Part 10

A Fardel farther I would see, And some began to muse me; The Lasses they sat wittally, And the Lads began to Rooze me: The Blades with Beaus came down she knows, Like ring Rooks fro _Strecy Boggy_; And four and twanty _Highland_ Lads, Were following _Kathern Loggy_.

When I did ken this muckle Trame, And every ene did know her; I spir'd of _Willy_ what they mean, Quo he they aw do Mow her: There's ne'er a Lass in aw _Scotland_, From _Dundee_ to _Strecy Boggy_; That has her Fort so bravely Mann'd, As bonny _Kathern Loggy_.

At first indeed I needs must tell, Ise could not well believe it; But when Ise saw how fow they fell, Ise could not but conceive it. There was ne'er a Lad of any note, Or any deaf young Roguey; But he did lift the welly Coat, Of bonny _Kathern Loggy_.

Had I kenn'd on Kittleness, As I came o'er the Moore _Joe_; Ise had n'er ban as Ise ha dun, Nor e'er out-stankt my seln so: For I was then so stankt with stint, I spurr'd my aw'd Nagg _Fogey_; And had I kenn'd sha had been a Whore, I had ne'er Lov'd _Kathern Loggy_.

(_The_ Catholick _Brother_) _A_ SONG.

[Music]

Dear _Catholick_ brother are you come from the Wars, So lame of your foots and your Face full of Scars; To see your poor _Shela_ who with great grief was fill'd, For you my dear Joy when I think you were kill'd. _With a Fa la, la._

O my shoul my dear _Shela_, I'm glad you see me, For if I were dead now, I could not see thee; The Cuts in my Body, and the Scars in my Face, I got them in Fighting for Her Majesty's Grace.

But oh my dear _Shela_ dost thou now love me, So well as you did, e're I went to the Sea; By _Cri----_ and St. _Pa----_ my dear Joy I do, And we shall be Married to morrow Just now.

I'll make a Cabin for my dearest to keep off the Cold, And I have a Guinea of yellow red Gold; To make Three halfs of it I think will be best, Give Two to my _Shela_ and the Tird to the _Priest_.

Old _Philemy_ my Father was full Fourscore Years old, And tho' he be dead he'll be glad to be told; That we Two are Married, my dear spare no cost, But send him some Letter, upon the last Post.

_The Triumphs of_ PEACE, _or the_ WIDDOWS _and_ MAIDS _Rejoycing_.

[Music]

Dear Mother I am Transported, To think of the boon Comrades; They say we shall all be Courted, Kind Widows as well as maids, Oh! this will be joyful News: _We'll dress up our Houses with Holly, We'll broach a Tub of humming Bub, To treat those that come with a rub a dub dub, For dear Mother they'll make us Jolly._

Dear Mother to see them mounted, 'Twou'd tickle your Heart with Joy; By me they all shall be counted, Heroical Sons of _Troy_:

The Bells in the Steeples shall ring, _We'll stick all our Houses with Holly_, _We'll broach a Tub of humming Bub_, _To treat those that comes with a rub a dub dub_, _For dear Mother they'll make us Jolly_.

I'll dress me as fine as a Lady, Against they come into the Town; My Ribbonds are all bought ready, My Furbelow-Scarf and Gown; To pleasure the Warlike Boys, _We'll dress up our Houses_, &c.

They are delicate brisk and Brawny, Troth neither too lean nor fat; No matter for being Tawny, They're never the worse for that; We'll give them a welcome Home, _And dress up our Houses_, &c.

They come from the Field of Battle, To quarter in Ladies Arms; 'Tis pretty to hear them Prattle, And tell of their loud Alarms: We'll Crown them with Garlands gay, _And dress up our Houses_, &c.

Those boys are the Pride of _Britain_, They love us and so they may; Dear Mother it is but fitting, We shou'd be as kind as they: The Conduits shall run with Wine, _We'll dress up our Houses_, &c.

Those battling Sons of Thunder, Now at their returning back; I know they will be for Plunder, Virginities go to wrack: But let them do what they please, _We'll dress up our Houses_, &c.

_A_ SONG. _Set and Sung by Mr._ LEVERIDGE _at the_ Theatre.

[Music]

Fill the Glass, fill, fill, fill the Glass, Let Hautboys sound, whilst bright _Celinda_, Bright _Celinda's_ Health go round. Fill the Glass, fill, fill, fill the Glass, Let Hautboys sound, whilst bright _Celinda_, Bright _Celinda's_ Health goes round.

With eternal Beauty blest, ever blooming, Ever blooming still be best; Drink your Glass, drink your glass, Drink your Glass and think, Think, think the rest, Drink your Glass and think, Think, think the rest.

_An_ IRISH SONG.

Hub ub, ub, boo; Hub ub, ub, boo; Dish can't be true, De War dees cease, But der's no Peash, I know and find, 'Tis Sheal'd and Sign'd, But won't believe 'tis true, Hub, ub, ub, boo, Hub ub, ub, boo.

_A hone, a hone_, Poor _Teague's_ undone, I dare not be, A Rapparee, I ne'er shall see, _Magraw Macree_, Nor my more dear Garone, _A hone, a hone._

Awa, awa, I must huzza, 'Twill hide my Fears, And save my Ears, The Mob appears, Her'sh to _Nassau_, Dear Joy 'tis _Usquebaugh_, Huzza, Huzza, Huzza.

_The_ BATH _Teazers: Or a Comical Description of the Diversions at_ BATH.

[Music]

I'll tell thee _Dick_ where I have lately been, _There's rare doings at_ Bath, Amongst Beauties divine, the like was ne'er seen, _There's rare doings at_ Bath, And some dismal Wits that were eat up with Spleen, _There's rare doings at_ Bath. _There's rare doings at_ Bath. _Raffling and Fidling, and Piping and Singing,_ _There's rare doings at_ Bath.

Where all drink the Waters to recover Health, And some sort of Fools there throw off their Wealth, And now and then Kissing, and that's done by stealth, _There's rare doings_, &c.

And now for the Crew that pass in the Throng, That live by the Gut, or the Pipe, or the Song, And teaze all the Gentry as they pass along, _There's rare doings_, &c.

First _Corbet_ began my Lord pray your Crown, You'll hear a new Boy I've Just brought to Town, I'm sure he will please you, or else knock me down, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Besides I can boast of my self and two more, And _Leveridge_ the Bass, that sweetly will roar, 'Till all the whole Audience joins in an ancore, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _H----b L----r_ and _B----r_ too, With Hautboy, one Fidle, and Tenor so bleu, And fusty old Musick, not one Note of New, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _Morphew_ the Harper with his Pigg's Face, Lye tickling a Treble and vamping a Bass, And all he can do 'tis but Musick's disgrace, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Then comes the Eunuch to teaze them the more, Subscribe your two Guineas to make up fourscore, I never Perform'd at so low rate before, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Then come the Strolers among the rest, And little Punch _Powel_ so full of his Jest, With pray Sir, good Madam, it's my Show is best, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Thus being Tormented, and teaz'd to their Souls, They thought the best way to get rid of these Fools, The Case they referr'd to the Master of the R----ls, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Says his Honour, and then he put on a Frown, And since you have left it to my Thoughts alone, I'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the Town, O _rare doings at_ Bath, _Raffling, and Fidling_, &c.

_The Distress'd_ SHEPHERD, _A_ SONG.

[Music]

I am a poor Shepherd undone, And cannot be Cur'd by Art; For a Nymph as bright as the Sun, Has stole away my Heart: And how to get it again, There's none but she can tell; To cure me of my Pain, By saying she loves me well: And alass poor Shepherd, Alack and a welladay; Before I was in Love, Oh every Month was _May_.

If to Love she cou'd not incline, I told her I'd die in an Hour; To die says she 'tis in thine, But to Love 'tis not in my Power. I askt her the Reason why, She could not of me approve; She said 'twas a Task too hard, To give any Reason for Love: _And alass poor Shepherd_, &c.

She ask'd me of my Estate, I told her a Flock of Sheep; The Grass whereon they Graze, Where she and I might Sleep: Besides a good Ten Pound, In old King _Harry's_ Groats; With Hooks and Crooks abound, And Birds of sundry Notes: _And alass poor Shepherd_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

I Love to Madness, rave t'enjoy, But heaps of Wealth my Progress bar; Curse on the Load that stops my way, My Love's more Rich and Brighter far: Were I prest under Hills of Gold, My furious Sighs should make my escape; I'd sigh and blow up all the Mould, And throw the Oar in _CÊlia's_ Lap.

Were thou some Peasant mean and small, And all the spacious Globe were mine; I'd give the World, the Sun and all, For one kind brighter Glance of thine: This Hour let _CÊlia_ with me live, And Gods cou'd I but of you borrow, I'd give what only you can give, For that dear Hour, I'd give to morrow.

_The loving Couple: Or the Merry_ WEDDING.

[Music]

A Jolly young _Grocer_ of _London Town_, Fell deeply in Love with his Maid: And often he courted her to lye down, But she told him she was afraid: Sometimes he would struggle, But still she would Boggle, And never consent to his wicked Will; But said he must tarry, Until he would marry, And then he should have his fill.

But when that he found he could not obtain, The Blessing he thus pursu'd; For tho' he had try'd her again and again, She vow'd she would not be leud: At last he submitted, To be so outwitted, As to be catch'd in the Nuptial snare; Altho' the young Hussie, Before had been busie, With one that she lov'd more dear.

The Morning after they marry'd were, The Drums and the Fiddles came; Then oh what a thumping and scraping was there, To please the new marry'd Dame: There was fiddle come fiddle, With hey diddle diddle, And all the time that the Musick play'd; There was Kissing and Loving, And Heaving and Shoving, For fear she should rise a Maid.

But e'er three Months they had marry'd been, A Thumping Boy popp'd out; Ads---- says he you confounded Queen, Why what have you been about? You're a Strumpet cries he, You're a Cuckold cries she, And when he found he was thus betray'd; There was Fighting and Scratching, And Rogueing and Bitching, Because she had prov'd a Jade.

_A_ SONG, _Tune of Chickens and Sparrow-grass._

What sayest thou, If one should thrust thee thro'? What sayest thou, If one shou'd Plough? I say Sir, you may do what you please, I shall scarce stir, Tho' you ne'er cease, Thro', thro', you may thrust me thro'. Such Death is a Pleasure, When Life's a Disease.

_The precaution'd_ Nymph, _Set by_ L. Ramondon.

[Music]

Go, go, go, go falsest of thy Sex be gone, Leave, leave, oh leave, leave me to my self alone; Why wou'd you strive by fond pretence, Thus to destroy my Innocence.

Know, _CÊlia_ you too late betray'd, Then thus you did the Nymph upbraid; Love like a Dream usher'd by night, Flyes the approach of Morning light.

Go falsest of your Sex begone, Oh! Leave me to my self alone; She that believes Man when he swears, Or but regards his Oaths or Pray'rs, May she, fond she, be most accurst, Nay more, be subject to his Lust.

_The Life and Death of Sir_ HUGH _of the_ GRIME. _To the Tune of_ Chevy-chace.

As it befel upon one time, About _Mid-summer_ of the Year; Every Man was taxt of his Crime, For stealing the good Lord Bishop's Mare.

The good Lord _Screw_ sadled a Horse, And rid after the same serime; Before he did get over the Moss, There was he aware of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_.

Turn, O turn, thou false Traytor, Turn and yield thy self unto me; Thou hast stol'n the Lord Bishop's Mare, And now thinkest away to flee.

No, soft Lord _Screw_, that may not be, Here is a broad Sword by my side; And if that thou canst Conquer me, The Victory will soon be try'd.

I ne'er was afraid of a Traytor bold, Altho' thy Name be _Hugh_ in the _Grime_; I'll make thee repent thy Speeches foul, If Day and Life but give me time.

Then do thy worst, good Lord _Screw_, And deal your blows as fast as you can; It will be try'd between me and you, Which of us two shall be the best Man.

Thus as they dealt their blows so free, And both so Bloody at that time; Over the Moss ten Yeomen they see, Come for to take Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_.

Sir _Hugh_ set his Back again a Tree, And then the Men compast him round; His mickle Sword from his Hand did flee, And then they brought Sir _Hugh_ to the Ground.

Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_ now taken is, And brought back to _Garland_ Town; Then cry'd the good Wives all in _Garland_ Town, Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_, thou'st ne'er gang down.

The good Lord Bishop is come to Town, And on the Bench is set so high; And every Man was tax'd to his crime, At length he call'd Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_.

Here am I, thou false Bishop, Thy Humours all to fulfil; I do not think my Fact so great, But thou may'st put into thy own Will.

The Quest of Jury-Men was call'd, The best that was in _Garland_ Town; Eleven of them spoke all in a-breast, Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ thou'st ne'er gang down.

Then other Questry-men was call'd, The best that was in _Rumary_; Twelve of them spoke all in a-breast, Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ thou'st now Guilty.

Then came down my good Lord _Boles_, Falling down upon his Knee; Five hundred Pieces of Gold will I give, To grant Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lord _Boles_, And of your Speeches set them by; If there be Eleven _Grimes_ all of a Name, Then by my own Honour they all should dye.

Then came down my good Lady _Ward_, Falling low upon her Knee; Five hundred Measures of Gold I'll give, And grant Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_ to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lady _Ward_, None of your proffers shall him buy, For if there be Twelve _Grimes_ all of a Name, By my own Honour all should dye.

Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime's_ condemn'd to dye, And of his Friends he had no lack; Fourteen Foot he leapt in his Ward, His Hands bound fast upon his Back.

Then he look'd over his left Shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his Father dear, Came tearing his Hair most pitifully.

Peace, peace, my Father dear, And of your Speeches set them by; Tho' they have bereav'd me of my Life, They cannot bereave me of Heaven so high.

He look'd over his right Shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his Mother dear, Came tearing her Hair most pitifully.

Pray have me remember'd to _Peggy_ my Wife, As she and I walk'd over the Moor; She was the cause of the loss of my Life, And with the old Bishop she play'd the Whore.

Here _Johnny Armstrong_, take thou my Sword; That is made of the metal so fine; And when thou com'st to the Border side, Remember the Death of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_.

_The disappointed_ TAYLOR: _Or good Work done for Nothing._

[Music]

A Taylor good Lord, in the Time of Vacation, When Cabbage was scarce and when Pocket was low, For the Sale of good Liquor pretended a Passion, To one that sold Ale in a Cuckoldy Row: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a Stitch, And sing Cucumber, Cucumber ho.

One Day she came up, when at Work in his Garret, To tell what he Ow'd, that his Store he might know; Says he it is all very right I declare it, Says she then I hope you will pay e'er I go? Now a Louse, _&c._

Says Prick-Louse my Jewel, I love you most dearly, My Breast every Minute still hotter does grow, I'll only says she for the Juice of my Barly, And other good Drink in my Cellar below: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a Stitch, And sing Cucumber, Cucumber ho.

Says he you mistake, 'tis for something that's better, Which I dare not Name, and you care not to show; Says she I'm afraid you are given to flatter, What is it you Mean, and pray where does it grow: Now a Louse, _&c._

Says he 'tis a Thing that has never a handle, 'Tis hid in the Dark, and it lies pretty low; Says she then I fear that you must have a Candle, Or else the wrong way you may happen to go: Now a Louse, _&c._

Says he was it darker than ever was Charcole, Tho' I never was there, yet the way do I know; Says she if it be such a terrible dark Hole, Don't offer to Grope out your way to it so: Now a Louse, _&c._

Says he you shall see I will quickly be at it, For this is, oh this is the way that I'll go; Says she do not tousle me so for I hate it, I vow by and by you will make me cry oh: So they both went to work, Now a Kiss, then a Jirk, And sing Cucumber, Cucumber ho.

The Taylor arose when the business was over, Says he you will rub out the Score e'er you go; Says she I shall not pay so dear for a Lover, I'm not such a Fool I would have you to know: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a Stitch, And sing Cucumber, Cucumber ho.

_The Penurious_ QUAKER: _Or, the High priz'd_ HARLOT.

[Music]

_Quaker._ My Friend thy Beauty seemeth good, We Righteous have our failings; I'm Flesh and Blood, methinks I cou'd, Wert thou but free from Ailings.

_Harlot._ Believe me Sir I'm newly broach'd, And never have been in yet; I vow and swear I ne'er was touch'd, By Man 'till this day sennight.

_Quaker._ Then prithee Friend, now prithee do, Nay, let us not defer it; And I'll be kind to thee when thou Hast laid the Evil Spirit.

_Harlot._ I vow I won't, indeed I shan't, Unless I've Money first, Sir; For if I ever trust a Saint, I wish I may be curst, Sir.

_Quaker._ I cannot like the Wicked say, I Love thee and Adore thee, And therefore thou wilt make me pay, So here is Six pence for thee.

_Harlot._ Confound you for a stingy WHIG, Do ye think I live by Stealing; Farewel you Puritannick Prig, I scorn to take your Shilling.

_A_ SONG. _Tune of the_ Old Rigadoon:

_Lais_ when you Lye wrapp'd in Charms, In your Spouses Arms, How can you deny, The Youth to try, What is his due.

Sure you ne'er have Been touch'd by Man, That you ne'er can, Admit the Slave.

Come let him in, And if he does Not pay what he owes, Ne'er trust the Fool again.

Let another Spark supply his Place, For a Woman should not want; And Nature sure ne'er made a Man so base, But with asking he would grant: But if all Mankind were agreed to spoil your Race, By _Jove_ my Dear they shan't.

_The travelling_ TINKER, _and the Country_ ALE-WIFE: _Or, the lucky Mending of the leaky_ COPPER.

[Music]

A Comely Dame of _Islington_, Had got a leaky Copper; The Hole that let the Liquor run, Was wanting of a Stopper: A Jolly _Tinker_ undertook, And promised her most fairly; With a thump thump thump, and knick knack knock, To do her Business rarely.

He turn'd the Vessel to the Ground, Says he a good old Copper; But well may't Leak, for I have found A Hole in't that's a whopper: But never doubt a _Tinkers_ stroke, Altho' he's black and surly, With a thump thump thump, _&c._ He'll do your Business purely.

The Man of Mettle open'd wide, His Budget's mouth to please her, Says he this Tool we oft employ'd, About such Jobbs as these are: With that the Jolly _Tinker_ took, A Stroke or two most kindly; With a thump thump thump, _&c._ He did her Business finely.

As soon as Crock had done the Feat, He cry'd 'tis very hot ho; This thrifty Labour makes me Sweat, Here, gi's a cooling Pot ho: Says she bestow the other Stroke, Before you take your Farewel; With a thump thump thump, _&c._ And you may drink a Barrel.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ JOHN ABELL.

I'll press, I'll bless thee Charming fair, Thou Darling of my Heart; I'll press, I'll bless thee Charming fair, Thou darling of my Heart: I'll clasp, I'll grasp thee close my Dear, And Doat on every Part.

I'll clasp, I'll grasp thee close my Dear, And Doat on every Part! I'll bless thee now thou Darling, Thou Darling of my Heart; I'll bless thee now, _&c._

With fond excess of Pleasure, I'll make the Panting cry, Panting cry; Then wisely use your Treasure, Then wisely use your Treasure, Refusing, still comply.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

What shall I do, I've lost my Heart, 'Tis gone, 'tis gone I know not whither; Love cut its strings, Then lent it Wings And both are flown together: Fair Ladies tell for Love's sweet sake, Did any of you find it? Come, come it lies, In your Lips or Eyes, Tho' you'll not please to mind it.

But if't be lost, Then farewel Frost, I will enquire no more; For Ladies they Steal Hearts away, But only to restore: _For Ladies they_, &c.

Tune, _si votr' epousa_.

_Chloris_ can you Forgive the fault that I have done; _Chloris_ can you Forgive me when I sue, Faith it is true, That had you let me farther gone, I had ruin'd you, And mischiev'd my self too: Yet I ne'er should Have ventur'd on a Maid so Chast, Had not your Eye, Shot thro' my Soul, And conjur'd all the Sense away, That there did lye.

_Lumps of_ PUDDING.

[Music]

When I was in the low Country, When I was in the low Country; What slices of Pudding and pieces of Bread, My Mother gave me when I was in need.

My Mother she killed a good fat Hog, She made such Puddings would choak a Dog; And I shall ne'er forget 'till I dee, What lumps of Pudding my Mother gave me.

She hung them up upon a Pin, The Fat run out and the Maggots crept in; If you won't believe me you may go and see, What lumps, _&c._

And every Day my Mother would cry, Come stuff your Belly Girl until you die; 'Twou'd make you to laugh if you were to see, What lumps, _&c._

I no sooner at Night was got into Bed, But she all in kindness would come with speed; She gave me such parcels I thought I should dee, With eating of Pudding, _&c._

At last I Rambled abroad and then, I met in my Frolick an honest Man; Quoth he my dear _Philli_ I'll give unto thee, Such Pudding you never did see.

Said I honest Man, I thank thee most kind, And as he told me indeed I did find; He gave me a lump which did so agree, One bit was worth all my Mother gave me.

_The_ QUAKER's SONG.

[Music]

Walk up to Virtue Strait, And from all Vice retire; Turn not on this Hand nor on that, To compass thy Desire.

Side not with wicked ones, Nor such as are Prophane; But side with good and goodly ones, That come from _Amsterdam_.

Arm not thy self with Pride, That's not the way to Bliss; But Arm thy self with holy Zeal, And take this loving Kiss.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

_Lorenzo_ you amuse the Town, And with your Charms undo, Sir; _Laurinda_ can resist a Frown, But must not be from you, Sir: You make them all resign their Hearts, And fix their Eyes a gazing; The _Porcupine_ has not more Darts, From every part amazing.