« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Salutes the laughing morn;
Hark, to his joyous strain
Which echo gives again,
And, hark, his lively horn.
A BUNDLE OF WANTS. If you think it will make you all merry, I'll sing you a song about wants; Though of wit, am sure, I want plenty For, alas, that with me is quite scant. But a woman without e'er a tongue,
She never can scold very loud, And a man that is both deaf and dumb Can make no great noise in a crowd. Fol lol de rol, &c. Poor Jack with no shot in his locker, May wander nobody cares whither, And there no greater want of a cobbler Can be, than his want of leather: A man, if he wants but one leg,
Will make but a pitiful runner, And if he should chance want an eye, He'll sure make a very bad gunner. Fol lol de rol, &c.
A tailor if wanting a goose,
Perhaps may be wanting a dinner;
And a woman that riots and scolds
Wants grace, or else I'm a sinner. A brewing, if wanting of malt,
I'm sure, must prove very bad beer, So a woman, wanting a fault,
She like a bright star will appear,
Fol lol de rol, &e.
A mountebank without a fool,
And a courtier turned out of place,
Or a tinkler without any tools,
They're all in a comical case;
A soldier if wanting his pay,
Perhaps, too, may murmur and curse,
And a man who is wanting of money
Can have no great want of a purse."
Fol lol de rol, &c.
A ploughman without e'er a plough,
I think he may live bis ease;
And a dairy without e'er a cow,
Will not make much butter and cheese; A farmer without any corn
Can neither give, sell, no, nor lend:
But a huntsman that's wanting a horn,
His wife may perhaps stand him a friend.
Fol lol de rol, &c.
The wants of your humble are simple,-
'Tis the favour of your kind applause;
But gratitude never was wanting,
Nor respect to religion and law;
In the hope, too, that none of my friends
Will be much displeased at my song,
Yet, for fear that it should be the case,
I'll now take my leave and begone.
Fol lol de rol, &c.
THE HARDY SAILOR.
The hardy sailor braves the ocean,
Fearless of the roaring wind,
Yet his heart, with soft emotion,
Throbs to leave his love behind,
To dread of foreign foes a stranger,
Though the youth can, dauntless, roam
Alarming fears paint every danger
In a rival left at home.
The hardy sailor, &c.
Gentle woman! thine's the power
Still to calm the breast that's aching;
Thine it is, in sorrow's hour,
To save the o'ercharged heart from breaking. Gentle woman! friendship's best
And holiest charm love blendeth;
Its sacred altar thy fair rest
While but with life its blessing endeth. Gentle woman! when the day
Of want appears, though clothed in terrors, Thy sweet love, with heavenly ray,
Soothes man's fears-forgets his errors.
Gentle woman! be for ever
Fraught with such delightful powers:
Blest with thee a man may never
Feel the force of sorrow's hours.
THIS LONDON, AGRAH! IS THE DEVIL'S OWN SHOP.
From great Londonderry to London so merry,
My own natty self in a waggon did ride:
In London so frisky, folks ride in a whiskey,
At Connaught they carry their whiskey inside.
I jump'd from the waggon and saw a Green Dragon;
I spied a Blue Boar when I turn'd to the south;
At the Swan with two Throttles I tippled two bot-
And bother'd the beef at the Bull and the Mouth.
Ah! Paddy, my honey! look a'ter your money,
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top.
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel, be aisy,
This London, agrah! is the devil's own shop.
The great city wax-work was all a mere tax-work,
A plan to bamboozle me out of my pelf;
Says I Mrs. Salmon, c'up none of your gammon,
Your figures are no more alive than yourself.
I ax'd an old quaker the way to Long acre;
With thee and with thou he so bother'd my brain,
After fifty long sallies through lanes and blind
I found myself trotting in Rosemary lane.
Ah! Paddy my honey! &c.
At night, O, how silly! along Piccadilly,
I wander'd when up comes a beautiful dame :
6 Huzza!' says the lady, how do you do, Paddy ?'
Says I, pretty well, ma'am ; I hope you're the same.
A great hulking fellow, who held her umbrella,
Then gave me a terrible thump on the nob;
She ran away, squalling; I, 'watch, watch ;' was
The devil a watch was there left in my fob,
Ah! Paddy, my honey! &c.
SEE THE ROSY MORN.
See the rosy morn, appearing,
Paints with gold the chimney pots,
Housemaids now for work preparing,
Gaily twirl their snow white mops.
Watchmen their last hour proclaiming.
Tottering homewards half asleep,
Whilst the milkmaids, loudly screaming,
Sing duets with soot ho sweep!
Dear Tom this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale,
Out of which I will drink to sweet Kate of the vale,
Waз once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul,
As ere crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about, 'twas his pride to excel,
And amongst jolly topers he bore off the belle.
It chanc'd as in dog days he sat at his ease,
In a flower woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body when long in the ground it had lain;
And time into clay had dissolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug, Now, sacred to friendship, mirth, and mild ale, She's here to my lovely sweet Kate of the vale,