty and her conſtant tar
With rev'rence teach to bleſs their fates
Young honeſt Toms and bonny Kates.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
WHY I be ſquire Ned of Gobble-hall,
I be come to London town with father,
And they that little I a gooſe goes to call,
Should call me a fox much rather.
I be ſilent and ſly,
And cunning and dry,
And with a hawk's eye
To watch what's ſaid and done am ready;
So they that goes to hope
To hang me for a fool,
Will find in the rope
A knave, that he wool:
So you never muſt
To faces truſt,
[197] For I be ſly,
And queer, and dry,
And they that thinks to make a fool of I,
Are all deceived in little Neddy.
II.
When the comely captain on his knees I find,
Who to mother has vowed and has kiſs'd her,
Why 'tis nothing more than kind after kind,
For the dancing-maſter kiſſes ſiſter:
So they thinks me to chouſe,
While I goes about the houſe,
As tame as a mouſe,
By the nick name of ſimple Teddy;
But 'tis all one to me
If, in day time, d'ye ſee,
They meets their ſpark,
I kiſs maids in the dark,
So you never muſt
To faces truſt, &c.
III.
If father be in love with a bouncing dame,
Thinking I be a lout and no better,
And ſpells me out good madam's name,
And gives me a guinea and a letter,
[198]
What does I do d'ye think?
To myſelf while I wink,
I pockets the chink,
Burns the letter and makes love to the leady:
So down to the ground
I tricks them all round,
Pretty ſiſter and mamma,
And my reverend pappa:
So you never muſt
To faces truſt, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
BEN Backſtay lov'd the gentle Anna,
Conſtant as purity was ſhe,
Her honey words, like ſucc'ring manna,
Cheer'd him each voyage he made to ſea.
One fatal morning ſaw them parting,
While each the other's ſorrow dried,
They, by the tear that then was ſtarting,
Vow'd to be conſtant till they died.
[199]II.
At diſtance from his Anna's beauty,
While howling winds the ſky deform,
Ben ſighs, and well performs his duty,
And braves for love the frightful ſtorm:
Alas in vain the veſſel batter'd,
On a rock ſplitting, opens wide,
While lacerated, torn, and ſhatter'd,
Ben thought of Anna, ſighed, and died.
III.
The ſemblance of each charming feature,
That Ben had worn around his neck,
Where art ſtood ſubſtitute for nature,
A tar, his friend, ſaved from the wreck.
In fervent hope, while Anna burning,
Bluſhed as ſhe wiſhed to be a bride,
The portrait came, joy turn'd to mourning,
She ſaw, grew pale, ſunk down, and died!
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[200]Abergavney is fine, Aberiſtwith alſo,
And the laſſes it is fine when to market they go;
The birds and the pretty finches ſing fine in the grove,
But the fineſt bird of all is that little rogue luff.
Luff me I pray you now, luff me as your life,
And Taffy and Griddy ſhall ſoon be man and wife.
II.
The mountains are high, and the fallies are low,
And from Radnor to Glamorgan's a long fay to co;
But I'd co and I'd run, and I'd fly, and I rove,
If when I came there I ſhould meet with my luff.
Luff me, &c.
III.
Toil and labour is hard, and the time's very long,
From the lark's pretty chant to the nightingale's ſong,
But I'd toil and I'd labour throughout the whole year,
And think it a day were I bleſt with my dear.
Luff me, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[201]RESPLENDENT gleam'd the ample moon,
Reflected on the glitt'ring lee,
The bell proclaim'd night's awful noon,
And ſcarce a ripple ſhook the ſea,
When thus, for ſailors, nature's care,
What education has denied,
Are of ſtrong ſenſe, a bounteous ſhare,
By obſervation well ſupplied.
While thus in bold and honeſt guiſe,
For wiſdom mov'd his tongue,
Drawing from wiſdom comfort's drop,
In truth and fair reflection wiſe,
Right cheerfully ſung
Little Ben that keeps his watch in the main top.
II.
Why ſhould the hardy tar complain?
'Tis certain true he weathers more
From dangers on the roaring main
Than lazy lubbers do aſhore.
[202] Ne'er let the noble mind deſpair,
Though roaring ſeas run mountains high,
All things are built with equal care,
Firſt rate or wherry, man or fly:
If there's a power that never errs,
And certainly 'tis ſo,
For honeſt hearts what comforts drop,
As well as kings and emperors,
Why not take in tow
Little Ben that keeps his watch in the main top?
III.
What though to diſtant climes I roam,
Far from my darling Nancy's charms,
The ſweeter is my welcome home,
To bliſsful moorings in her arms.
Perhaps ſhe on that ſober moon
A lover's obſervation takes,
And longs that little Ben may ſoon
Relieve that heart which ſorely achs.
Ne'er fear, that power that never errs,
That guards all things below,
For honeſt hearts what comforts drop,
As well as kings and emperors,
Will ſurely take in tow
Little Ben that keeps his watch in the main top.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[203]CROWN me Bacchus, mighty god,
The victory is thine,
Cupid's bow yields to thy rod,
And love ſubmits to wine:
Love, the dream of idle boys,
That makes the ſage an aſs,
Love cannot vie with thoſe ſweet joys
That crown the ſparkling glaſs.
II.
To plunge in care let lovers whine,
Such fools who will be may,
Good fellows glaſs in hand combine
To drive pale care away:
With grief of heart, how many a boy
Goes mad to pleaſe ſome laſs!
We too go mad, but 'tis with joy,
Fired by the ſparkling glaſs.
[204]III.
How many dangle on a tree
Who buckle to love's tether,
True to our honeſt purpoſe we
Hang too, but 'tis together:
The lover numbers by his ſighs
The moments as they paſs,
We count them in a way more wiſe,
By putting round the glaſs.
IV.
See in his cage the lover ſing,
Wife, children, ſquall ſonorus,
We make the air and glaſſes ring,
While ſinging freedom's chorus:
No never ſhall preſumptuous love
The joys of wine ſurpaſs,
Worn out by bickerings, even Jove
Seeks Bacchus and his glaſs.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[205]OF the ancients is't ſpeaking my ſoul you be after,
Dat they never got how come you ſo?
Would you ſariouſly make the good folks die with laughter?
To be ſure their dog's tricks we don't know.
Wid your ſmalliliow nonſenſe, and all your queer bod⯑derns,
Since whiſky's a liquor divine,
Do be ſure the old ancients, as well as the moderns,
Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine.
II.
Apicius and Aeſop, as authors aſſure us,
Would ſwig till as drunk as a beaſt,
Den what do you think of that rogue Epicurus?
Was not he a tight hand at a feaſt.
Wid your ſmallilow, &c.
III.
Alexander the great, at his banquets who drank hard,
When he no more worlds could ſubdue,
[206] Shed tears to be ſure, but 'twas tears of the tankard,
To refreſh him—and pray would not you?
Wid your ſmalliliow, &c.
IV.
Den that other old fellow they call Ariſtotle,
Such a devil of a tipler was he,
That one night, having taken too much of his bottle,
The taef ſtaggered into the ſea.
Wid your ſmalliliow, &c.
V.
Den they made what they called of their wine a libation'
Which, as all authority quotes,
They threw on the ground, muſha what boderation,
To be ſure 'twas not thrown down their throats.
Wid your ſmalliliow, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[207]I ſail'd from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how ſhe ſmack'd through the breeze,
She's a veſſel as tight to my fancy
As ever ſail'd on the ſalt ſeas.
So adieu to the white cliffs of Briton,
Our girls, and our dear native ſhore,
For if ſome hard rock we ſhould ſplit on,
We ſhall never ſee them any more.
But ſailor's were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow high, blow low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,
And where the gale drives we muſt go.
II.
When we entered the gut of Gibralter,
I verily thought ſhe'd have ſunk,
For the wind ſo began for to alter,
She yaw'd juſt as thof ſhe was drunk.
The ſquall tore the mainſail to ſhivers,
Helm a weather the hoarſe boatſwain cries,
[208] Brace the foreſail athwart, ſee ſhe quivers,
As before the rough tempeſt ſhe flies.
But ſailors, &c.
III.
The ſtorm came on thicker and faſter,
As black juſt as pitch was the ſky,
When truly a doleful diſaſter
Befel three poor ſailors and I.
Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handſail,
By a blaſt that came furious and hard,
Juſt while we were furling the mainſail,
Were every ſoul ſwept from the yard.
But ſailors, &c.
IV.
Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi,
As for I, at the riſk of my neck,
While they ſunk down in peace to old Davy,
Caught a rope, and ſo landed on deck.
Well what would you have, we were ſtranded,
And out of a fine jolly crew
Of three hundred that ſailed, never landed
But I and I think twenty-two.
But ſailors, &c
[209]V.
After thus we at ſea had miſcarried,
Another gueſs way ſat the wind,
For to England I came and got married,
To a laſs that was comely and kind;
But whether for joy or vexation
We know not for what we were born,
Perhaps I may find a kind ſtation,
Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn.
But ſailors, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
SURE 'ent the world a maſquerade,
Wid ſhrugs and queer grimaces,
Where all mankind a roaring trade
Drive underneath bare faces?
Pray don't the lover, let me aſk,
Hid by a faſcine battery,
Steal hearts away? and what's his maſk?
To be ſure it is not flattery.
[210]
Then join the general maſquerade,
That men and manners traces,
To be ſure the beſt maſks dat are made
For cheating 'ent bare faces.
II.
Weigh yonder lawyer—I'll be bail,
So able are his talents,
The devil himſelf, in t' other ſcale,
Would quickly kick the balance.
See that friar to a novice preach,
To holineſs to win her;
Their maſks dropt off, what are they each?
He a taef and ſhe a ſinner.
To be ſure they 'ent, &c.
III.
For her huſband ſee you widow cry,
She'll never have another;
By my ſoul ſhe weeps wid but one eye,
For ſhe's leering wid the tother.
You courtier ſee, who, in a crack,
Will promiſe fifty places,
[211] By my ſoul his friends ſcarce turn their back
But he laughs before their faces.
To be ſure he don't, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
DEAR Yanko ſay, and true he ſay,
All mankind, one and t'other,
Negro, mulatto, and malay,
Through all de world be broder.
In black, in yellow, what diſgrace,
That ſcandal ſo he uſe 'em?
For dere no virtue in de face,
De virtue in the boſom.
Dear Yanko ſay, &c.
II.
What harm dere in a ſhape or make?
What harm in ugly feature?
Whatever colour, form, he take,
The heart make human creature.
[212]
Then black and copper both be friend,
No colour he bring beauty,
For beauty Yanko ſay attend
On him who do him duty.
Dear Yanko ſay, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
I'M jolly Dick the lamplighter,
They ſays the ſun's my dad,
And truly I believe it, ſir,
For I'm a pretty lad.
Father and I the world delight,
And make it look ſo gay,
The difference is I lights by night,
And father lights by day.
II.
But father's not the likes of I
For knowing life and fun,
For I queer tricks and fancies ſpy
Folks never ſhew the ſun:
[213]
Rogues, owls, and bats can't bear the light,
I've heard your wiſe ones ſay,
And ſo d'ye mind I ſees at night
Things never ſeen by day.
III.
At night men lay aſide all art,
As quite a uſeleſs taſk,
And many a face, and many a heart
Will then pull off the maſk;
Each formal prude and holy wight
Will throw diſguiſe away,
And ſin it openly all night,
Who ſainted it all day.
IV.
His darling hoard the miſer views,
Miſſes from friends decamp,
And many a ſtateſman miſchief brews
To his country o'er his lamp:
So father and I, d'ye take me right,
Are juſt on the ſame lay,
I bare-fac'd ſinners light by night,
And he falſe ſaints by day.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
[214]SWEET is the dew-drop on the thorn,
That, like a priſm, reflccts the morn;
Sweet is the cheering ſolar ray,
That compaſſes the ample day:
Sweet is the balmy evening's cloſe,
That ſhuts the foliage of the roſe:
Theſe to creation joys impart
Like thoſe which warm the grateful heart.
II.
The little ſongſters on the ſpray
Spontaneous chant their grateful lay,
Or, to the pebbly rivulet driven,
They ſip, and lift their heads to heaven;
Or for the worm or inſect fly,
To feed their craving progeny:
Feelings a leſſon that impart
To ſtimulate the grateful heart.
[215]III.
Mark vegetation, wond'rous ſight!
See how the germe breaks into light!
The fruitful ſhower the tree receives,
And freſher green adorns its leaves:
Man cultivates the grateful ſoil,
And flowers and fruit reward his toil;
Plants, birds, all nature thus impart
Joys ſuch as warm the grateful heart.
SONG.
IN THE ODDITIES.
Firſt chuſe a pretty melody,
To take in all the flats:
Then change your drift,
And ſuddenly
Prepare to ſhift
The key;
Then growl
Like dogs, and miowl
Like cats:
[216] Then chatter like monkies—now low, and now high
Then whine, and then ſigh,
And all through the noſe,
And then ſwim and die,
And then come to a cloſe.
Among the flats and ſharps now a tedious journey travel,
Then loſe yourſelf in knots of chords,
And then thoſe knots unravel:
Then ſigh, and die,
And faint in bliſs extatic,
And then the half tones, try,
For a touch of the chromatic.
Then where you ſet out come again,
And now—you're welcome home again.
Then once more the melody,
To take in all the flats:
Then change your drift,
And ſuddenly
Prepare to ſhift
The key;
Then growl
Like dogs, and miowl
Like cats:
Then chatter like monkeys—now low, and now high,
And all through the noſe;
And then ſwim and die,
And then come to a cloſe.
[217]Yet not ſhabbily,
But with a fine contabile,
In which go high and low boy,
Still followed by the hautboy,
And all through the noſe,
And then ſwim and die,
And then come to a cloſe.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
I am the world's epitome,
Look round it, and then ſay,
Nature and man may ſit to me,
Their likeneſs to pourtray:
As nature, in her motley round,
Oft ſhifts from day to night,
So fickle man is varying-found,
Still changing wrong and right.
The application's prompt and ripe,
I of all nature am the type,
So turn me round,
I ſhall be found,
[218]
From right to left, and left to right,
Look how you will,
To vary ſtill,
From white to black, and black to white.
II.
Do but that learned counſel ſee,
Who proves that wrong is right,
And preſently, augment his fee,
His argument takes flight:
And now unſwearing what he ſwore,
The burden of his ſong
Reverſes what he ſaid before,
And proves that right is wrong.
The application's prompt and ripe,
I of that lawyer am the type:
For turn me round, &c.
III.
Behold yon lordly ſtateſman frown,
At mention of a bribe,
As if diſgrace it had brought down
On him and all his tribe:
But left behind, he'll inſtant ſeize
Upon the well-fill'd ſack,
[219] Nor could the ſtrength of Hercules
Have power to get it back.
The application's prompt and ripe,
I of that ſtateſman am the type:
For turn me round, &c.
IV.
When baſking in proſperity,
Each friend to ſerve you burns,
And boaſting his ſincerity,
The ſmiling white ſide turns:
But let uncertain fortune frown,
And take her bleſſings back,
Inſtant the friendly white is flown,
And every man looks black.
The application's prompt and ripe,
I of all nature am the type:
For turn me round, &c.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[220]WHAT a plague cried young Colin would Chloe be at?
I ne'er will be caught in a nooſe:
Odds wounds I'm reſolved, and who'd wager 'gainſt that,
Were it even a guinea, he'd loſe.
I told the young baggage, ſays I, to her face,
Toy as much as you will, but no prieſt ſhall ſay grace.
II.
Cry'd young Thyrſis, pray Colin this bluſtering hold,
What you've utter'd is only through fear;
In the abſence of danger all cowards feel bold,
But you'd ſoon change your tone were ſhe near:
She has honour and truth, and I ſay't to your face,
With her you'll ne'er toy till the prieſt ſhall ſay grace.
III.
Away then cried Colin a ſoldier I'll go,
In each quarter to find out a wife;
I'll roar and I'll rant, rake a little, or ſo,
But no one ſhall ſnap me for life;
[221]
For in ſpight of their fancies, I'll ſay't to their face,
Toy as much as you will, but no prieſt ſhall ſay grace.
IV.
As he utter'd thoſe words, charming Chloe came by,
Unaffected and lovely as May;
Adieu then poor Colin, cried ſhe, with a ſigh,
While the ſun ſhines begone and make hay.
Cried Thyrſis, d'ye hear! you may well hide your face!
With ſuch beauty would'ſt toy till the prieſt ſhould ſay grace.
V.
Odd rot it, cried Colin, woot let me alone,
With vexation my heart how it boils;
Why for her peace of mind I would forfeit my own;
Woot forgive me ſweet Chloe?—She ſmiles!
See, ſee glad conſent lightens up in her face!
Then let us to church, where the prieſt ſhall ſay grace.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[222]WHAT thof I be a country clown,
For all the fuſs that you make,
One need not to be born in town
To know what two and two make:
'Squire Fop there thinks his empty pate
Worth all ours put together,
But how can that have any weight
That's only made of feather.
Then duont ye be ſo proud, d'ye ſee,
It 'ent a thing that's ſuiting;
Can one than t' other better be
When both are on a footing?
II.
Now here's a man who ſeas and land
Has dreamt that he can croſs over,
That all the world's at his command,
For he's a great philoſopher;
That to each ſecret he no bars
E'er finds but can unlock it,
[223] And conjure down the moon and ſtars,
And put them in his pocket:
But when you've caught him where's the prize
So mighty to the getter?
For ſartin he can make us wiſe,
But can he make us better?
III.
My lady there, becauſe ſhe's dreſs'd
In lappets, frils, and flounces,
See how with pride her flutt'ring breaſt
Throbs, heaves, and jumps, and bounces.
And then 'tis ſaid they makes a face
New ſpick and ſpan each feature,
As if they thought that a diſgrace
That's ready made by nature.
The money for a head ſo high,
Such ſcollops and ſuch carving,
Would keep an honeſt family
A month or more from ſtarving.
IV.
As for the doctors and their pill,
Odds waunds I can't endure them,
[224] For ſartin they their patients kill
More oftner than they cure them.
And as for maſter poet here,
Who writes for fame and glory,
I thinks as he's a little queer
Poor ſoul in the upper ſtory.
I've yet another wipe to ſpare,
For waunds I'll give no quarter,
Next time you'd find a fool, take care,
You do not catch a tarter.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
To look upon dreſs, upon ſhew, upon birth,
As the nobleſt diſtinctions of life,
On riches as all that give pleaſure on earth,
And that only cure ſorrow and ſtrife,
And though to the maxims one might ſay quoi bon,
Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.
[225]
Stale virtue and vice to eraſe from their liſt,
Thoſe of life make a pitiful part,
Things certainly in people's mouths that exiſt,
But have nothing to do with the heart:
To maxims like theſe one may well ſay quoi bon,
Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.
III.
Upon prudence as vulgar, and honeſty low,
On each man of merit a brute,
As an angel, an ape, or, 'tis all one, a beau,
Dreſſed out in an elegant ſuit:
To maxims like theſe one may well ſay quoi bon,
Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.
IV.
To be ſhort—in a church as the beſt place to make
Appointments, or charms to diſplay;
And the time moſt commode of all others to take,
On Sunday, for cheating at play,
Theſe maxims 'tis certain ne ſont pas trop bon,
Yet this is the life of a lady of ton.
BALLAD.
IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.
[226]I was, d'ye ſee, a waterman,
As tight and ſpruce as any,
'Twixt Richmond town
And Horſley down
I earn'd an honeſt penny:
None could of fortune's favours brag
More than could lucky I,
My cot was ſnug, well fill'd my cag,
My grunter in the ſty.
With wherry tight
And boſom light
I cheerfully did row,
And, to complete this princely life,
Sure never man had friend and wife
Like my Poll and my partner Joe.
II.
I roll'd in joys like theſe awhile,
Folks far and near careſs'd me,
Till, woe is me,
So lubberly
The preſs-gang came and preſs'd me:
[227]
How could I all theſe pleaſures leave?
How with my wherry part?
I never ſo took on to grieve,
It wrung my very heart.
But when on board
They gave the word
To foreign parts to go,
I rued the moment I was born,
That ever I ſhould thus be torn
From my Poll and my partner Joe.
III.
I did my duty manfully,
While on the billows rolling,
And night or day
Could find my way
Blindfold to the main-top bowling:
Thus all the dangers of the main,
Quickſands, and gales of wind,
I brav'd, in hopes to taſte again
The joys I left behind:
In climes afar,
The hotteſt war,
Pour'd broadſides on the foe,
In hopes theſe perils to relate,
As by my ſide attentive ſate,
My Poll and my partner Joe.
[228]
At laſt it pleas'd his majeſty
To give peace to the nation,
And honeſt hearts,
From foreign parts,
Came home for conſolation:
Like lightning—for I felt new life,
Now ſafe from all alarms—
I ruſh'd, and found my friend and wife
Lock'd in each others arms!
Yet fancy not
I bore my lot
Tame, like a lubder:—No,
For ſeeing I was finely trick'd,
Plump to the devil I fairly kick'd
My Poll and my partner Joe.
BALLAD.
COTCHELIN ſat all alone,
Devil a ſoul beſide her,
While from Taddy, who was gone,
Oceans did divide her;
His pipes, which ſhe'd been uſed to hear,
Careleſs left behind him,
She thought ſhe'd try, her woes to cheer,
Till once again ſhe'd fine him.
[229]
'Twill not do, you loodle loo,
Arrah now be aeſy,
Tad was born with grief to make
Cotchelin run crazy.
II.
She takes them up and lays them down,
And now her boſom's panting;
And now ſhe'd ſigh, and now ſhe'd frown,
Caze why? dere's ſomething wanting:
And now ſhe plays the pipes again,
The pipes of her dear Taddy,
And makes them tune his favourite ſtrain,
Arrah be aeſy Paddy:
Ah 'twill not do, you loodle loo,
Arrah now be aeſy,
Tad was born with grief to make
Cotchelin run crazy.
III.
Taddy from behind a buſh,
Where he'd long been liſtening,
Now like light'ning forth did ruſh,
His eyes with pleaſure gliſtening:
Snatching up the pipes, he play'd,
Pouring out his pleaſure,
[230] While half delighted, half afraid,
Pat the time did meaſure:
Ah well will do this loodle loo,
Arrah now be aeſy,
Tad was born with joy to make
Cotchelin run crazy.
BALLAD.
IN THE ODDITIES.
HERE, a ſheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The carling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempeſt howling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manlieſt beauty,
His heart was kind and ſoft,
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.
II.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were ſo rare,
[231] His friends were many, and true hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd ſing ſo blithe and jolly,
Ah many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
III.
Yet ſhall poor Tom find pleaſant weather,
When he who all commands
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus death, who kings and tars deſpatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd;
For, though his body's under hatches,
His ſoul is gone aloft.
THE END.
Appendix A INDEX.
[]A
- AND did you not hear of a jolly young waterman? Page. 5
- A kernel from an apple's core, 26
- A plague take all ſuch grumbling elves, 37
- Ah men what ſilly things you are, 66
- At a jovial meeting of gods, 72
- A bed of moſs, 80
- A ſailor's love is void of art, 106
- As Dermot toil'd one ſummer's day, 108
- A Tinker I am, 134
- Art one of thoſe mad wags, 136
- A novice in love, 138
- At firſt, like an infant, 168
- Alas! where ſhall I comfort ſind? 191
- All the World's a Maſquerade. 209
B
- Blow high, Blow low. 11
- Brother ſoldiers, why caſt down? 39
- By love and fortune guided, 62
- Bright Gems. 67
- By rogu'ry, 'tis true, 88
- Bonny Kitty. 127
- Behold the fairies jocund band! 130
- Bachelor's Hall. 183
- [ii]Bonny Kate. Page 194
- Ben Backſtay. 198
- Black and White. 217
C
- Come all ye gem'men volunteers, 18
- Come, every man now give his toaſt. 19
- Can of Grog. 47
- Come here ye rich. 52
- Curtis was old Hodge's wife, 58
- Come, courage lads, and drink away. 81
- Chairs to mend. 133
- Come round me and weep, 175
- Crown me Bacchus, 203
- Colin and Chloe. 220
- Cotchelin ſat all alone. 228
D
- Did fortune bid me chuſe a ſtate, 75
- Dear Yanko ſay, 211
E
- Excuſe me, pray ye do, dear neighbour, 32
F
- For dainties, I've had of them all, 90
- Fait honey in Ireland 118
G
- Gratitude. 214
H
- Hunting ſong in Poor Vulcan. Page 16
- Here's all her geer, 29
- How kind and how good of his dear majeſty, 54
- Here ſleeps in peace, 68
- Here I was my good maſters, 73
- Homer and I. 164
- Here lies a philoſopher, 181
- How much I love thee girl would'ſt know? 192
I—J
- I ſaw what ſeem'd a harmleſs child, 1
- Indeed Miſs ſuch ſweethearts as I am 7
- I lock'd up all my treaſure, 24
- I loſt my poor mother, 28
- If deep thy poignard 41
- John and Jean. 42
- If 'tis love to wiſh you near, 50
- In all your dealings take good care 69
- I'll mount the cliffs, 77
- Is't my ſtory you'd know? 91
- Jack Ratlin. 96
- Is it little Tom Thumb that you main? 111
- I don't believe a word on't. 113
- I've made to marches Mars deſcend, 125
- In Paris as in London, 129
- Indian Battle. 163
- Iriſh Drinking Song. 205
- I was, d'ye ſee, a waterman, 226
L
- Let your courage boys be true t' ye, Page 46
- Little Neddy, 196
- Little Ben, 201
M
- Madam, you know my trade is war 21
- My Lord, and pleaſe you, he and I 38
- My tears—alas! I cannot ſpeak 64
- Marriage and Muſic. 190
- Mock Italian Song. 215
N
- Nothing like Grog. 102
- Noſegays I cry, 141
O
- Orra no talk, no ſay fine word, 78
- O think on the time, 83
- Oh he de nos! 92
P
- Parents may fairly thank themſelves, 55
- Poor Orra tink of Yanko dear, 79
- Paſſion is a torrent rude, 80
- Pleaſure the reſult of reflection. 148
- Poor Jack. 153
- Peggy Perkings. 185
- Poor Tom. 230
S
- Sweet ditties would my Patty ſing, Page 107
- Spirits of Diſtreſs, 114
- Say Fanny wilt thou go with me, 139
- Say flutt'ring heart, 169
- Saturday Night at Sea. 187
T
- The Miller's Daughter. 2
- Two youths for my love 4
- Then farewel my trim-built wherry, 6
- 'Twas in a village near Caſtlebury 8
- The world's a ſtrange world, 10
- The little birds as well as you, 12
- The ſignal to engage ſhall be, 13
- That nature is every where the ſame, 15
- There was a jolly ſhepherd lad, 30
- They tell me you liſten to all 34
- 'Tis true that oft in the ſame mead 36
- 'Twas not her eyes, 45
- This life is like a troubled ſea, 56
- The riſing ſun Lyſander found, 63
- The coy Paſtora Damon woo'd 65
- The ſun's a free-maſon, 70
- The ladies' faces now a-days 74
- Thou'ſt heard thoſe old proverbs, 82
- The high-mettled Racer, 99
- The bells of Aberdovey, 101
- This, this my lad's a ſoldier's life, 110
- [vi]The Maid of the Skylight Page 115
- The Muſician's Lamentation 119
- The Siege of Troy 120
- The Return of Ulyſſes 122
- Thou man of firmneſs 128
- The younker who his firſt eſſay 142
- The mellow-ton'd horn, 146
- The Laſſy of my heart, 150
- The Soldier's Grave 151
- The Triumph of Wine 155
- The Sailor's Sheet Anchor, 158
- The Voice of Nature. 159
- The Jolly Fiſherman 161
- The By-ſtander 166
- That girl who fain would chuſe a mate, 170
- The Greenwich Penſioner 171
- The Wily Fox 173
- Tis true the marks of many years 176
- The Portrait 177
- The Flowing Can 179
- The Invitation 182
- Taffy and Griddy, 200
- The Tar for all Weathers 207
- The Lamplighter 212
- The Lady of Ton 224
V
- Venus now no more behold me, 14
- [vii]Vauxhall Watch Page 57
W
- When Serjeant Belſwagger 22
- Women are Will o' th' Wiſps 25
- While the Lads in the Village 27
- When thou ſhalt ſee his boſom 44
- When jealous out of ſeaſon, 61
- When Yanko dear fight far away, 76
- What naughty things we women are, 85
- What a pity 'twill be 86
- When faintly gleams, 93
- Who to my wounds a balm adviſes, 95
- What if my pleaſures fools condemn, 97
- When fairies are lighted, 98
- What argufies pride and ambition? 104
- We on the preſent hour relying, 124
- When in order drawn up, 137
- Wives and Sweethearts 143
- What thof I be a country clown, 222
Y
- Young, and void of art or guile, 33
- Yo Yea, 48
- Yet though I've no fortune to offer, 51
- Young Paris was bleſt 60
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4686 A collection of songs selected from the works of Mr Dibdin pt 1. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-57AA-3