Edwin's pills to purge melancholy: containing all the songs sung by Mr. Edwin, ... since his first appearance in London; ... With a humourous account of Mrs. Siddons's first reception in Dublin; and a portrait of Mr. Edwin ...

Table of contents

- [frontispiece]

- EDWIN's PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY: CONTAINING ALL THE SONGS SUNG BY Mr. EDWIN, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, SINCE HIS FIRST APPEARANCE IN LONDON; And many DUETS that Mr. EDWIN has a Part in. WITH AN HUMOUROUS ACCOUNT OF Mrs. SIDDONS'S first Reception in Dublin; AND A PORTRAIT OF Mr. EDWIN FINELY EXECUTED.

- ACCOUNT of Mrs. SIDDONS's first Reception in DUBLIN.

- SONG. Jemmy Jumps, in the FARMER.

- SONG. From the same:

- SONG. DARBY, in the Poor Soldier.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. Motley, in the Dead Alive.

- SONG. From the same. (BEGGAR'S OPERA.)

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. Bowkitt, in the Son-in-Law.

- SONG. Lingo, in the Agreeable Surprise.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. DARBY, in Love in a Camp.

- SONG. La Bruce, in RICHARD COEUR DE LION.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. PEDRILLO, in the Castle of Andalusia.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. Tom, in Peeping Tom.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. ETIQUETTE, in Summer Amusement.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. TRUDGE in Inkle and Yarico.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. 'SQUIRE TALLY-HO, in Fontainbleau.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. GREGORY, or TIPPOO, in Love and War.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. PRESTO, in Turk and no Turk.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. In the Choleric Fathers.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. In the PERUVIAN.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. In HARLEQUIN TEAGUE.

- SONG in OMAI. JACK BLOCK

- SONG. In the Choice of Harlequin.

- SONG. RUTTEKIN, in Robin Hood.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG From the same.

- SONG. Four and Twenty Fidlers. A Comic Medley.

- SONG.

- SONG. Sung at the ANACREONTIC SOCIETY.

- SONG. Sung at the ANACREONTIC SOCIETY.

- SONG.

- SONG, In the Pantomime of the Mirror.

- SONG.

- SONG.

- SONG. DICKY DITTO, in Two to One. TUNE—Yankee Doodle.

- SONG. LAZARILLO, in the Spanish Barber.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. RUTTEKIN, in Robin Hood.

- SONG. CRICOLO, in the Siege of Curzola.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. TIPPLE, in the Flitch of Bacon.

- TRIO. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- [song]

- SONG. SIR SHENKIN AP GRIFFIN, in Fontainbleau.

- DUET.

- TRIO.—In Peeping Tom.

- TRIO. From the same.

- SONG. In the Pantomime of OMAI.

- SONG. In the Poor Soldier.

- SONG. SHAKLEFIGURE, in the Lady of the Manor.

- SONG. In Midas.

- SONG. From the same.

- TRIO. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. THE COMMERCIAL BLESSING. SUNG AT THE ANACREONTIC SOCIETY.

- SONG. GRIZZLE, in Tom Thumb.

- SONG. From the same.

- SONG. From the same.

- CATALOGUE of Books, Pamphlets, and Prints, to be had at Holland's MUSEUM OF GENIUS, No. 50, Oxford-street, near Berner's-street, re moved from No. 66, Drury-Lane.

EDWIN'S PILLS, &c.

FINIS

Engraved for Edwin's Pills to Purge Melancholy

From Riders profile Likeness

Mr. Edwin COMEDIAN.

〈…〉 removed from 〈◊〉 Drury Lane.

EDWIN's PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY: CONTAINING ALL THE SONGS SUNG BY Mr. EDWIN, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, SINCE HIS FIRST APPEARANCE IN LONDON; And many DUETS that Mr. EDWIN has a Part in. WITH AN HUMOUROUS ACCOUNT OF Mrs. SIDDONS'S first Reception in Dublin; AND A PORTRAIT OF Mr. EDWIN FINELY EXECUTED.

The SECOND EDITION, with Considerable ADDITIONS.

The sportive Muse is my Physician,

To cure the Folly, and the Madness,

Of Pride, of Envy, and Ambition,

Of Spleen; and melancholy Sadness.

Soon as I touch the jocund Lyre,

That Instant, driven from their Seat,

The Daemons of the Mind retire,

And go and persecute the Great.

Crazy Tales

LONDON: PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM HOLLAND, NO. 50, OXFORD-STREET, NEAR BERNER'S-STREET, REMOVED FROM NO. 66, DRURY-LANE. 1788.

ACCOUNT of Mrs. SIDDONS's first Reception in DUBLIN.

[*] ON Saturday Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the World has been talking, exposed her beautiful, adamantine, soft, and lovely Person for the first time at the Theatre Royal, Smock-Alley, in the bewitching, melting and all-tearful Character of Isabella. From the repeated panegyrics in the impartial London News-papers, we were taught to expect the sight of an heavenly Angel, but how were we supernaturally surprised into the most awful 〈◊〉 at beholding a mortal Goddess!

The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary Phaenomenon of Tragic excellence! this Star of Melpomene! this Comet of the Stage! this Sun of the firmament of the Muses! this Moon of blank verse! this Queen and Princess of tears! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this Empress Rusty Fusty of the pistol and dagger! this Chao of Shakespeare! this World of weeping clouds! this Juno of commanding aspect! this Terpsichore of the curtain and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of wonders, exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the powers of description! She was Nature itself!—She was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tube-rose, sweet-briar, surze-blossom, gilliflower, wall-flower, cauliflower, auricula, and rosemary; in short, she was the Bouquet of Parnassus!

Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance— but it was the audience who were injured. Several fainted even before the curtain drew up!—but when she came to the scene of parting with her. wedding-ring, ah! what a sight was there! The very sidiers in the Orchestra, albeit, unused to melting mood, blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choaked the finger stops, and making a spout of the instrument, poured in such a torrent on the first fidler's book, that not seeing the Overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat.

But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of the corks drawn from the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistake between the flats and the sharps being discovered.

One hundred and nine ladies fainted! forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The world will scarcely credit 〈…〉 when they are told that fourteen children, five old women, a one-handed sailor, and six common-council men, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, lattices, and boxes, to encrease the briny pond in the pit. The water was three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches, were in that position up to their ankles in tears!

An Act of Parliament against her playing any more will certainly pass, for she has infected all the Volunteers, and they sit reading the Fatal Marriage, crying and roaring the whole morning, at the expectation of seeing this Giant's Causeway, this Salmon Leap of wonders at night! An address has been presented to the good Earl of Charlemont by the principal Volunteers, and backed by Doctor Quin and the Faculty of Dublin, praying him to stay at home the evening of her appearance, else they are convinced she'll tear his infirm frame in pieces with her terrific screams, when she's dragged from the corpse of Biron, and they'll lose the greatest General that ever headed an army. Nature, must assuredly, in one of her bountiful moments, in one of her charitable and humane leisure hours, in one of her smiling days, in one of her happy weeping months, and in one of her all-sorrowing gladsome years, made this human lump of clayey perfection!

Oh! happy Hibernia, blessed Ierne, sanctified land of Saints, what a hearse load, what a coffin full, what a church-yard tree of the brightest excellence of excellencies now stands on the turf of thy fruitful earth!

From Cork, from Kilarney, from Galway, from Ballinasloe, from Eyrecourt, from the East, from the West, from the North, from the South, from Island Bridge, from Lazor's-Hill, from the banks of the Canal to the New Road, at the back of Drumcondra, shall millions come to Smock-Alley, to see this astonishing woman!

The streets round the Theatre shall be crowded, and the very Gabbards that carry coals to Island Bridge shall stop at the Blind-Quay, and land their unpolished Watermen to spend thirteen-pence for a seat in the upper gallery when Isabella is performed!

O thou universal Genius, what pity it is that thy talents are so confined to Tragedy alone! No age— nay, the Roman Theatre, the Stage at Constantinople—Nero himself never performed the scene of madness, of grief, of joy, of woe, of distress, of sorrow, and of pity, so well as Mrs. Siddons!

May the curses of an insulted nation pursue the gentlemen of the College, the gentlemen of the Bar, and the Peers and Peeresses, whose wisdom and discernment have been so highly extolled, that hissed her on the second night. True it is, Mr. Garrick never could make any thing of her, and pronounced her below mediocrity—true it is, the London audience once did not like her; but what of that? Rise up bright Goddess of the Sock and Buskin, and soar to unknown Regions of immortal Praise, for

"Envy will merit as its shade pursue."

Notes

*
When this whimsical Account first appeared in Dublin, the Lady's friends were outrageous against the Author. The Humourist kept himself snug while a number of Literary Irishmen in London and Dublin were claiming the praise due to him, which indeed they have continued to do to this hour, though the pleasant fugitive is now well known to be the offspring of the facetious
〈…〉
.

↵

SONG.
Jemmy Jumps, in the FARMER.

LOOK'E, dear Ma'am, I'm quite the thing,

Nattibus hey ! tippity ho!

In my shoe I wear a string,

Tied in a black bow, so.

Cards and dice! I've monst'rous luck;

I'm no drake, yet keep a duck,

Tho'not married, yet I'm a buck,

Lantherum swash, kee-vi,

I've a purse well stock'd with—brass,

Chinkity hey! tinkity ho!

I've good eyes, but cock my glass,

Stare about, squintum ho!

In two boots I boldly—walk,

Pistol, sword, I never balk,

Meet my a man, and bravely—talk,

Pippity pop, coupee.

Sometimes mount a smart cockade,

Puppydum hey, struttledum, ho!

From High-Park to the Parade,

Cock my cary kee,

As I pass a sentry-box,

Soldiers rest their bright firelocks,

Each about his musquet knocks,

Rattledum slap, to me!

In the Mall, Ma'am gives her card,

Cashedy me, kissady she!

Sit before the stable-yard,

Leg-orum lounge a-row;

Pretty things I softly say

When I'm ask'd our chairs to pay,

Yes, says I, and walk—away

Pennybus tartum, ho!

At Boulogne I liv'd a week,

Frickasee hey! trickasee ho!

There fine French I learnt to squeak,

Grinnybuss skiptum, ho!

Slap French clack about, hauteur,

Nevetle chef daeuvre, bon douceur,

En bon point, quel tout mon caeur

Fiddledee foll, hee hee!

Rotten row, my Sunday-ride,

Trottledum hey, tumble off, ho!

Poney, eighteen-pence a side,

Windgall, glanderum, ho!

Cricket I fam'd Lumpey nick,

Daddles, smouch Mendoza lick:

Up to, ah! I'm just the kick,

Allemande cap'rum toe!

SONG.
From the same:

GAD-A-MERCY! devil's in me,

All the damsels wish to win me;

Like a may-pole round me clutter,

Hanging garlands—fuss and flutter!

Lilting, cap'ring, grinning, smirking,

Pouting, bobbing, winking, jerking;

Kates and Bettys,

Polls and Letties,

All were doating, gentle creatures,

On these features.—

To their aprons all would pin me,

Gad-a-mercy! Devil's in me,

All the damsels wish to win me:

Pretty damsels, ugly damsels;

Black-hair'd damsels, red-hair'd damsels;

Six feet damsels, three feet damsels;

Pale-fac'd damsels, plump-fac'd damsels;

Small-leg'd damsels, thick-leg'd damsels:

Pretty, ugly, black-hair'd, red-hair'd, six feet, three feet,

Pale-fac'd, plump-fac'd, small-leg'd, thick-leg'd, dainty dowdy:

All run after me, Sir, me;

For when pretty fellows, we,

Pretty maids are frank and free.

For their stays taking measure

Of the ladies, Oh the pleasure!

Oh, such tempting looks they gi'me!

Wishing of my heart to nim me;

Pat and cry, you devil, Jemmy.

Pretty ladies, ugly ladies, &c.

SONG.
DARBY, in the Poor Soldier.

DEAR Kathleen, you, no doubt,

Find sleep how very sweet 'tis;

Dogs bark, and cocks have crow'd out,

You never dream how late 'tis.

This morning gay,

I post away,

To have with you a bit of play,

On two legs rid

Along to bid

Good-morrow to your nightcap.

Last night a little bowsy

With whiskey, ale, and cyder,

I ask'd young Betty Blowzy

To let me sit beside her.

Her anger rose

As sour as sloes,

The little gipsy cock'd her nose;

Yet here I've rid

Along to bid

Good-morrow to your nightcap.

SONG.
From the same.

SINCE Kathleen has prov'd so untrue,

Poor Darby, ah, what can you do?

No longer I'll stay here a clown,

But sell off and gallop to town:

I'll dress, and I'll strut with an air,

The barber shall frizzle my hair.

In town I shall cut a great dash;

But how for to compass the cash!

At gaming, perhaps, I may win;

With cards I can take the flats in;

Or trundle false dice, and they're nick'd;

If found out, I shall only be kick'd.

But first to get a great name,

A duel establish my fame,

To my man then a challenge I'll write;

But first I'll be sure he won't fight,

We'll swear not to part 'till we fall,

Then shoot with our powder, and the devil a ball.

SONG.
Motley, in the Dead Alive.

AN actor's a comical dog!

Now frisky, now dull as a log;

So changeable all,

Now short, and now tall,

Now plump, then as slim as a frog.

Now Paddy the brogue he puts on,

Then struts with the pride of a Don,

Now a French oui Monsieur,

Then a Dutch yaw Mynheer,

Or bra' Donald the head of his Clan.

How rarely they take in the town,

From one shilling up to a crown!

They pant, and they cry,

Fight, tumble, and die!

But laugh when the curtain is down.

SONG.
From the same. (BEGGAR'S OPERA.)

OH ponder well! be not severe!

Nor beat me like a drum!

A stick that makes that speak, I fear,

Would make po—o—r Motley dumb.

SONG.
From the same.

AIR.—Cold and Rainy is the Weather.

SEE a nymph so brisk and witty,

Nimbly tripping thro' the Park,

Throwing round her eyes so pretty,

And ogling every powder'd spark;

She'll leer and gaze with fond delight,

Invite you home, and kiss you too;

Sigh, kneel and swear, my angel bright,

Without your cash, your kissing won't do!

With a long purse ever go to your love,

Chink it, chink it, there, O there!

When you twinkum twankum, tol derol lol derol,

Ha! ha! ha! she'll love you dear.

Who'd refuse a lad of my inches,

So sprightly, sightly, neat, compleat?

But wag-tails lur'd are by gold-finches,

Tho' eyes may roll, and pulses beat.

They'll leer and gaze with fond delight,

You tip 'em an ogle, they ogle too!

My Dove, my Duck, my Angel bright,

Without your cash, your kissing won't do!

With a long purse ever go to your love,

Chink it, chink it, there, O there!

When you twinkum twankum, tol derol lol derol,

Ha! ha! ha! then she'll love you dear.

SONG.
From the same.

THE world is all nonsense and noise,

Fantoccini, or Ombres Chinoises,

Mere Pantomime mummery,

Puppet-shew flummery,

A magical lanthorn confounding the sight;

Like players, or puppets, we move,

On the wires of ambition and love,

Poets write wittily,

Maidens look prettily,

'Till Death drops the curtain—all's over—good night!

SONG.
Bowkitt, in the Son-in-Law.

WITH an air,

Debonair,

I instract the Ladies;

Charming, sweet, and pretty,

Lovely, fair, and witty,

Susan, Jane, or Kitty,

I contrive to hit ye:

Come away,

All ye gay,

For the dance my trade is;

Charming, sweet, and pretty,

Lovely, fair, and witty,

Pr'ythee come away!

See, see, see!

The dancers are met;

What an elegant set;

While in country dance,

Or cotillion they prance,

I regulate their pace.

Ye youths, would you the secret know,

Why I'm carest where'er I go,

With Kitt in hand I draw my bow,

I squeeze the hand and point the toe,

And slide into their grace.

SONG.
Lingo, in the Agreeable Surprise.

SUCH beauties in view, I

Can never praise too high;

Not Pallas's blue eye

Is brighter than thine.

Not fount of Susannah,

Nor gold of fair Dana,

Nor moon of Diana,

So clearly can shine!

Not beard of Silenus,

Nor tresses of Venus.

I swear by Quae Genus!

With your's can compare;

Not Hermes' Caduces,

Nor flower-de-luces,

Nor all the Nine Muses,

To me is so fair.

CHORUS.

What posies,

And roses,

To noses

Discloses

Your breath all so sweet!

To the tip

Of your lip,

As they trip,

The bees dip,

Honey sip,

Like choice flip,

And their hybla forget.

When girls like you pass us,

I saddle Pegassus,

And ride up Parnassus,

To Helicon's stream:

Even that is a puddle,

Where others may muddle;

My nose let me fuddle

In bowls of your cream;

Old Jove, the great Hector,

May tipple his Nectar,

Of Gods the director,

And thunder above:

I'd quaff off a full can

As Bacchus or Vulcan,

Or Jove the old bull can,

To her that I love.

Chorus

—What posies, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

AIR.—The MOUSE and the FROG.

AMO amas,

I love a lass,

As a cedar tall and slender;

Sweet Cowslips grace

Is her nom'tive case,

And she's of the feminine gender.

CHORUS.

Rorum corum,

Sunt divorum,

Harum scarum

Divo!

Tag, rag, merry derry, perriwig and hatband,

Hic, hoc, horum genitivo!

Can I decline

A nymph divine?

Her voice as a flute is dulcis,

Her oculis bright,

Her manus white,

And soft, when I tacto, her pulse is.

CHORUS. Rorum, corum, &c.

Oh how bella

My puella!

I'll kiss secula seculorum:

If I've luck, Sir,

She's my uxor,

O dies benedictorum!

CHORUS.

Rorum, corum,

Sunt divorum,

Harum scarum

Divo!

Tag, rag, merry derry, perriwig and hatband,

Hic, hoc, horum genitivo!

SONG.
From the same.

OF all the pretty flowers,

A Cowslip's my delight:

With that I'd pass my hours,

Both morning, noon and night,

To be sure I would, &c.

This Cowslip smell'd so sweetly,

And look'd so fresh and gay,

Says I, you're dress'd so neatly,

We'll have a little play.

To be sure we will, &c.

One evening in the dairy,

'Twas lying on the shelf,

I kiss'd the pretty fairy,

And then lay down myself.

To be sure I did, &c.

This flower one morning early

Upon a bed did rest;

I lov'd to pull it dearly,

And stick it in my breast.

To be sure I could, &c.

SONG.
DARBY, in Love in a Camp.

I'LL sing you a song; faith, I'm singing it now here;

I don't mean t'front either small or big bow-wow here.

The subject I've chosen, it is the canine race,

To prove like us, two-legg'd dogs, they're a very fine race.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la.

Like you and I, other dogs may be counted sad dogs;

As we won't drink water, some might think us mad dogs;

A courtier is a spaniel, a citizen's a dull dog,

A soldier is a mastiff, a sailor's a bull-dow.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la:

When silly dogs for property, uncle, son, and brother,

Grin and snarl mighty gruff, and worry one another;

Should they a bit of equity from Justice beg a loan of,

That cunning dog, the lawyer Snap, carries quick the bone off.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la.

An old maid comes from church, to the poor no lady kinder;

A lusty dog her footman, with prayer-book behind her;

A poor boy asks a farthing, and gets plenty of good kicking,

But little Shock, her lap-dog, must have a roasted chicken.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la.

A Poet's a lank grey-hound, for the public he runs game down,

A Critic is a cur that strives to runs his fame down;

And though he cannot follow where the noble sport invites him,

He slily steals behind, and by the heels he bites him.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la.

You've a choice pack of friends, while to feed 'em you are able,

Your dog for his morsel crouches under your table,

Your friends turn tail in misfortune or disaster,

But your poor faithful dog will ne'er forsake his master.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la.

As your friends turn tail the moment that you need 'em,

My dog ran away when no longer I cou'd feed him,

This cur, so ungrateful, forsook me on my journey,

And for a mouldy crust went back to the attorney.

Bow, wow, wow,

Fal, lal, la.

SONG.
La Bruce, in RICHARD COEUR DE LION.

I HAD a wife of my own,

Still with her tongue she chatter'd on;

Never could let me alone,

Clamper'd, scolded, and clatter'd on:

Blockhead, ass, cuckold, and drone,

With these soft words she flatter'd on;

Not in my body a bone,

But with her knuckles she batter'd on!

Kept me quite under her thumb,

Tost my hat and wig about,

If I said ought but mum;

Twirl'd me like a gigg about;

Making my body a drum,

Trivally beating and jigg about,

I was oblig'd to go glum,

Like an old grunting pig about.

SONG.
From the same.

LET the Sultan's wanton care,

Thousands of the sex prepare,

Gentle, frisking, pretty lasses,

Young and handsome as the graces;

Let him kiss them one and all,

What then, what then?

This concerns not me at all.

For like ev'ry thirsty soul,

I prefer the flowing bowl.

Let the noble Duke or Peer,

Sell his thousand pounds a year,

Let him quit his grass and stubble,

He'll soon find that life's a bubble;

Let him rise, or let him fall,

What then, &c.

Let the valiant soldier go,

Seeking dangers to and fro;

Let him when the trumpets rattle,

Brave the foremost of the battle,

Honour fears nor sword nor ball,

What then, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

WHEN Nich'las first to court began,

And Blanch approv'd his love;

United time and pleasure ran,

Like Turtles in the grove:

In joy and sweet delight,

They pass'd each day and night.

Chorus. — When Nich'las first to court began,

And Blanch approv'd his love;

Happy and gay,

Smiling as May,

Jocund they pass'd each day and night.

When children bless'd the loving pair,

Kind heaven increas'd their store;

Their boys were brave, their girls were fair,

And each a portion bore

Of rural industry,

With dance, and song, and glee.

Chorus. — When children bless'd, &c.

Tho' age their heads with silver crown'd,

Affection did increase;

Dissension ne'er their hearts cou'd wound,

Nor jealousy their peace:

And still remembrance sweet,

Their placid minds would greet.

Chorus. — Tho' age their heads, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

LORD! Lord! without victuals and drink,

We poets must give up each strain;

It helps us poor devils to think,

And thrash with more vigour our brain.

Without victuals and drink — Lord, the world were undone,

'Tis the soul of the world — 'tis the sine qua non.

The soldier 'midst battles alarms,

Without it could ill face his foe,

So faint would he handle his arms,

And draw with such weakness his bow.

Without victuals, &c.

What would ladies and gentlemen do,

That say such fine things to each other;

They would never be able to coo,

They would never be father and mother.

Without victuals, &c.

Then hey for good victuals and drink,

Who's there that would not carouse:

Whoever he may be, I think

He's not to be found in this house.

Without victuals, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

YE topers all, drink to the soul,

Of this right honest fellow;

Who always lov'd a flowing bowl,

And would in death be mellow.

The lamp of life he kindled up,

With spirit stout and glowing;

His heart inspired thus with a cup,

Ascends where nectar's flowing.

SONG.
From the same.

WHEN we plough the furrow'd land,

Two by two the oxen stand,

All are coupled two by two.

In the meads and verdant groves,

See the am'rous turtle doves,

How they bill, and how they coo,

As they couple two by two.

With the single lad and lass,

How the dismal moments pass,

'Till they're coupled two by two:

But when each has pledg'd a vow,

Lads and lasses speed the plough,

When they're coupled two by two.

SONG.
PEDRILLO, in the Castle of Andalusia.

A Master I have, and I am his man,

Galloping dreary dun,

And he'll get a wife as fast as he can,

With a haily

Gaily,

Gambo raily,

Giggling,

Niggling,

Galloping, galloway, draggle-tail dreary dun.

I saddled his steed so fine and so gay,

Galloping dreary dun,

I mounted my mule, and we rode away,

With our haily, &c.

We canter'd along until it grew dark,

Galloping dreary dun;

The nightingale sung instead of the lark,

With her haily, &c.

We met with a Friar and ask'd him our way,

Galloping dreary dun;

By the Lord, says the Friar, you're both gone astray,

With your haily, &c.

Our journey, I fear, will do us no good,

Galloping dreary dun;

We wander alone like the babes in the wood,

With our haily, &c.

My master is fighting, and I'll take a peep,

Galloping dreary dun;

But now I think better, I'd better go sleep,

With my haily,

Gaily,

Gambo raily,

Niggling,

Giggling,

Galloping, Galloway, draggle-tail, dreary dun.

SONG.
From the same.

A Soldier I am for a lady,

What beau was arm'd compleater?

When face to face,

Her chamber the place,

I'm able and willing to meet her.

Gad's curse, my dear lasses, I'm ready

To give you all satisfaction;

I am the man

For the crack of your fan,

Tho' I die at your feet in the action.

Your bobbins may beat up a row-dow-dow,

Your lap-dog may out with his bow-wow-wow,

The challenge in love,

I take up the glove,

Tho' I die at your feet in the action.

SONG.
Tom, in Peeping Tom.

EGAD we had a glorious feast,

So good in kind, so nicely drest!

Our liquor too was of the best —

I'll tell ye.

One leg of mutton, two fat geese,

With beans and bacon, ducks and pease,

In short, we'd ev'ry thing could please

The belly.

The clock struck twelve in merry chime,

The Priest said grace in Saxon rhyme;

Says I to him, here is no time

For playing.

The room was full when I came in,

But soon I napkin'd up my chin;

With knife and fork I now begin

To lay in.

Our Curate, who at such a rate

Of dues and tythe-pigs us'd to prate,

In silence sat behind his plate,

A peeping.

Most Churchman-like, the Vicar too,

A shepherd to his flock below,

Like any wolf, good mutton now

Was deep in.

We nodded health, for no one spoke;

The cloth roll'd off, we crack'd a joke,

And drink the King, and sing, and smoke

Tobacco.

Our reckoning out, we call a whip;

I steal my hat, and home I trip,

My pretty Maud, your velvet lip

To smacko,

SONG.
From the same.

AIR.—Kisses and Brandy.

WHEN I was a younker, and liv'd with my dad,

The neighbours all thought me a smart little lad;

My mammy she call'd me a white-headed boy,

Because with the girls I lik'd to toy,

There was Ciss,

Priss,

Letty and Betty,

And Doll;

With Meg,

Peg,

Jenny and Winney,

And Moll.

I slatter

Their clatter,

So sprightly and gay;

I rumble 'em,

Tumble 'em—

That's my way.

One fine, frosty morning, a going to school,

Young Moggy I met, and she call'd me a fool:

Her mouth was my primer; a lesson I took;

I swore it was pretty, and kissed the book.

But School,

Fool,

Primer,

Trimmer,

And birch,

And boys for the girls I leave in the lurch,

I flatter, &c.

It's very well known I can dance a good jig,

And at cudgels from Robin I won a fat pig;

I can wrestle a fall, and the bar I can fling;

And when o'er a flaggon, can sweetly sing:

But Pig,

Jig,

Wicket,

And Cricket,

And ball,

I'd give up the wrestle with Moggy a fall.

I flatter, &c.

SONG.
ETIQUETTE, in Summer Amusement.

WITHOUT a man to take the lead,

What could a lady do?

No walk in life wou'd e'er succeed,

No step could e'er be true:

We point the dance that might perplex,

Look, bright,

Invite,

Excite

Delight,

And comfort all the sex.

We ne'er, like some folks in the land.

Permit our friends to drop,

But take them gently by the hand,

And lead them to the top.

We posts and places find for all,

Now here,

Now there,

Now e'er-

Y where,

And still keep up the ball.

SONG.
From the same.

NEATEST of pretty feet, for dancing intended,

Accept of a partner who always was commended,

Slighting the finest dress, attentive to merit,

He likes only those that can jig about with spirit.

Take me, Madam,

I so glad am,

That I'll cut a caper!

Stand first couple,

Make no scruple,

Strike up there, gut-scraper.

Turn about, turn about, that's right, depend on't,

Hands a-cross, back again, and now there's an end on't.

If it still should be thought that we should encore it,

Permit me to offer you lemonade before it;

Negus will make you hot, and wine is unsteady,

Your fan now will cool us both, speak when you're ready.

Take me, Madam, &c.

SONG.
TRUDGE in Inkle and Yarico.

AIR.—Last Valentine's Day.

A Voyage over seas had not enter'd my head,

Had I known but on which side to butter my bread.

Heigho! sure I—for hunger must die!

I've sail'd like a booby; come here in a squall,

Where, alas! there's no bread to be butter'd at all!

Oho! I'm a terrible booby!

Oh, what a sad booby am I!

In London what gay chop-house signs in the street!

But the only sign here is of nothing to eat,

Heigho! that I—for hunger shou'd die!

My mutton's all lost, I'm a poor starving elf,

And for all the world like a lost mutton myself;

Oho! I shall die a lost mutton!

Oh, what a lost mutton am I!

For a neat slice of beef, I cou'd roar like a bull,

And my stomach's so empty, my heart is quite full.

Heigho! that I—for hunger should die!

But, grave without meat, I must here meet my grave,

For my bacon, I fancy, I. never shall save;

Oho! I shall ne'er save my bacon!

I can't save my bacon, not I!

SONG.
From the same.

CHRISTIANS are so good, they say,

Tender souls as e'er can be!

Let them credit it who may;

What they're made of let, us see.

Christian drovers, charming trade!

Who so careful cattle drive;

And the tender Christian maid,

Sweetly skinning eels alive.

Tender tonish dames, who take

Whip in hand, and drive like males;

Have their ponies nick'd—to make

The pretty creatures cock their tails.

Christian boys will shy at cocks,

Worry dogs, hunt cats, kill flies;

Christian Lords will learn to box,

And give their noble friends black eyes.

SONG.
From the same.

A Clerk I was in London gay,

Jemmy linkum feedle,

And went in boots to see the play,

Merry fiddlem tweedle.

I march'd the lobby, twirl'd my stick,

Diddle, daddle, deedle;

The girls all cry'd," He's quite the kick!"

O Jemmy linkum feedle.

Hey, for America I sail,

Yankee doodle deedle;

The sailor boys cry'd, "smoak his tail!"

Jemmy linkum feedle.

On English belles I turn'd my back,

Diddle, daddle, deedle,

And got a foreign Fair, quite Black,

Oh twaddle, twaddle, tweedle!

Your London girls, with roguish trip,

Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle,

Boast their pouting under-lip,

Fiddle, faddle, feedle,

My Wows would beat a hundred such,

Diddle, daddle, deedle,

Whose under-lip pouts twice as much,

Oh pretty double wheedle!

Rings I'll buy to deck her toes,

Jemmy linkum feedle;

A feather fine shall grace her nose,

Waving sidle seedle,

With jealousy I ne'er shall burst,

Who'd steal my bone of bone-a?

A white Othello, I can trust

A dingy Desdemona.

SONG.
'SQUIRE TALLY-HO, in Fontainbleau.

I'M your's at any sort o' fun,

My, buck I tell you so;

A main to fight, a nag to run,

But say the word, 'tis done and done!

All's one to Tally-ho.

Upon a single card I'll set

A thousand pounds or so;

But name the thing, I'll bind the bett,

And if I lose, I'll scorn to fret—

All's one to Tally-ho.

Suppose you challenge in a glass,

Sweet Doll, my pretty doe!

And think youtr love could mine surpass,

I'd swallow hogsheads for my lass—

All's one to Tally-ho.

SONG.
From the same.

AIR.— Tally-ho.

IN London my life is a ring of delight,

In frolicks I keep up the day and the night;

I snooze at the Hummums till twelve, perhaps later,

I rattle the bell, and I roar up the waiter:

Your honour, says he, and tips me a leg,

He brings me my tea, but I swallow an egg;

For tea in the morning's a slop I renounce,

So I down with a glass of the right cherry bounce.

With swearing, tearing, ranting, jaunting, flashing,

smashing, smacking, cracking, rumbling, tumbling;

Laughing, quaffing, smoking, joking, swaggering, staggering;

So thought less, so knowing, so green, and so mellow;

This, this, is the life of a frolicksome fellow.

My phaet'n I mount, and the plebs they all stare,

I handle my reins, and my elbows I square;

My ponies so plump, and as white as a lily,

Through Pall Mall I spank it, and up Piccadilly;

'Till losing a wheel, egad down come I smack;

So at Knightsbridge I throw myself into a hack;

At Tatterfall's fling a leg over my nag,

Thus visit for dinner, then dress in a bag.

With swearing, &c.

I roll round the garden, and call at the Rose,

And then at both Play-houses pop in my nose;

I lounge in the lobby, laugh, swear, slide and swagger,

Talk loud, take my money, and out again stagger.

I meet at the Shakespeare a good-natur'd soul,

Then down to our club at St. James's I roll;

The joys of the night are a thousand at play,

And thus at the finish begin the next day.

With swearing, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

THE morning we're married, how funny and jolly!

The Bridegroom, my honour; the Bride, LadyDolly!

When rous'd by sweet clamour, we open our peepers,

And Phoebus salute in our night-gowns and slippers;

Then under our windows musicians all come,

Play fiddle, sweet hautboy, sharp flagelet, drum.

But to my Dolly's amorous sing-song,

All is puff, rattle, squeak and ding-dong.

The cymbals they grind, and the basses they grumble,

Pianos and fortes, a delicate jumble.

All joy to your honours! See, see how they slock,

Whilst cleaver and marrowbone go nick-y-knock;

Tantivy the horn, tantara the trumpet,

Sound, found—while we swallow our coffee and crumpet.

But to my Dolly's amorous, &c.

SONG.
GREGORY, or TIPPOO, in Love and War.

KEEP off if you vex a woman,

'Till she gives her passion vent;

In her fury she spares no man,

But her tongue goes click and clack;

Click, clack, clack; and tick, ticke, tack,

'Till her rage in noise is spent.

Women, when the fidgets seize 'em,

Ride one like a founder'd nag:

They are gentle, 'till you teize 'em;

Then their tongue goes, click and clack;

Click, click, clack; and tick, ticke, tack,

'Till it can no longer wag.

[*]SONG.
From the same.

POUNDS, shillings, pence, and farthings,

Have at my finger's end,

And how to sell, and how to buy,

To borrow, or to lend;

But this, tho' I ne'er went to school,

My pate has run upon,

Addition be my golden rule,

Ha! Dot, and carry one.

At loss and gain a scholar good,

Right early was I taught

To gain of guineas all I cou'd,

To lose—the devil a groat:

For fractions and divisions, when

They practise sword and gun,

Subtract myself I will—and then

Ha! Dot, and carry one.

But words no more I'll numerate,

And thus the sum total lies:

Of war no more I'll sing, or prate,

Reduction I'll despise;

And, if cockade and roguish eye

Has not my Susan won,

If she's resolv'd to multiply,

Ha! Dot, and carry one.

Notes

*
This song, (written by Mr.O'KEEFE)was first introduced in the Peruvian.
↵

SONG.
PRESTO, in Turk and no Turk.

I Am worse than poor debtors, coop'd up in their cages:

Board wages I had, now bare boards are my wages.

To get into bad bread sure I had no call, Sir,

But bad bread is better than no bread at all, Sir!

All, Sir,

Small, Sir,

No bread at all, Sir, oh!

Oh had I a wife, tho' half starv'd like your humble,

There's some consolation in something to mumble;

Yet I'm married, tho' single—I tell you no fibs, Sir,

Here, look at my waistcoat—I'm nothing but ribs,

Sir!

Fibs, Sir,

Ribs, Sir,

Nothing but ribs, Sir, oh!

Was ever poor servant in such a disaster!

I'm master'd by starving, and starv'd by my master,

I'm in a sad taking—with nothing to take, Sir!

I'd stake all I'm worth to be worth a beef-steak, Sir!

Take, Sir,

Steak, Sir,

Take a beef-steak, Sir, oh!

SONG.
From the same.

LOOK, maids! I cock my hat!

John's but a poor creature;

Sam's skinny, Bob's fat,

All fools to little Peter!

Ev'ry girl's chin is cocking,

Twig my leg, and tight silk stocking;

A'n't I the clean thing?

Tight boy! little Peter!

Speak, maids! before it's late,

You will find none neater;

Fan, Nan, Patty, Kate,

All come to little Peter!

I'm a lad so neat and natty,

S'bobs, girls, but I'll be at ye!

Oh! I'm the clean thing!

Tight boy! little Peter!

Mind, maids! I'll pick out one;

Phiz plump, and finest feature:

Gad, we'll have rare fun!

Never fear little Peter!

Cold, hot, and all weather,

Jollily we'll jog together,

Zounds! I'm the clean thing;

Tight boy! little Peter!

SONG.
In the Choleric Fathers.

OF ups and downs we daily see

Examples, most surprising,

The High and Low, of each degree,

Now falling are, now rising:

Some up, some down, some in, some out,

Some neither one nor t'other;

Knaves, Fools, Jews, Gentiles, join the rout,

And jostle one another!

With my heigho!

Gee-up! gee-ho!

Higgledy piggledy!

Truth, honour, honesty!

Trim tram!

Your honesty's scarce,

Honour's grown a mere farce,

And poor truth! baw! an obsolete whim-wham!

By ups and downs, some folks, they say,

Among Grandees have got, Sir,

Who were themselves, but yesterday,

The Lord knows, who, or what, Sir!

Sans sense, or pence, in Merit's chair

They dose and dream supine-o!

But how the Devil they came there —

That neither you nor I know.

With my heigho! &c.

Your Country-maid comes up to town,

A simple, aukward body;

In half a year again goes down.

No Peacock half so gaudy!

Lord, ma'am! exclaims the Lawyer's wife,

With scandal ever ready,

You see the ups and downs of life

Have made our Meg a Lady.

With my heigho! &c.

Virtue and Vanity are grown

Mere buckets in a well, Sir;

The last gets up, the first gets down,

As all the World can tell, Sir:

So many downs poor Virtue meets,

Her ups so very few, Sir,

'Tis said she's naked met i' th' streets, —

But that is nothing new, Sir.

With my heigho! &c.

Oh! what an age of ups and downs,

Hey! seven's the main, my Lord thrice knocks,

Lands, Liberties, Manors, and Towns,

Are rattling in the dice-box!

Up fly the Fools! on ruin bent,

While they are full in feather;

Get pluck'd, then rumbling down are sent

Whoop! pell-mell all together.

With my heigho! &c.

SONG.
From the same.

YOUR Mountain, Sack, your Frontiniac,

Tokay, and twenty more, Sir!

Your Sherry, and Perry, which make men merry,

Are Deities I adore, Sir!

And well may Port

Your praise extort,

When from his palace forth he comes!

And glucks and gurgles! fumes and foams!

Old Rum, Arrack, and Coniac,

Are known for men of might, Sir!

Nor shall Sir Flasket Florence lack

A place among my Knights, Sir!

Don Calcavalla

Is a noble fellow!

When from, &c.

Madeira! Monarch! him I sing!

And Old Hock! lo! another!

Champagne is my Most Christian King!

And Burgundy's his Brother!

Bold Bordeaux! too,

Shall have his due!

When from, &c.

If, singly, thus, each Champion may

So many laurels gather,

Gods! what a glorious Congress, they,

When all are met together!

When, high in state

Each Potentate

Forth from, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

A Mercer I am in a very good stile,

Neat and pretty by jingo!

I bow and smirk,

I noddle and jerk,

Then prick up and perk,

And simper and smile;

With my hey dong, ding dong, dingo!

Lord, I am quite the thing!

With my hey dong, ding dong, dingo!

At Bagnigge Wells sometimes I sip tea,

At Islington sup, good stingo;

I shut up my shop,

And out of town pop,

Then dance at a hop;

He! he! he! he! he!

With my hey dong, ding dong, dingo!

A'n't I quite the thing?

With my hey dong, ding dong, dingo!

SONG.
In the PERUVIAN.

THO' the pye of green truffles

Had split my pantoufles,

I ne'er stopt, tho' I well knew the worst:

Yet the pain in my toe

Was a terrible foe

To the pleasure I took in the crust.

For a fit of the gout,

I'd scorn to give out,

Having oft heard the doctors declare,

That when once in the feet,

It is better to eat,

As a sure means of keeping it there:

With damn'd water-gruel,

Your doctors so cruel,

Advise me to keep myself low;

Yet I cannot refrain,

Tho' I'm twing'd with the pain,

So e'en as it comes it must go.

To throb it began ill,

But patience and flannel,

Got through the fatigues of the day;

And while I was able

To sit at the table,

I eat, drank, and swore it away.

Tho' the pye, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

WHEN our Mayor, Lord bless him, whose former delight

Was to make a day's work of being boozy at night,

Is forc'd now e'er noon his full quantum to sip,

Lest any thing fall —'twixt the cup and the lip.

Beware of a tip,

Lest any thing fall, &c.

In a vis-a-vis Bridget surprises the town,

Who lately in pattens could trudge up and down;

But 'twas prudent in her to lay pattens afide;

When she found by experience she's subject to slide.

Oh, fie on her guide!

She found by experience, &c.

Your Patriot; whose feelings are wond'rous nice,

And refuses each place—that is under his price,

Finds his delicate conscience most ready to slip,

When the pensions escape 'twixt the cup and the lip.

Oh, it gives them the slip,

When the pensions escape, &c.

The Youth who has charm'd all the clubs with debate,

And to shine in the Senate spends all his estate,

Soon finds from his speeches no produce will come,

And the first of all speakers turn Orator Mum!

Yes, 'twas all a hum,

For the first of all speakers, &c.

Here am I too, who studied the comforts of life,

Having earn'd a snug farm, would possess a snug wife;

But the loss of my fame all my prospects will nip,

'Twas a trisle that fell 'twixt the cup and the lip.

Oh, beware of a trip!

Such trifles oft fall, &c.

SONG.
In HARLEQUIN TEAGUE.

AIR.—Fal de ral Tit.

'TWAS I learn'd a pretty, song in France,

And I brought it o'er the sea by chance;

And when in Wapping I did dance

Oh! the like was never seen:

For I made the music loud to play,

All for to pass the dull hours away,

And when I had nothing left for to say,

Then I sung fal de ral tit, &c.

As I was walking down Thames-street,

A shipmate of mine I chanc'd for to meet,

And I was resolv'd him for to treat

With a can of grog, gillio!

A can of grog they brought us straight,

All for to pleasure my ship-mate,

And satisfaction give him straight,

Then I sung fal de ral tit, &c.

The Maccaronies next came in,

All dress'd so neat, and look'd so trim,

And thinking for to strike me dumb.

Some was short, and some was tall,

But 'tis very well known that I lick'd them all,

For I dous'd their heads against the wall,

Then I sung fal de ral tit, &c.

The Landlord then aloud did say,

As how he wish'd I'd go away,

And if I 'tempted for to stay,

As how he'd take the law:

Lord d—me, says I, you may do your worst,

For I've not scarcely quench'd my thirst;

All this I said, and nothing worse,

Then I sung fal de ral tit, &c.

It's when I've cross'd the raging main,

And be come back to Old England again,

Of grog I'll drink galore;

With a pretty girl to sit by my side,

And for her costly robes I'll provide,

So that she shall be satisfied,

Then I'll sing fal de ral tit, &c.

SONG in OMAI.
JACK BLOCK

WHEN I came back to bonny Shadwell-dock,

In my feathers and jacket so airy;

How the girls did stare at their friend Jack Block:

With his chip chow,

Cherry chow,

Rolty, ulty, isty▪ row,

Rowdie, olty, O.

When with buxom Poll, at the Anchor so blue,

I call for a bowl of rumbo;

Says she, Jack, your health; says I, here's to you.

With my chip chow, &c.

The purser he looked at me very big,

And to Poll threw his loving palaver;

But the rumbo I sluic'd o'er his white chizzel'd wig.

With my chip chow, &c.

His pipe being broke, oh, d—n it how he stares,

Says he, you must ask my pardon:

Says I, with all my heart, so I kick'd him down

stairs.

With my chip chow, &c.

Then says Poll, oh Jack, treat me to the play,

We're so fine let us go to the boxes;

I like a box, says I, so we tripp'd it away.

With my chip chow, &c.

Oh! there the Jack-a-dandies clapp'd and encor'd,

Wip'd their boots in the ladies aprons;

Silence, says I, and very loudly I roar'd.

With my chip chow, &c.

The link-boy he lighted us clean in the mud,

There he fingered our pockets so neatly;

With, your honour, take care—oh d—n his little

blood, With my chip chow, &c.

Let us drink a health to little England,

To great George and good Queen Charlotte,

May our seamen always the ocean command.

With my chip chow, &c.

SONG.
In the Choice of Harlequin.

YE Scamps, ye Pads, ye Divers, and all upon the lay,

In Tothill-Fields gay sheep-walk, like lambs ye sport and play,

Rattling up your darbies, come hither at my call,

I'm Jigger Dubber here, and you are welcome to Mill-Doll.

With my tow row, &c.

At your Insurance-Office the flats you've taken in;

The game you've play'd, my kiddy, you're always sure to win:

First you touch the shiners—the number up—you break,

With your insuring policy, I'd not insure your neck.

With my tow row, &c.

The French, with trotters nimble, could fly from English blows,

And they've got nimble daddles, as Monsieur plainly shew:

Be thus the foes of Britain bang'd, ay, thump away Monsieur,

The hemp you're beating now, will make your solitaire.

With my tow row, &c.

My peepers, who've we here now! why this is sure Black Moll;

My ma'am, you're of the fair sex, so welcome to Mill-Doll;

The cull with you, who'd venture into a snoozing ken,

Like Blackamoor Othello, should put out the light— and then.

With my tow row, &c.

I think, my flashy coachman, that you'll take better care,

Not for a little bub come the slang upon your fare:

Your jazy pays the garnish, unless the fees you tip,

Tho' you're a flashy coachman, here the gagger holds the whip.

With my tow row, &c.

CHORUS.

We're Scamps, we're Pads, we're Divers, we're all upon the lay,

In Tothill-fields gay sheep-walk, like lambs we sport and play;

Rattling up our darbies, we're hither at your call,

You are Jigger Dubber here, and we're forc'd for to Mill-Doll.

With my tow row, &c.

SONG.
RUTTEKIN, in Robin Hood.

I MEND pottles and cans,

Hoop jugs, patch kettles, and pans,

And over the country trudge it—

I sing without measure,

Nor fear loss of treasure,

And carry my all in my budget.

Here under the green leav'd bushes,

O how we'll firk it,

Caper and jerk it,

Singing as blithe as thrushes.

I'm not plagu'd with a wife,

Live free from contest and strife,

Blow high, blow low—Ruttekin ne'er will mind it.

I eat when I'm hungry,

Drink when I'm dry,

Join pleasure where-ever I find it.

Here under the green-wood bushes,

O how we'll firk it,

Caper and jerk it,

Singing as blithe as thrushes.

SONG.
From the same.

MARGARETTA first poffest,

I remember well, my breast,

With my row, dow, dow, derro;

With my restless heart next play'd

Martha, wanton, floe-ey'd maid,

With her tantarararo.

She to Catherine gave place,

Kate to Betsy's am'rous face,

With my, &c.

Mary then, and gentle Anne,

Both to reign at once began,

With their, &c.

Jenny next—a tyrant she,

But Rebecca set me free,

With my, &c.

In a week from her I fled,

And took Judith iwith myn her stead,

With her, &c.

She possess'd a wond'rous grace,

But she wanted Susan's face,

With my, &c.

Isabella's rolling eye

Eclips'd Susan's presently,

With her, &c.

Brown skinn'd Bess I next obey'd,

Then lov'd Nanny, red hair'd maid,

With her, &c.

None cou'd bind me, I am free,

Yet love all the fair, I see,

With my, &c.

SONG
From the same.

WE'LL seek the bow'r of Robin Hood,

And keep his bridal day,

For cheerfully in blithe 'Sherwood

Brides and bridegrooms play.

Then follow me, my bonny lads,

And we'll the pastimes see,

For the minstrels sing,

And the sweet bells ring,

And they feast right merrily.

The humming beer flows round in pails,

With mead that's stout and old,

And am'rous virgins tell love tales,

To thaw the heart that's cold.

Then follow me, my bonny lads,

And we'll the pastimes see,

For the minstrels sing,

And the sweet bells ring,

And they feast right merrily,

There dancing sprightly on the green,

Each light-foot lad and lass,

Sly stealing kisses, when unseen,

And gingling glass for glass.

Then follow me, my bonny lads,

And we'll the pastimes see,

For the minstrels sing,

And the sweet bells ring,

And they feast right merrily.

SONG.
Four and Twenty Fidlers. A Comic Medley.

FOUR and twenty fidlers all in a row,

Four and twenty fidlers, &c.

There was fiddle faddle fiddle, and double demi-semi

quibble down below;

This is my lady's birth-day,

Therefore we will keep holiday,

And come for to be merry.

Four and twenty drummers all in a row,

Four and twenty drummers, &c.

And there was I rub a dub, O rub a dub,

And fiddle faddle fiddle, &c. &c.

Four and twenty trumpeters all in a row,

Four and twenty trumpeters, &c.

There was tantarararo, I rub a dub, O rub a dub, &c.

Four and twenty coblers all in a row,

Four and twenty coblers, &c.

There was coblers and stop awls, stop awls and coblers,

And tantarararo, I rub a dub, &c.

Four and twenty fencing-masters all in a row,

Four and twenty fencing-masters, &c.

There was push carte and tierce, down with his

heels and cut him across,

Coblers and stop awls, stop awls and coblers, &c.

Four and twenty captains all in a row,

Four and twenty captains, &c.

There was d—n him, kick him down stairs,

Push carte and tierce, &c.

Four and twenty parsons all in a row,

Four and twenty parsons, &c.

There was L—d have mercy upon us,

D—n him, kick him down stairs, &c.

Four and twenty taylors all in a row,

Four and twenty taylors, &c.

There was one caught a louse, another let him loose;

D—n his eyes, says another, knock him down with the goose;

Lord have mercy upon us, &c.

Four and twenty barbers all in a row,

Four and twenty barbers, &c.

There was long wigs, toupees, frizee, frize, powder

and pomatum, two ruffles and never a shirt;

d—n'd hard times, walk in your honours—and shave for a penny,

One caught a louse, &c.

Four and twenty quakers all in a row,

Four and twenty quakers, &c.

There was Abram he begat Isaac, and Isaac begat

Jacob, and Jacob open'd his generation-box,

—with long wigs, toupees, &c.

Four and twenty Dutchmen all in a row,

Four and twenty Dutchmen, &c.

There were Americanos, Spaniorum, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and d—nation seize them all together—Abram he begat Isaac, and Isaae begat Jacob, and Jacob open'd his generationbox, with long wigs, toupees, frizee, frize, powder and pomatum, two ruffles and never a shirt; d—n'd hard times; walk in your honours, and shave for a penny—One caught a louse, another let him loose—D—n his eyes, says another, knock him down with the goose, L—d have mercy upon us—D—n him, kick him down stairs;—push carte and tierce; down with his heels, and cut him across—Coblers and stop awls, stop awls and coblers—Tantarararo, I rub a dub, O rub a dub—And fiddle faddle fiddle, and double demi-semi quibble down below,

This is my Lady's birth-day,

Therefore we will keep holiday, &c.

SONG.

SUPPOSE I was a country boy,

'Od dang it sure I knew things;

When girls are simple, cold, and coy,

I taught 'em soon a few things.

I got so fond of frolicking,

My aunty us'd to seold me;

To town I ran a rolicking,

The country cou'd n't hold me.

A bottle first,

Kick up a dust,

If fun I find my whim be;

Then Langty Oodle was the game,

And an't I, Sir, the pimby?

With chitterlin stuck out so stiff,

And ruffles o'er my knuckles,

Beau'd out my red silk handkerchief,

My watch, and silver buckles;

My hat, and eyes, and shoes so bright,

Full black as any crow's look'd,

My cheek so red, my teeth so white,

And monst'rous nice my nose look'd,

Says I, ho, ho,

Since things are so,

A pretty girl the whim be;

Then Langty Oodle was the game,

And, ma'am, an't I the pimby?

My Duck she was a lady fair,

Nor maiden, wife, nor widow;

Says I, ye please we'll take the air;

To Bagnigge Wells we rid ho!

There sweet Sal and syllabub

So firm I fix'd my heart on,

I soon forgot when full o'bub,

False Kathaleen and Carton.

Sweet Sally sighs,

And panting cries,

Let kissing now the whim be;

Then Langty Oodle was the game,

And how do you like the pimby?

SONG.
Sung at the ANACREONTIC SOCIETY.

LET Anchorites boast how the world they despise

The roundelay joys, for its venom supplies;

It admits the bold hero of ev'ry degree,

Who has courage to enter in Tnuc:

It admits the bold hero of ev'ry degree,

Who has courage to enter in the pretty little Tnuc,

Who has courage to enter in Tnuc.

Its a fam'd rendezvous that is open to all,

And pays for whatever you're willing to call;

'Tis a draft of such value e'en Miser's agree,

There is cent per cent int'rest in Tnuc.

O the sweet Roundelay, what with it can vie?

A death so delightful, who'd wish got to die;

Ev'en Monarchs in rapture to it bend the knee,

Such pow'rful charms has the Tnuc.

The name of this treasure—'pon honour I swear,

I meant for to tell—but it's more than I dare;

However, but ask when a damsel you see,

And she'll tell you the virtue of Tnuc.

But shou'd she be prudish, and say she's afraid,

On her back lay the lovely sweet blushing maid;

Then kiss her, tho' maid, or widow she be,

And she'll pant till you enter her Tnuc.

When lovely Maria, thus languishing lies,

Then gently turn up, and you'll view with surprise,

A sight that in transports you'll utter with me,

The centre of pleasure is—Tnuc.

'Tis a lesson so charming Musicians agree,

To make it more pleasant they'd prick it in C;

Piano, now forte, now rosin, d'ye see,

To the Sons of Anacreon, here's Tnuc.

SONG.
Sung at the ANACREONTIC SOCIETY.

JUST at the close of summer day,

When breezes cool'd the air;

On violet bank Cleora lay,

Delighted receiv'd the fair:

Young Damon with respectful fear

Had crept behind a woodbine shade,

While one arm here, and one arm there,

Each snowy breast the breeze display'd.

Fir'd with the sight, young Damon flew

To press the charms he view'd;

The youth full well Cleora knew,

As in her sight he stood;

Resolv'd the youth's delight to share,

She kindly seem'd to sink to rest,

With one arm here, and one arm there,

Her bosom heaving to be press'd.

Now close beside her Damon lay,

His near approach to find,

She makes her useless garments play,

With motions of the wind:

With Damon's joy what can compare,

What language paint his fond surprise;

When one leg here, and one leg there,

She threw to shew her glossy thighs,

Her coats now Damon gently raised,

When love attracts his eye,

Cleora scarce than him less pleas'd,

Fir'd at the thought of joy:

And fill'd with lust, that knows no fear,

She gently ope'd her glistening eyes,

While one leg here, and one leg there,

Entranc'd between them Damon lies.

Then Damon drew th' unerring shaft,

That points to beauty true,

While new desires fresh breezes wast,

He plac'd it in her view:

Pleas'd at the sight Cleora fair,

Well skill'd its merits sure to scan,

With driving here, and wriggling there,

He bless'd the Maid, she bless'd the Man.

SONG.

LONDON town is just like a barber's shop,

But by the Lord Harry 'tis wond'rous big;

There the painted doll, and the powder'd fop,

And many a blockhead wears a wig,

And I tickl'd each phiz

With a twiggle and a friz,

With a twiggle, twiggle, twiggle,

And a frizzle.

With a twiggle, twiggle, twiggle,

And a frizzle, frizzle, frizzle,

And I tickl'd each phiz,

With a twiggle and a friz.

A Captain of horse I went for to shave,

Ho! damme, says he, with a martial frown,

My razor I pois'd like a barber brave,

I took him by the nose, but he knock'd me down.

Yet I tickl'd his phiz

With a twiggle and a friz,

With a twiggle, twiggle, twiggle,

And a frizzle,

With a twiggle, twiggle, twiggle,

And a frizzle, frizzle, frizzle,

And I tickl'd each phiz

With a twiggle and a friz.

Then I went to a lawyer, O rare sport!

Who had a false oath that day for to swear,

By my skill some trouble I sav'd the Court,

My hot iron borrow'd the lawyer's ear.

And I tickl'd, &c.

I next went to dress a fine grand miss,

Down the lady sits, and her neck she bares,

But Cupid, or the Devil bid me snatch a kiss,

Ere my iron cool'd I was kick'd down stairs.

But I tickl'd, &c.

I next went to dress up an old maid's hair,

Wrinkled and bald as a scalded pig;

But as she led the dance down with a swimming air,

This fine old maiden she dropp'd her wig.

And I tickl'd, &c.

SONG,
In the Pantomime of the Mirror.

CAN'T you see by my hunch, Sir,

Faddledy, daddeldy, dino,

I am master Punch, Sir,

Riberi, biberi, bino.

Fiddeldy, diddeldy, faddeldy, daddeldy,

Robbery, bobbery, ribery, bibery,

Faddeldy, daddeldy, dino,

Ribbery, bibery, bino.

That merry fellow, Punchinello,

Dancing here, you see, Sir,

Whose mirth not hell itself can quell,

He's ever in such glee, Sir,

Niddlety, noddlety, niddlety,

Noddlety, niddlety, noddlety, nino.

Then let me pass, old Grecian,

Fiddeldy, daddeldy, dino.

To the fields Elysian,

Bibery, bibery, bino.

Fiddledy, diddeldy, faddledy, daddledy,

Robery, bobery, ribery, bibery,

Faddeldy, daddeldy, dino.

Ribery, bibery, bino.

My ranting, roaring Pluto,

Faddledy, daddledy dino,

Just to a hair will suit, ho,

Bibery, bibery, bino.

Faddeldy, &c.

Each jovial fellow,

At Punchinello,

Will, laughing o'er his cup roar,

I'll rant and revel,

And play the devil,

And set all hell in an uproar.

Niddlety, noddlety, nino.

Then let me pass, &c.

SONG.

ON sturdy stout Dobbin I mounted my saddle and canter'd to town,

Where they call'd me the twaddle;

'Till I found out a friend by mere dint of good luck,

Who taught me the tippee, and now I'm a buck.

To swallow six bottles. I now dare engage,

Then to knock down those watchmen bent double with age;

And if spent with fatigue to St. James's I waddle

To shew the beau-monde, I'm no longer the twaddle,

No longer the twaddle,

No longer the twaddle;

To shew the beau-monde, I'm no longer the twaddle.

Having now learnt to read, why I take in the papers,

And draining a bumper to vanquish the vapours,

I scan the fresh quarrels 'twixt new married spouses;

To match the debates in both Parliament Houses;

Where patriots and placemen keep wrangling for same,

The Outs are all faultless, the Inns are to blame,

Tho' the Outs are the tippee, their brains are all addle,

Yet when they get in you soon find 'em the twaddle.

When Britons base foes dare presume to unite,

Old Elliot's the tippee, because he dare fight;

And to poets who live on the floor next the sky,

Roast-beef is a tippee, they seldom come nigh—

The Lawyer and Doctor, both strictly agree,

That all is the twaddle, except 'tis their fee,

And when you from Dover to Calais wou'd straddle,

A Balloon is the tippee, the Packet's a twaddle.

Dick Twisting is now quite the twaddle for tea,

Tho' he once was the tippee for green and bohea;

But then we'd no Tax to turn day into night;

No dire Commutation to block up our light;

"Least said's soonest mended," I hope I'm not wrong,

If I am, pray excuse, and I'll hence hold my tongue,

Perhaps you may think me a mere fiddle faddle,

Yet, if not quite the tippee, don't say I'm the twaddle.

SONG.

HERE lies William of Valence, a right good Earl of Pembroke,

And this is his monument which you see I'll swear upon a book,

He was Earl Marshall of England when Henry the Third did reign,

Above five hundred years ago, but never will be so again.

Here the Lord Talbot lies, the town of Shrewsbury's Earl,

Together with his Countess fair, who was a most delicate girl;

Next to him there lieth one Sir Richard Peckshall hight,

Of whom we only this do say, that he was a Hampshire Knight.

Here lies the third King Edward's brother, of whom our records tell

Nothing of note, nor say they whether he be in heaven or hell;

This same was John of Elderstone, he was no costermonger,

But Cornwall's Earl; and here's one died because he could live no longer.

Now think your penny well spent, good folks, and that you're not beguil'd,

Within this cup doth lie the heart of a French Ambassador's child,

But how the devil it came to pass, on purpose or by chance,

The bowels they lie underneath, but the body is in France.

Here lies Oxford's Countess, and there also the Lady Burleigh her mother,

And there her daughter a Countess too, lie close by one another;

These once were bonny dames, and though there were no coaches then,

Yet cou'd they jog their tails themselves, or get them jogg'd by the men.

Oh! woe is me, those high-born sinners that now do pray so stoutly,

Living they never pray'd at all, yet their statues pray devoutly;

This fair monument which you see, I'd have you to understand,

It is a virtuous Lady fair who died of a prick in her hand.

In this fair monument which you see adorned with so many pillars,

Doth lie the Countess of Buckingham, and her husband Sir George Villiers;

This old Sir George was grandfather, and the Countess she was granny

To the great Duke of Buckingham, who led by the nose King Jamy.

Here lies Sir Robert Eatam, a Scotch Knight, this man was secretary,

He scribbled compliments for two Queens, Queen Ann, and eke Queen Mary;

This same was Mary Queen of Scots, whom Buchanan doth so bespatter,

She lost her head at Fotheringhay, whatever was the matter.

Henry the Seventh lies here entomb'd with his fair Queen beside him,

He was the founder of this chapel, Oh! may no ill betide him,

And here they stand upright in a press, with their bodies made of wax,

A globe and a wand in either hand, and their robes upon their backs.

To another Chapel now come we, the people follow, and chat,

This is the Lady Cottington, the people cry, whose is that?

Why, Sir Thomas Bromley lieth here, death wou'd not him reprieve,

With his four sons, and daughters four, that once were all alive.

Here lies Sir John Eullerton, and that is his Lady I trow,

And that is Sir John Pickerton whom none of you did know;

Here lies the Earl of Torrington, the world ne'er saw a madder,

His Countess fair she lies beside him, and now you go up a ladder.

Richard the Second lies here entomb'd with his fair Queen, Queen Ann,

Edward the Third lies there hard by, and he was a gallant man;

This is the sword of John of Gaunt, a blade both true and trusty,

The Frenchmen's blood was ne'er wip'd off, which makes it look so rusty.

Harry the Fifth lies here entomb'd with his fair Queen, Queen Eleanor,

To our first Edward she was wife, that's more than you knew before;

Now down the ladder come we again, the man goes first with a staff,

Two or three tumble down the stairs, and all the people laugh.

Sir Robert Vere lies here entomb'd, who the Spaniards hide so curried,

Four Colonels brave support his tomb, and here his body's buried;

That statue up against the wall with one eye, is Major General Norris,

He bang'd the French most cruelly, as is affirm'd in stories.

Here lies Sir John Holles, who was a Major General,

To Sir John Morris that brave blade, and now you may depart all;

For now the show is at an end, all things are done and said,

The citizens pay for their wives, and the apprentices kiss the maids.

SONG.
DICKY DITTO, in Two to One. TUNE—Yankee Doodle.

ADZOOKS, old Crusty!

Why so rusty,

Stupid, queer, and mumpy?

Egad, if you don't mend your manners,

Somebody will lump you.

Lumpy, thumpy, thwack and thump,

Pummel you and bump—O!

Humpy, stumpy, make you mump,

Kick about your rump—O!

Did little Dicky

Ever trick ye?

No—I'm always civil;

Then why should you, for my politeness,

Wish me at the devil?

Crusty, rusty, flout, and pout,

Did I ever trick ye?

Fusty, musty, turn me out?

Oh, poor, civil Dicky!

A receipt I'll give,

But as I live,

I'd rather give him blows, Sir;

At St. Giles's he was bred,

Altho' he wears good cloathes, Sir.

Noodle, noodle, ugly muns!

Here's a pretty rig, Sir!

Daggers, pistols, swords, and guns,

O! I'll hop the twig, Sir.

SONG.
LAZARILLO, in the Spanish Barber.

WINE, Wine is the liquor of life;

The heart is consumed by care:

Good fellows, then end the strife

'Twixt the bottle and despair!

Derry down, hey down derry!

Drink and drive care away;

Drink all the night and day,

Drink and be merry!

Brisk Wine, and impertinent Care,

Dispute the controul of Me;

Let me be thy mas;ter, Despair,

Wine, thou shalt my mistress be!

Derry down, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

YOUR toupee I can twirl,

Your locks I can curl,

And you'll find me in truth,

So expert at a tooth,

I can make, with a touch, every broken old stump

In your mouth like the jacks of a harpsichord jump.

At the razor and lancet unrivall'd my trade is;

A beard thick as stubble,

I mow without trouble,

And open a vein with a hand like a lady's.

SONG.
RUTTEKIN, in Robin Hood.

DON'T shill-I, shall-I,

Nor with love rally,

Wilt be my wife?

If thou'rt but willing,

With thee each shilling

I'll share through life.

With tippling and rattling,

And smiling babes prattling,

Like mamma pretty,

Like daddy witty,

Heart light as feather,

We'll trip together,

From vil to city.

My heart so jolly,

From melancholy

Is always free.

Sweet recreation,

Without vexation,

I'll find for thee;

Coats, caps, and fine kirtles,

With pofies and myrtles,

And gowns so gay.

At wakes you'll foot it,

Skip, reel, and cut it,

Spruce Queen of May.

Then make me happy

With stingo nappy,

I'll chear your mind.

Alas with gazing,

My poor heart's blazing;

Your hand—be kind.

I'm burning to cinder;

My wishes like tinder,

The spark of your eyes—

Now kindles sire in;

O with desiring,

Your true love dies.

SONG.
CRICOLO, in the Siege of Curzola.

MY father he was a good fellow, but yet something older than me,

My mother a little good woman, and a good little woman was she;

My Dad, because he was a gentleman, tho' without any great store of pelf,

Bequeath'd me a very long pedigree, and, left me as poor as himself.

This daddy he made me a Barber, and well I cou'd powder and shave,

I then turn'd gentleman's gentleman, so prettily I cou'd behave.

I next went to wait on a lady fine, when she dress'd for cards, concert, or jig;

My curling-iron always being ready, it's often I frizzled her wig.

I kiss'd her one morning, she squall'd out, I then was as mum as a mouse;

Says she he's a very neat barber, but pray kick him out of my house.

A Doctor I turn'd in our village, of many good patients cou'd boast,

Their pulses I felt, and their noses, and cur'd 'em with powder of post.

My prentice made up all my bottles, but whether to cure or to kill,

That business I left to the grave-digger, 'twas mine for to bring in my bill.

For my country I shoulder my musket, my razor and pestle I drop,

If an enemy ever invade us, I'll bravely go hide in my shop.

SONG.
From the same.

THE Captain see a ranting blade,

Expert at grand manoeuvre;

My march the pride of our parade,

My bow could grace the Louvre.

In taste and ton, no travel'd Mac,

Of joint shall put my nose out;

At shrug and grin, I've got a knack,

And see I turn my toes out.

With a ran tan, tip pop, tweedle,

Full can, tip top, diddle,

Nan fan, hip hop, Fiddle.

Thus we skip it up, trip it up, keep it up boys,

And rattle up all before us.

Through Park, or Mall, as I pass by

Each fair I strike with wonder,

Beneath a hat, or roguish eye,

With ogle I peep under.

No tactics dull in peace or war

My sprightly thought entangle,

And while I hold my sweet guittar,

My sword at heels may dangle.

With a ran, tan, pip pop, tweedle,

Full can, tip top, diddle,

Nan fan, hip hop, fiddle.

Thus we skip it up, trip it up, keep it up boys,

And rattle up all before us.

My dear and I lead up the ball,

For that's the Captain's due, Sir!

My head is puff'd with Mareschalle,

I sport a noble queue Sir!

I sigh, and squeeze my chapeau bras,

No more I block a beaver;

The whisper runs, how fine—Oh la!

They're right, I'm monstrous clever.

With my ran tan, pip pop, tweedle,

Full can, tip top, diddle,

Nan fan, hip hop, fiddle.

Thus we skip it up, trip it up, keep it up boys,

And rattle up all before us.

SONG.
From the same.

THE beacon flames, the Turks are come,

The 'larum bell goes dingle;

We all attend the beat of drum,

Both married men and single.

Our Colonel roars,

They're at our doors;

I give the word,

So take a sword,

And follow me,

To victory.

You wits, you cits, wife politicians,

Taylors, nailors, great physicians,

Of Mahometans turn sound threshers,

Philosophers and haberdashers,

The city train bands.

There we all met.

And our valour rag'd so high, that we swore,

Tol, lol, lol.

Our Colonel, bold as Jacky Daw.

He rode upon his nag by;

With spatterdash upon each claw,

I follow'd like a magpye.

The bright firelock,

We prime and cock;

With zounds and damn,

We load and ram;

Present and kneel,

And fire and wheel.

Then with such slight, so tight

We fight, like eagles, right

And left wing, fly about.

Like deer now run, like lions how try about,

Ensign, adjutant, and scout.

Dying now, and quick recovering,

Facing, chacing, quaint manoeuvering,

Ensign, halbert, pioneer,

Muster, bluster, brigadier,

Of city train bands.

Oh! its amazing to think how eager we were to

fight, —or to—

Tol, lol, lol.

The Colonel's lady step'd up then,

And swore upon her honour,

She'd take to try those Musselmen

The whole command upon her.

Hence threads and silk,

And Ammon milk;

And solitaires,

And giggish airs;

Pam's and loo's,

And how d'ye does.

'Pon reputation, ma'am I will—wont you,

Certainly—Here dame, girl, wife, widow, maiden!

Quick with flint, steel, matches laden;

Billet doux—to flames devote,

Coat of mail for petticoat.

If Cupid comes a smiling, tripping,

Give the urchin a good whipping;

Give it with a rousing damme,

And send him sniveling to his mammy!

We're now the City Bands.

Ladies fince our good men have run away, we'll

see what the Turks have got to say to our

Tol, lol, lol!

SONG.
TIPPLE, in the Flitch of Bacon.

OH, a gay flashy Lord is a woundy fine sight,

Who is ne'er to be seen but with owls in the night,

Then so slight here behind!

He's blown thro' by the wind;

So cropp'd!

And belopp'd!

Such timber, so limber, from top to the toe,

That he wriggles and nods as he Walks to and fro!

I ne'er see'd but one in the course of my life,

And him I had lick'd but for Bridget my wife;

I laugh'd at his pride,

And the spit by his side:

Good lack!

His long back,

Like a building so weak is, it hardly can stand,

But would snap short in two like a twig in this hand!

TRIO.
From the same.

HOW shall we mortals spend our hours?

In war!

In love!

In drinking!

None but a fool consumes his pow'rs

In peace,

In care,

In thinking,

Time, would you let him wisely pass,

Is lively!

Brisk!

And jolly!

Dip but his wings i'th' sparkling glass,

And he'll drown dull melancholy!

SONG.
From the same.

YE good men and wives

Who have lov'd all your lives,

And whose vows have at no time been shaken,

Now come and draw near,

With your consciences clear,

And demand a huge Flitch of our Bacon!

CHORUS. Ye good men and wives, &c.

Since a year and a day

Have in love roll'd away,

And an oath of that love has been taken

On the sharp-pointed stones,

With your bare marrow-bones,

You have won our fam'd Priory Bacon!

CHORUS. Since a year and a day &c.

SONG.
SIR SHENKIN AP GRIFFIN, in Fontainbleau.

TOL lol, de rol, lol,

My Tolly, my Toll,

With me when you canter to Wales;

For petticoat white,

Buff breeches so tight,

Away go needles and flails.

Young Taffy throws by hur wheels,

Then Winney kicks up her heels,

With follow

And halloo,

And waddle

And straddle,

So merry to see us come;

With fiddle

And diddle,

And giggle

And wriggle,

They give us a welcome home.

The joy so great,

So noble we treat,

An oxen is roasted whole!

And tho' on the lawn

The spiggot is drawn

For punch, you may swim in the bowl!

We give the ladies a ball,

We foot it away in the hall,

With follow, &c.

Miss Howell so nice,

And Lady ap Rice,

And cousin Sir Evan ap Lloyd,

Parson Montgomery,

Counsellor Flummery,

Ap Morgon, Ap Williams, Ap Floyd.

Oh, when the stocking is thrown,

And lovee and I alone;

Then follow, &c.

DUET.

WOWSKI and TRUDGE, in Inkle and Yarico.

Wowski.

WAMPUM, Swampum, Yauko,

Lanko, Nanko, Pownatowski,

Black men—plenty—twenty—fight for me;

White man, woo, you true?

Trudge

Who?

Wouski.

You.

Trudge.

Yes, pretty little Wowski.

Wowski.

Then I leave all, and I follow thee.

Trudge.

Oh, then turn about, my little tawny tight one!

Don't you like me?

Wowski.

Iss, you're like the snow

If you slight one—

Trudge.

Never, not for any white one;

You are beautiful as any sloe.

Wowski.

Wars, jars, scars, can't expose ye

In our grot—

Trudge.

So snug and cosey!

Wowski.

Flowers neatly

Pick'd, shall sweetly

Make your bed.

Trudge.

Coying, toying

With a rosy

Posey,

When I'm dozey:

Bear-skin night-caps too shall warm my head.

Both.

Bear-skin night-caps, &c. &c.

TRIO.—In Peeping Tom.

MAYOR, TOM, and CRAZY.

AIR.—Irish Lamentation.

Tom.

MERRY are the bells, and merry do they ring.

Crazy.

Merry was myself, and merry could I sing.

Mayor.

Merry is your ding-dong.

Crazy.

Happy, gay and free.

Tom.

With a merry sing-song.

ALL.

Merry let us be.

With a merry ding-dong, merry let us be.

Mayor.

Waddle goes your gait.

Tom.

And hollow are your hose.

Mayor.

Noddle goes your pate.

Tom.

And purple is your nose— (to Crazy)

Mayor.

Merry is your ding-dong, &c.

TRIO.
From the same.

TOM, MAYOR, and CRAZY.

TOM

YOUR lordship is welcome among us,

Because you are a great man:

Your ladyship ne'er did wrong us,

Because you are a great wo-man.

Oh this is joyful news;

We'll stick up our houses with holly!

We'll broach a tub

Of humming bub,

And welcome both with a rub-a-dub;

So, neighbours, let's all be jolly!

CRAZY.

Of our town let it be boasted,

That you din'd in our Guildhall;

And we'll have an oxen roasted,

With tail, hoofs, horns and all;

With custards, puddings and pies!

And we'll stick, &c.

MAYOR.

With your cheer we'll be delighted,

The bells shall ring merrily;

And when by my lord I'm knighted,

Sir Gregory Goose I'll be.

Long life to my lord and lady!

So we'll stick up our houses, &c.

SONG.
In the Pantomime of OMAI.

DEAR ladies and gentlemen, customers, pop, will ye,

Into my neat little, sweet little, shop, will ye?

Walk about, Madam, or sit down and chat a bit;

Miss, here's the dice-box, what think you of that a bit?

I don't mean to gamble, or each other fleece,

You shall only put in five and three-pence a piece;

This enamel'd gold watch, tick, goes right to a minute,

These lily-white hands, Ma'am, surely must win it.

Then, Ma'am, will you walk in, and tol de rol diddle,

And, Sir, will you stalk in, and tol de rol diddle?

And, Miss, will you pop in, and tol de rol diddle,

And, Master, pray hop in, and tol de rol diddle dee.

When prudish to help out your fies and your tushes, Miss,

What if you throw for this bottle of blushes, Miss,

Sal Volatile, when your lover gets ranting,

You'll find that to tip him a faint may be wanting.

Ma'am, a twee that won't leave a grey hair in your brow;

Sir, a wise book to read in, that's—if you know how;

Hall's, Benson's, and Silver's, not saunter like drones about,

But all come to Austin's, and here knock the bones about.

Then, Ma'am, &c.

Ye Londoners, who would fling sorrow and cas• away,

Welcome to Margate, in salt water dash away,

Clean as a penny we'll souse, sop, and pickle ye;

Out of your gold, neat as Brighton, we'll tickle ye.

Says spousy to deary, to Margate we'll trip

In the dog-days, to give little Jacky a dip;

Tho' here in the Dilly gay pleasure attend ye,

Yet back in the Hoy, poor as Job we'll soon send ye.

Then Ma'am, &c.

SONG.
In the Poor Soldier.

THO' late I was plump, round and jolly,

I now am as thin as a rod;

Oh! love is the cause of my folly,

And soon I'll lie under a sod:

Sing ditherum doodle,

Nagety, nagety, tragedy, rum,

And goosetherum foodle,

Fidgety, fidgety, nigety, mum.

Dear Kathleen, then why did you flout me,

A lad that's so cosey and warm;

O ev'ry thing's handsome about me,

My cabin and snug little farm:

Sing ditherum, &c.

What tho' I have scrap'd up no money,

No duns at my chamber attend;

On Sunday I ride on my Poney,

And still have a bit for a friend:

Sing ditherum, &c.

The Cock courts his Hens all around me,

The Sparrow, the Pigeon, and Dove;

Oh how all this courting confounds me,

When I look and I think of my love;

Sing ditherum, &c.

SONG.
SHAKLEFIGURE, in the Lady of the Manor.

TOM—said—to—me,

Tim, how very slow you move;

I—said—to—he,

Who runs best then let us prove.

Per—ad—ven—ture,

Swiftest foot may lose the race,

Best—slow—and—sure;

And, in truth, it was the case,

Sir, depend on't.

Hey—off—we—set;

Tom was first for half a mile.

How—won—the—bett

May make your worship smile,

Tom—ran—so—fast,

'Gainst a stone he kick'd his toes:

Less—speed—more—haste;

Tom fell down and broke his nose.

Mark the end on't.

SONG.
In Midas.

SHALL a paltry clown, not fit to wipe my shoes,

Dare my amours to cross?

Shall a peasant minx, when Justice Midas wooes,

Her nose up at him toss?

No; I'll kidnap—then possess her;

I'll sell her Pol a slave, get Mundungus in exchange;

So glut to the height of pleasure

My love and my revenge.

No; I'll kidnap, &c.

SONG.
From the same.

O WHAT pleasure will abound,

When my wife is laid in ground!

Let earth cover her,

We'll dance over her,

When my wife is laid in ground.

Oh how happy should I be,

Wou'd little Nysa pig with me!

How I'd mumble her,

Touze and tumble her,

Wou'd little Nysa pig with me.

TRIO.
From the same.

Midas.

MASTER Pol

And his toll-de-roll-loll,

I'll buffet away from the plain, Sir,

Pan.

And I'll assist

Your worship's fist,

With all my might and main, Sir;

Mysis.

And I'll have a thump,

Tho' he is so plump,

And make such a woundy racket.

Midas.

I'll bluff,

Pan.

I'll rough,

Mysis.

I'll huff,

Midas.

I'll cuff,

Omn.

And I'll warrant we pepper his jacket.

Midas.

For all his cheats,

And wenching feats,

He shall rue on his knees 'em,

Or skip, by goles,

As high as Paul's,

Like ugly witch on besom;

Arraign'd he shall be,

Of treason to me!

Pan.

And I with my davy will back it;

I'll swear,

Midas.

I'll snare,

Mysis.

I'll tear,

Omn.

O rare!

And I'll warrant we pepper his jacket.

SONG.
From the same.

WHAT the devil's here to do,

Ye logger-heads and gypsies?

Sirrah, you, and hussey, you,

And each of you tipsey is;

But I'll as sure pull down your pride as

A gun, or as I'm Justice Midas.

CHORUS.

O tremendous Justice Midas,

Who shall oppose wise Justice Midas?

SONG.
From the same.

I'M given to understand that you're all in a pother here,

Disputing whether Pan or Pol shall play to you another year:

Dare you think your clumsy lugs so proper to decide, as

The delicate ears of Justice Midas.

CHORUS.

O tremendous Justice Midas,

Who shall oppose wise Justice Midas?

SONG.
From the same.

NOW I'm seated,

I'll be treated

Like the Sophi on his throne;

In my presence,

Scoundrel peasants

Shall not call their souls their own.

My behest is,

He who best is,

Shall be fix'd musician chief:

Ne'er the loser

Shall shew nose here,

But be transported like a thief.

CHORUS.

O tremendous Justice Midas,

Who shall oppose wise Justice Midas?

SONG.
THE COMMERCIAL BLESSING. SUNG AT THE ANACREONTIC SOCIETY.

A TREATY of Commerce is now set on foot,

Monsieur has agreed to the law;

A Treaty of Commerce is now set on foot,

And we shall be treated, and cheated to boot:

Mon chere ami,

En tout ma vie,

Je ne jamais fait com ca.

In Eden the exquisite blessing was placed,

Which was form'd in a bottomless pit;

In Eden the exquisite blessing was placed,

Which, if like poor Adam, we're tempted to taste,

'Twill prove as of old,

In hist'ry we're told,

The tempter had most wit.

St. Dennis is teaching St. How to dance,

Tho' St. George has made him skip before;

St. Dennis is teaching St. How to dance,

And St. George now gives lessons for Boxing in France;

But who'll avail,

That time must tell,

So I need say no more.

If the story is true, honest Paddy roars out,

Old England has struck a fine stroke;

If the story is true, honest Paddy roars out,

And Monsieur says he'll treat, he'll give Claret no doubt;

And while we agree,

We sha'n't quarrel d'ye see,

So the bargain will hold till its broke.

Cries Sawney, d'ye ken mon, here's mickle bra' news

For a' the blithe bairns o' th' North;

Cries Sawney, d'ye ken mon, here's mickle bra' news,

For breeches we'll barter our phillebags and trews;

And ilka laddie

May doff his pladdie,

And a mon o' the mode strut forth.

Astride on a goat, Shon ap Morgan from Wales,

Has canter'd to Town, neat and trim;

Astride on a goat, Shon ap Morgan from Wales,

Is peeping to see where the stupor prevails;

But alas, poor Squire,

He's like his fire,

His eyes at best are dim.

The Founders of Cannon must live by their trade,

And we are improvident elves;

The Founders of Cannon must live by their trade,

And if we've no call for the goods they have made;

They must be sold,

And 'twill be told

They were bought to beat ourselves.

Says Jack Tar, will John Bull never come to himself?

I think the good fellow's in drink;

Says Jack Tar, will John Bull never come to himself?

Must I, his best Friend, be laid by on the shelf?

While Dancing Dog's,

In fringe and frogs,

Enjoy my share of chink.

If Monsieur shou'd forget that old excellent joke,

That Britons are Lords of the Main;

If Monsieur shou'd forget that old excellent joke,

The Treaty of Commerce will surely be broke,

And come to blows, Tout l'autre Chose;

John Bull's himself again.

SONG.
GRIZZLE, in Tom Thumb.

IN hurry post haste for a licence,

In hurry ding dong I came back,

For that you sha'n't need bid me twice hence,

I'll there be, and here in a crack:

Hey jing! my heart's on the wing,

I now could leap over the moon;

Let the Chaplain but set us a grappling,

And we'll stock a baby-house soon.

SONG.
From the same.

LONG I will not wear the willow,

Long I will not hug my pillow,

In my breast a storm is brewing;

Which shall spread fire, sword, and ruin,

O'er these desolated coasts.

This proud Arthur down shall knuckle,

Dollalolla too shall truckle,

Huncamunca shall knock under,

Her I'll ravish, them I'll plunder;

In fierce battle, I will rattle,

Sinking, damning, slashing, cramming,

Ev'ry chink of hell with ghosts.

SONG.
From the same.

MY body is a bankrupt's shop,

My cruel Creditor, grim Death;

Who puts to life's brisk trade a stop,

And will be paid with this last breath.

CATALOGUE of Books, Pamphlets, and Prints, to be had at Holland's MUSEUM OF GENIUS, No. 50, Oxford-street, near Berner's-street, removed from No. 66, Drury-Lane.

LITERATURE. FESTIVAL of Anacreon, containing the songs of Captain Morris, Mr. Hewerdine, Captain Thompson, and other lyric writers, as sung at the Anacreontic Society, the Beaf-Steak, and Humbug Clubs, with a portrait of Captain Morris, price 3s. 6d. Nimrod's Songs of the Chace, the best collection of hunting songs ever presented to the lovers of that delightful sport, with an animated description of a Fox-Chace, and a superb Print, representing a Stag-hunt near Windsor; the whole compiled from the Hunting Register of the Windsor Nimrod, price 3s. 6d. with the Print in colours 5s. Foundling Hospital for Wit, 6 vols. 18s. Asylum, 2 vols 7s. 6d. Hal's Looking-Glass, presenting a brilliant selection of Bon Mots, Puns, Repartees, ludicrous Tales, and elegant Poetry, delivered at C—ton-House, 2s. 6d. Elements of Nature; or, Free Opinions, sported in the interior Cabinet of Venus, by Montaigne, 2s. 6d. Man of Pleasure's Song Book, 3s. 6d. Exhibition of Female Flagellants, in two parts, with 12 superb Quarto Prints, 2l. 2s. plain, or 3l. 3s. in colours; and five other works on the same subject, with beautiful prints, each of which may be had separate. Tristram Shandy, with 10 fine Mezzotinto Prints. Geranium and Birth of the Rose, 6d. Translation of Peryigilium Veneris, with the Tale of the Three Monks and Mrs. Stitch in Clover, by the author of Crazy Tales 3s. 6d. A Poetical Epistle from an Officer at Otaheite to Lady G—v—r, 4s. 6d. Crazy Tales;—Moral Tales;—Meursii;—Kisses of Secundas, 5s. Trials for Adultery;—Rochester's Poems;—Ovid's Art of Love, 4s. Theresa, 1l. 1s. La Pucelle d'Orleans; Beckford on Hunting, 7s. 6d. New Vocal Enchantress. Life of Count O'Kelly, 2s. Biographia Dramatica; or a Companion to the Play-house, the best History of the Stage ever published, 2 vols. 12s. Festival of Wit, 3s. and a large collection of other literary articles.

N. B. A second Part of the Festival of Anacreon, will be shortly published; and a second Volume of the Festival of Wit, by the Author of the first, is preparing for the Press.

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Admittance ONE SHILLING.

Information about this book

Title statement

Edwin's pills to purge melancholy: containing all the songs sung by Mr. Edwin, ... since his first appearance in London; ... With a humourous account of Mrs. Siddons's first reception in Dublin; and a portrait of Mr. Edwin ...

O'Keeffe, John, 1747-1833.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
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OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5207

ID [isbn10]

1106022068

ID [isbn13]

9781106022066

ID [TCP]

K108056.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310477360

ID [ECLL]

0106400500

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— Edwin's pills to purge melancholy: containing all the songs sung by Mr. Edwin, ... since his first appearance in London; ... With a humourous account of Mrs. Siddons's first reception in Dublin; and a portrait of Mr. Edwin ..., O'Keeffe, John, 1747-1833., Edwin, John, 1749-1790.. The second edition, with considerable additions.. viii,[1],8-56,59-104,[2]p.,plate : port. ; 8⁰. London :: published by William Holland,. 1788.. [With a final advertisement leaf.] ["The comic songs, .. which were reprinted with the name of Edwin, were mostly written by O'Keeffe" (D.N.B).] [Despite the pagination; the text is complete.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT136780.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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