Part 2

Adam’s instinct divine display’d powers that prove, Mighty man most sagacious of Nature’s creation; Eve’s distress he beheld, and, in pity, Love His COLUMN convey’d to its dear destination. What follow’d, you’ll find, is wisely design’d, And the Hercules’ Pillar of Pagan renown Ne’er long could stand in Middlesex land, Adam’s BASIS gave way, so the Pillar fell down. Rare Runnymede, &c.

By the magical touch of his heaven-tun’d lyre, Amphion, the Theban King, wonders effected; Stones erst in confusion his sounds did inspire, They danc’d, and we’re told tow’ring walls were erected. Such harmonic sway this Mede doth display, And from chaos, thus transient, can order restore; A quick resurrection succeeds the defection, To meet the same fate that befel it before. Rare Runnymede, &c.

That architect, old Mother Phillips I mean, Doth cases prepare of a curious constructure, From the fury of fire _standing Pillars_ to screen, As light’ning’s disarm’d by th’ _attractive Conductor_: But curst be her traffic for THINGS POLYGRAPHIC; To vend for original, Pillars she plann’d; Monuments base usurping the place, Where alone the PROUD PILLAR of Nature should stand. Rare Runnymede, &c.

Tho’ partisans differ, in this all agree, From Reason’s clear light, and from Nature’s dictation, That THE MEDE, at this moment, my mind’s eye doth see, Is alone the sweet spot for the PROUD PILLAR’S station. There stout may it stand, resisting Time’s hand: And, Nature, great architect, as thee we prize! From fire protect it, when down don’t neglect it, Let it RISE but to FALL, let it FALL but to RISE. Rare Runnymede, &c.

THE BANKRUPT BAWD.

Tune, _Vicar of Bray_.

Near Jermyn-street a BAWD did trade, In credit, style, and splendor, Well known to ev’ry _high-bred_ blade, And those of _doubtful_ gender: How Nature once, in _marring_ mood, Her body form’d, I’ll tell ye, Upon her back a _swelling stood_, To mock her _barren belly_.

CHORUS.

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

In _coney skins_ her _commerce_ lay, A charming stock she’d laid in; She ne’er to _smugglers_ fell a prey, Her practice was _fair trading_: These skins when _dress’d_ were _red_ and _white_, The _fur_ of each _fair creature_, Of diff’rent hues, hath day and night Kept warm man’s _naked nature_. For some succeed, &c.

The trading stock of this OLD BAWD A _vital stab_ sustain’d, sir; The news like _wild-fire_ flew abroad, Each customer _complain’d_, sir; Some _coney-skins_ lay with a lot, By caution uninspected; So _quarantine_, alas! forgot, _Foul plague_ the whole infected. For some succeed, &c.

Now OLD and YOUNG her shop forsook, Insolvent was her plight, sir, When _Habeas Corpus_ Catchpole took Her body off by night, sir; From _Banco Regis_ civil law, To liquidate her debt, sir, Between _the sheets_ this OLD BAWD saw _Of London’s fam’d Gazette_, sir. For some succeed, &c.

To give each creditor his due, Three men, _the Lord’s Anointed_, JACK WILKES, LORD SANDWICH, and OLD Q., Were Assignees appointed: But, luckless Bawd! the after day Her stock _on fire_ they found, sir; So ’twas agreed she could not pay A _cundum_ in the pound, sir. For some succeed, &c.

The skin (_her own_) this Bawd had left, Each Assignee did handle; ’Twas found of all its _fur bereft_, By singing flame of candle: Some _butter’d bunns_ conceal’d within, Old Q.’s keen eye beset, sir; So Wilkes defin’d this coney skin A _fund for floating debt_, sir. For some succeed, &c.

By _headlong lust_ her claimants led, They seiz’d her _mortal treasure_; The _furless_ coney skin was spread, A _dividend_ past measure. Now all _came in_, not one _stood out_; THE BAWD was set at large, sir; Her coney skin (of _worth_, no doubt) Did ev’ry MAN _discharge_, sir. For some succeed, &c.

MEDLEY.

Air, _Bow Wow_.

Silence, humbugs all, and I’ll sing you a merry song; Like our lives, ’tis a medley, neither short nor very long; I mean plainly to prove, that in high and low station, Hub, bub, bub, bub, boo, is the business of the nation. Hub, bub, boo, fal, lal, &c.

As late from the hall Hurlow Thrumbo came growling, A carman’s great dog at his coach set up howling; Enrag’d with the brute, Hurlow let down the glass, sir, Cry’d, “whose dog is that?” quoth the carman, “ask his a—, sir.”

The coachman drove on; but ere he’d driven very far, Two wheels were left behind, and snap went the splinter bar; Hurlow roar’d out aloud (tho’ no doubt he did wrong to’t), For he blasted the bar, and all that _belong’d_ to’t.

’Tis not long ago, since poor Jack, the Brighton taylor, For stitching well a _button-hole_, was pinn’d up by the jailor: The trial tells us, by surprise, snip seiz’d an artless lass, sir, And cabbag’d her virginity, the best piece of her a—, sir.

The maiden scream’d, and snip teem’d with love’s delicious liquor; O there never was a taylor that could stitch it nine times quicker; Twas ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, Till he work’d up all the thread, then he ripp’d up the slit O.

“R⸺,” dames cry, “what a ravishing creature! “His pipe! and his shake! and each delicate feature!” But la! what a pity, divine R⸺! Your pipe can but carry the p— from your belly! Bow, wow, wow, &c.

If wedlock’s your plan, ere you scheme to open trenches, Humbugs pray take heed of our modern made-up wenches: Fore and aft they are plump to view, but feel, and you will find, sir, They’ve bubbies like blown bladders, and all is hum behind, sir.

Oh poverty! our purses spare, and pains, do not perplex us, Still the cheerful song we’ll chaunt, nor shall trifles ever vex us; But leave to dreary dull dogs their cheerless hours to spend, sir, Whilst we, in mirthful mood, meet our bottles, c⸺s, and friends, sir.

Now the sequel of my song mark well each humbug brother, Tho’ here we laugh, drink and joke, and humbug one another; When out of wind, Death hums us, and we’re sent the Lord knows where, sir, If we’ve humbugg’d the Devil, I’ll be d⸺d if we need fear, sir.

HUMBUG CLUB CONSTITUTIONAL SONG.

Air, _The Roast Beef of Old England_.

This tastey gay town’s grown of humbug so full, That ev’ry new day starts new matter to gull, Credulity’s known by the name of John Bull. O the humbugs of Old England; How finely Old England’s humbugg’d!

Sham patriots profess, with a plausible grace, The nerves of the nation they shortly could brace, But _pro bono publico_ means a good place. O the humbugs, &c.

Here clergy the minister flatter and fawn, Stick close to his skirts to secure sleeves of lawn, And the curate’s old cassock goes weekly to pawn. O the humbugs, &c.

The dunce is dubb’d doctor, _sans_ sense in his head, And fame unacquir’d is thro’ quackery spread, With cures that are cureless credulity’s fed. O the humbugs, &c.

The captain’s a compound of flash and cockade, Cosmetics, pink powder, with curl carronade, And his feats are confin’d to box-lobby parade. O the humbugs, &c.

Now lawyers are licens’d their clients to cheat, Trading justices equity tread under feet, And rascally runners all rogu’ry greet. O the humbugs, &c.

The stage, to amuse us, sings “Fal de Ral Tit,” With “Che chow cherry chow, and cherry chow chit;” And then, to humbug us, they puff it as wit. O the humbugs, &c.

So now, brother humbugs, you all plainly see, That few modern modes from humbugging are free; Let’s distinguish _our humbug_ with wine, wit, and glee. O the humbugs, &c.

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

I.

The blue-stocking club, when abandon’d by fame, On a project resolv’d to revive a lost name, So for each member’s comfort in life’s chilling gloom, Old mother M⸺tague feather’d her room.

CHORUS.

Sing a Ballynamona oro, A fine feather’d chamber for me.

II.

Like old mother Philips, tho’ doubtless her betters, These blue-stocking ladies are _ladies of letters_; Not in love, but in learning, their passions prevail, And they _feather the head_ whilst they _moult at the tail_.

III.

An Irish upholsterer Murphy’s the man, Who furnished my muse with a sketch of this plan; To guard off the wind that hard by the spot gathers, He told me she’d _paper’d_ her front room with _feathers_.

IV.

By the hair-broom of Nature this room was neglected, Here lay dust undisturbed, and there cobweb collected; Till a lewd son of Adam, a son of a whore, To get into the room had _burst open the door_.

V.

Then wicked wit W⸺ and old lolly-pop Q⸺, This fine feather’d drawing-room hasten’d to view; Old Q⸺ first got in, but he soon turn’d about, For the feathers flew round him and _tickl’d his snout_.

VI.

W⸺ stood undismay’d at old Q⸺’s queer mishap, And swore, tho’ the devil should stand in the gap, Into it he’d wriggle; when in it he got, He turn’d pale and fell sick, and dropt dead on the spot.

VII.

Birds of passage, alas! all us mortals are here, Exclaim’d Johnny W⸺ when he spent his last tear; In his last dying speech, he declar’d with dejection, He’d not the least hope of a flesh resurrection.

VIII.

Now ere like Johnny W⸺ my muse gives up the ghost, She leaves, as a legacy, Nature’s first toast; The front room of Eve Adam fill’d full of sin, _Well feather’d_ without, and _well furnish’d within_.

LITTLE PERU, OR THE WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.

I.

My sweet native land, the first place of my birth there, Good luck to you dear if the story be true, In your bowels I’m told on the face of the earth there, Lies Mexico’s wealth, a snug little Peru; Back to Ireland I’ll trot and fall digging for riches, These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold, For a pair I’ll get measur’d of ready-made breeches, And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.

II.

Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters, Leave nothing behind you but what you can take, ’Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull’s rags and tatters, No longer at Pat can he fun and game make. No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies, No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram, As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland’s rich God is, Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.

III.

You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call’d ponies, Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs, You’ll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies, If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares. I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger, With big lumps of nature’s coin’d gold in your hand, When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James’s you stagger, Bid tabbies go carry themselves and be d⸺d.

IV.

And you flashy captains who oft go recruiting, ’Mongst England’s brisk widows, fond daughters and wives, Leave war for a peace, and don’t be after shooting Of Frenchmen, to frighten them out of their lives. What’s honour and glory to flush ready rhino, Without which no captain can keep up the ball, Quick march to Peru, the sweet spot you and I know, Fill your bellies with full pay and half-pay and all.

V.

Oh! you my Bath Bobadils hunting for acres, And shaking your elbows, cry seven’s the main, For the bodies of belles you’re the live undertakers, But you take them, it’s true, for no prospect of gain. It’s not for a gold-mine you Bobadils marry, ’Tis all for pure love, beauty, temper, and grace! ’Tis for kindness and tenderness said Captain Larry, Who kill’d his last wife by too tight an embrace.

VI.

Ye limbs of the law living on little pittances, Fertile in quibbles, tho’ barren in fees, Yet pregnant with bother ’bout Irish remittances, Which you mighty well know never cross the salt seas; Leave the law’s crooked path for the straight path of pleasure, The road to Peru is the turnpike to wealth; And when you walk thro’ it pursuing your treasure, Pay as you come back, when your purse is in health.

VII.

You gentlemen all in St. Giles’s gay quarter, To carry a hod, make you shoulder an ass, My tight peep of day boys, leave stones, bricks, and mortar, Come one after t’other, rise all in a mass. Go taste but the water of Wicklow’s clear fountain, And then, in a moment, you’ll miracles find; By the stream that runs up to the top of the mountain, Like a watch case of gold will your bodies be lin’d.

VIII.

And you L⸺M⸺M like penny-post walking, All up and down London to bother the stones, In a pair of jack boots there no longer be stalking, But to Ireland convey yourself, body, and bones. As an absentee go and dwell on your estate then, “Lay the root to the axe” of your tenants distress, A slice of Peru for old Pompey the great then, Will make him look bigger sure never the less.

IX.

And you father O’Burke, first of Irish defenders, Of war and corruption, of tyrants and slaves, Protector of kings, not of humbug pretenders, So you pray for their lives, and keep digging their graves. As their old priest and sexton you’ve got a snug pension, The gift of our king, wealthy, worthy, and wise; ’Twas to make you see clearer, ah! lucky invention, He threw the gold dust of Peru in your eyes.

X.

Jew Aaron of old, in the absence of Moses, Set up a gold calf, a strange fancy I think; When Moses came back, they pull’d each others noses, Burnt the gold calf, and mixt it with water to drink. To be sure for pure gold with some silver alloy now, I shan’t be of worship and gratitude full; But I make a calf when you know my dear joy now, For half the expence I can make a nate bull.

XI.

While planning prosperity for brother paddies dear, I took up the news, called the National Star; I read it aloud, and was mightily vex’d to hear Peru had been seiz’d for the king, not the war. So said I to myself, talking to a bye-stander, I hate all damn’d wars and their consequent ills; But Peru for the king, sedition and slander, ’Tis to pay future ministers’ blunders and bills.

THE BLUE VEIN, A TRUE WELCH STORY.

I.

Ye fun-loving fellows for comical tales, Match this if you can, truly current in Wales; The bible so old, and the testament new, Have none more authentic, more faithful, or true. Four frisky maidens, young, handsome, and plump, Who cou’d each crack a flea on their bubbies or rump, Took it into their heads, just to bother the tail Of Ned Natty, a groom, so they jalap’d his ale.

II.

Now Ned on red herrings that ev’ning did sup, So he drank ev’ry drop of the gripe-giving cup, Soon his guts ’gan to grumble, and shortly Ned found His bowels give way, and his body unbound: The buckskin’s gay leather, by gallows confin’d, Could not be cut down ’till indecently lin’d, This made Neddy’s P⸺o, accustom’d to sprout, Shrink into his belly, and turn up his snout.

III.

The time this damn’d jalap in Ned’s belly lurk’d, No post-horse like Neddy was ever so work’d, Three nights and three days he lay squirting in bed, And neither could hold up his tail nor his head: The storm, at length, ceasing, purg’d Ned ’gan to think On some revenge sweet for this damnable stink, “For I’m damn’d,” exclaim’d Ned, “if these bitches shan’t find “That I’m cabbag’d before, tho’ I’m loosen’d behind.”

IV.

’Twas early one morn, exercising his steed, Ned saw an old gipsey hag crossing the mead, Straight he hail’d her, and said, “Woman, where do you hie?” She replied, “to tell fortunes of females hard by”: Now these females Ned found were his jalapping friends, So he thought it the season to make them amends, Then he brib’d for the cant, and the gipsey’s old cloaths; Thus equipp’d, said Ned, trick for trick, damn me, here goes.

V.

First Molly, the cook-maid, he took by the hand, From her greasy palm, told her what fortune had plann’d, She was soon to be married, each year have a brat, “Indeed,” cried the cooky, “how can you tell that?” “I’ll tell you the number,” said Ned, “let me see The blue vein that’s low plac’d ’twixt the navel and knee,” When she pull’d up her cloaths, Ned exclaim’d, “I declare Your blue vein I can’t see, ’tis so cover’d with hair.”

VI.

Next dairy-maid Dolly, of letchery full, Swore she was then breeding, for she’d had the bull; To the gipsey, said Doll, “can you, old woman, tell Whether bull or cow calf make my belly so swell?” When he view’d her blue vein, he said, “Doll, by my troth, You must find out two fathers, for you will have both,” For the squire and the curate, when heated with ale, Doll Dairy had milk’d in her amorous pail.

VII.

Now Kitty, the house-maid, so frisky and fair, Who smelt none the sweeter for carrotty hair, Presenting her palm to the gipsey so shrewd, Was candidly told that her nature was lewd: While feeling the vein near her gold-girted nick, Kate play’d the old gipsey a slippery trick, So Kate, that had ne’er been consider’d a whore, Was told she’d miscarried the morning before.

VIII.

Then came Peggy the prude, who no bawdy could bear, Yet wou’d tickle the lap-dog while combing his hair; “Is the butler, my sweetheart,” said Peggy, “sincere, “And shall we be married, pray, gipsey, this year?” Quoth the gipsey, “you’ll have him for better or worse, “But you’ll find that his corkscrew is not worth a curse; “So when you are wed, ’twill be o’er the town talk’d, “There goes Peggy, a bottle, most damnably cork’d.”

IX.

Now Ned, thus reveng’d, bid the maidens good day, But, curious, they ask’d him a moment to stay, For said Molly, the cook-maid, “we all long to see “If you’ve a blue vein ’twixt the navel and knee:” Ned pull’d up his cloaths, Sir, when to their surprise, They beheld his blue vein of a wonderful size, The sight Kate the carrotty couldn’t withstand, She grasp’d the blue vein ’till it burst in her hand.

X.

So alarm’d, the prude Peggy fell into strong fits, Frighten’d cook and Doll dairy went out of their wits; Then carrotty Kitty to gipsey Ned spoke, “We’ll each give a guinea to stifle the joke:” But Ned swore that no money should silence his tongue, That the tale should be told in a mirth-moving song; “As a caution,” cry’d Ned, “to all Abigails frail, “That there’s more fun in f⸺g than jalapping ale.”

XI.

The story like wildfire o’er Cambria was spread, From the borders of Chester, to fam’d Holyhead, In a vein of good humour, the vein that is blue, Will long be remember’d by me and by you: Then fill a bright bumper to honour this vein, A bumper of pleasure to badger all pain; So hear us, celestials, gay mortals below! Drink c—t, the blue vein, wherein floods of joy flow.

COUNTRY LIFE.

_Written by CAPTAIN MORRIS._

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

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

In LONDON I never know what to be at— Enraptur’d with this, and transported with that; I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan— And life seems a blessing too happy for man!

But the COUNTRY (Lord bless us!) sets all matters right— So calm and composing from morning to night: Oh, it settles the stomach, when nothing is seen But an ass on a common—a goose on a green!

In LONDON how easy we visit and meet!— Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat; Our mornings a round of good humour delight— And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night!

In the COUNTRY how pleasant our visits to make, Thro’ ten miles of mud, for formality’s sake; With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, And no thought in our head—but a ditch or a bog!

In LONDON, if folks ill together are put, A _bore_ may be roasted, a _quiz_ may be cut. “In the COUNTRY your friends would feel angry and sore, “Call an old maid a _quiz_, or a parson a _bore_.”

In the COUNTRY you’re nail’d like a pale in your park, To some stick of a neighbour cramm’d into the ark; Or, if you are sick, or in fits tumble down, You reach death, ere the doctor can reach you from town.

I’ve heard that how love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet:— I know nothing of that; for, alas, I’m a swain Who requires (I own it) more links to MY chain!

Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees, And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please: But a house is much more to my mind than a tree; And, for groves—oh, a fine grove of chimneys for me!

“In the ev’ning you’re screw’d to your chairs fist to fist, “All stupidly yawning at sixpenny whist; “And, tho’ win or lose, ’tis as true as ’tis strange, “You’ve nothing to pay—the good folks _have no change!_

“But, for singing and piping, your time to engage, “You’ve cock and hen bullfinches coop’d in a cage; “And what music in nature can make you so feel, “As a pig in a gate stuck, or knife-grinder’s wheel!

“I grant, if in fishing you take much delight, “In a punt you may shiver from morning to night; “And, tho’ blest with the patience that JOB had of old, “The devil a thing do you catch—but a _cold_!

“Yet ’tis charming to hear, just from boarding-school come, “A Tit-up tune up an old family strum: “Play _God save the King_ in an excellent tone, “With the sweet variation of _Old Bob and Joan_!

“But, what tho’ your appetite’s in a weak state, “A pound at a time they will push on your plate:— “’Tis true, as to health, you’ve no cause to complain; “For they’ll drink it, GOD bless ’em, _again and again_!”

Then in TOWN let me live, and in TOWN let me die; For, in truth, I can’t relish the COUNTRY—not I. If I must have a villa in LONDON to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall-mall!

THE ANSWER TO CAPTAIN MORRIS’S SONG, “_The COUNTRY LIFE_.”

I.

As town-bitten bards, bred in fashion and noise, The country decry, and its health yielding joys; Let us fairly examine the preference due To the smoak-smother’d town, o’er the villa’s clear view.

II.

At ev’ry town tavern you turn in to dine, Tho’ your dinner’s half cold, smoaking hot is your wine; Then how pleasant and wholesome while picking your bone, The mix’d odour of other folks food and your own.

III.