Part 3

Then noisy and drunk, scarcely feeling their legs, Bucks sup at the M⸺, on hash’d duck, oysters, eggs, Eggs pregnant with chick, oysters sp—d up before, The duck dainty fed in the streets common sewer.

IV.

Yet, how charming Vauxhall in a cold rainy night, To hear dull-hacknied ditties to music so trite; You’ve a thin slice of ham, town-made wine thick and flat: View a tinman’s cascade, and a fidler’s cock’d hat!

V.

See Ranelagh! folly and fashion’s resort, And vapid masqued balls, where Intrigue holds her court; There girls are “loose fishes,” pull’d up in their turns; There wives are harpoon’d, and dull husbands get horns.

VI.

The dance is _bon ton_—and in hot sultry weather Sticks the sexes like two pats of butter together! And when you get into the heart of the hop, You’re pinion’d like fowls in a poulterer’s shop.

VII.

But routes for fine fellows, fine feathers to see, Strong _liqueurs_ for ladies, who love to make free; Old tabbies at cards, over old fashion’d fans, Peeping, cheating, and squinting in each others hands.

VIII.

Then at dinners and concerts see fidlers so fine, Bolt hot macaroni, drink rare foreign wine; There musical dames, at each shift and each shake, Die away, “_amoroso_,” for fiddle-stick’s sake.

IX.

In a vortex of dust, thro’ the sun’s scorching ray, A rotten-row ride on a Sunday how gay; Thro’ a long lane of lacqueys you meet your hard fate, Screw’d in and screw’d out of a damn’d narrow gate.

X.

Then how cursedly civil when folks in town roam, To leave cards with their friends, when they know they’re _from home_; In the country, glad welcome our visits attends, We’ve no humbugging, card-dropping, shy-fighting friends.

XI.

In London, while day-light, not long are you clean; At night you’re bug bitten, scarce fit to be seen; Thus amusement and exercise fall in your way, For you’re scratching all night, and you’re scrubbing all day.

XII.

In the streets oft you meet a queer stick of a fellow, Who pokes in your eye his sharp-pointed umbrella; But the measure of danger is scarcely half full, When a flow’r-pot dropt down, breaks itself and your scull.

XIII.

If in London the doctors should shorten life’s date, To lie long in the grave’s, not the dead bodies fate; For surgeon, clerk, sexton, and coachman conspire, To mangle the corpse, and the bones join with wire.

XIV.

In the country we’re healthy, all vigour and spunk, No doctor we want, but to make him dead drunk; Nor yet patent-coffins; for, once in the ground, Our bodies are snug, till the trumpet’s last sound.

XV.

Now suppose you a flat, and addicted to play, In London a sharp will seize on you as prey; He’ll the passion promote, make you drink, though not dry, And filch your fair prospects by _loading the die_.

XVI.

Then the sports of the field, a fine view of the sea, Friend and bottle, girl, Cutter, and cottage give me; At smoak’d _rus in urbe_ let other bards dwell, Keep me from Pall Mall, Piccadilly, and _Hell_![1]

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

ADDITIONAL STANZAS.

I.

At the play among loungers and doxies you’re cramm’d, To hear wretched stuff that has just not been damn’d; Take cold with your back ’gainst an open door box, Get a crick in the neck, and a c⸺ full of p—x!

II.

Sublime your sensations, arise, when you hear The codless Italian, with pipe shrill and clear; But we in the country, whom cocknies call clods, All glory in raising our pipes with our—c⸺ds.

III.

At night, half seas over, returning from club, You run foul of a nightman, and his nose-gay tub; And a jordan perhaps, on your noddle may split, So before you get home, you’re bepiss’d or be-s—t!

IV.

In the country to see us would do your hearts good, Such pieces we push at, of pure flesh and blood; Take a flyer in town, ’tis a hot butter’d bun, And you’re certain to pay thro’ your nose for the fun.

V.

At the playhouse or opera when you approach, How sweet to be stuck in a stinking hack-coach; And when you alight, still your patience to try, A strange hand’s in your pocket, a link’s in your eye.

GOODY BURTON’s ALE.

Tune, _The Dusty Miller_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LADIES’ WIGS.

Tune, _Moll in the Wad_.

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

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

Now into a scrape, by love, I’m led, Your wig, dear ma’am, has twisted my head; My heart, too, I feel, goes pitty pat, But what care you or your jasey for that; Yet I’m no flat—I know what I’m at, I’ll soon mount a wig of my own to match that: I care not a fig—the woman I twig I’ll marry, by jasey, in spite of her wig.

The light or dark, brown, black, or flax, No jasey pays Pitt’s hair-powder tax; And when with men, maids romp and play, How cool to throw the wiggy away; By night or by day, to frisk, romp, or play, On carpet, bed, sopha, green grass, or new hay; Whate’er it’s upon, a little crim. con., With a lady’s rough jasey’s _expensive bon ton_.

Pray, ma’am, does the colour of your scratch With the hair of your _madgery_ match? Perhaps as it is the kick and go, You’ve mounted, ma’am, a merkin below! But the merkin you’ll find, from water and wind, Strong torrents before, and stiff breezes behind, Will not stick at all; but with glue to the cawl, ’Twill stick like a snug _swallow’s nest_ to the wall!

Ah, happy, happy, happy hour, When I get your wig in my pow’r; Then we’ll count the coming joys, Buxom girls, and prattling boys; Dolls, trinkets, and toys to feast their young eyes, And lullaby ditties to quiet their noise; While sweet lolly-pob stops the sigh and the sob, Sing higgledy, piggledy, jiggummy bob.

CHORUS.

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

A GENTLEMAN’s WIG.

Tune, _Derry Down_.

I sing not of despots, or slaves who submit, Not of farmer GEORGE, JENKY, DUNDAS, FOX, or PITT! My ballad’s the bantling of laughter and gig, ’Tis of an old cock in a c—tified wig.

’Gainst the poll-tax of Pitt this old codger did rave, Like a felon transported, it forc’d him to shave; “Tho’ tried for my life,” said th’ old buck, I’ll rob The tail of some DOLLY to build a brown bob.

Near Somerset House he fell in with a tit, And he thought, for his purpose, the c—tling was fit; But, when he examin’d her parts, d’ye see, All the hair of her c—t would’nt make a toupee.

The same night he pick’d up a merry-ars’d wench, With hair quantum suff. for the wisdom-wig’d bench; Whilst on her back sleeping as fast as a top, He with keen-cutting scissars her c—t made _a crop_.

Away went the thief, and the barber received The booty, for which a fine cawl he had weav’d; But strange! whilst old RAZOR the wig had in hand, The _pole_ in his breeches did constantly stand.

Well pleas’d with his plight, Razor laid by his work, And lather’d the beard of his wife like a Turk; Keep the wig, said she, Love, don’t expose it for sale, ’Tis a _bob_ for your head, and a _bob_ for my _tail_.

The wig frizz’d and curl’d, closely shav’d Codger’s nob; Away went the barber to try on the bob; But the bob waxing warm, Codger’s passions did rise, Which brought _tears_ in his breeches, instead of his _eyes_.

In rampant condition he flew to a fair, And per chance met the Dolly he’d robb’d of her hair, She whipp’d off the wig, cloath’d his parts with the cawl, So in went his dry bob, and wet bob, and all.

Now we know to be true what anatomists state, That the fountain of love is supplied from the pate; ’Twas the jasey provoking,—sirs, mark what I say,— Made his fountain of love in love’s bason to play.

Then take my advice, ye old cocks of the game, Whenever you find your _wild_ passions grown _tame_; Get a wig made of hair, from the spot ye all prize, And in spite of your _prudence_ your p—o will _rise_.

AN IRISH DYING DITTY.

I am in my nature as brisk as a fly, Resolving to live the day after I die; And when I am dead, this live body to save, Plant a peck of potatoes plump over my grave; Then, hedge me well round with some big pebble stones, Else father Mai’s pigs will soon root up my bones; For sure foolish I’d look at the trumpet’s last sound, When my body’s to rise, and no bones to be found.

As I’ve nothing to leave, so I’ve made my last will, Chalk’d up on a slate, without paper or quill; And JUDAH my wife, the delight of my bed, Swears she won’t open it till I am dead; With tears in her eyes too, that did her face souse, She vows she’ll keep single, tho’ I quit the house; When I know that the moment my back’s to her face, She’ll be flying to Paddy O’Blarney’s embrace.

Good luck t’her, say I, for the comfort I’ve had, For when I was merry, she always was sad; Dead husbands, she tells me, are not worth a curse, And live ones are often no better than worse. When she sleeps all alone, she’s all night wide awake, And dreams that the devil her conscience will take; To drive him away from her head, my sweet bride Must have a live spouse to lie by her backside.

Well, let her be married again, what care I, I’m off to my grave, other fish I’ve to fry; I forgive her, God knows, sure without any bother, Oh, she’ll think of Pat’s thing if she gets such another. And now, as the breath in my body’s all gone, A word or two more, and then Paddy has done; But yet, when I think on’t, I’ve nothing to say, For to-morrow we’re here, and are all gone to-day.

COFFIN CLUB.

CONSTITUTIONAL DIRGE.

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

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

_To the Solemn Tune of_ “JACK RAN.”

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

CHORUS—WITH A GROAN.

May fate bestow what’s good for you, Horrors jet black, and devils dark blue.

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

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

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

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

_Coffins to be shewn._

Then comes this tight-screw’d patent case, The undertaker’s last embrace;

Fast lock’d in which, four feet in ground, We’re safe until the trumpet’s sound. But, hark! the sexton tolls the bell! So coffin comrades fare ye well.

THE TOY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CATASTROPHE.

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

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

THE CROPT COMET.

Tune, _I have a Tenement to let_.

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

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ACTRESSES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whither is S⸺e fled? And where’s her cock of wax gone? Who us’d to rear his crested head Within her curly caxon! When Jew Braham’s cabbage came, She quitted Drury’s station, To enjoy (was she to blame) _The early vegetation_!

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

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

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

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

THE CROP.