and battering,

Tinkering and clattering, polishing and planishing,
Reddels, greddels, spits, and kettles,
Covers for plates and Romford grates,
Soldering cauldrons, lamps and lanterns,
Ladles, racks, and roasting jacks.

Old Vulcan, forging direful arms,
Ne'er spread such thundering alarms.
Their brats were ever squalling,

And outraged all confounders;
In the street was constant bawling-
Of women selling "flounders."
A lodger in the attic

Instructed little drummers;

Outside was Serjeant Tactic

Exercising gunners!

There was firing guns and beating drums,

ble;"-and a poor country curate, with his shirtsleeves seen at his elbows, by the title of "right reverend archbishop," for the love of Him who made you, bestow something on a poorTol de rol, &c.

There's a difference between a beggar and a queen, And I'll tell

you the reason why

A queen cannot swagger, nor get drunk, like a beggar,

Nor yet be so happy as I.

SPOKEN.] Why, how the devil should they? you know they are obliged to support a kind of a dignified character: now I can change mine as often as I please; for, like a juggler, I can deal in legerdemain; I am ambidexter, and can use both

BEGGARS AND BALLAD-SINGERS. MERRY Proteus of old, as by Ovid we're told, Could vary his shape as he chose; Then why should not he my model be, When, in Charity's name, I impose. SPOKEN.] You must know, good folks, that I belong to the honourable fraternity of beggars, ballad-singers, and show-folks; in begging, as in all other fashionable employments, a little welltimed, smooth-faced flattery goes a great way; for instance, now I address every old maid, for I am sure to know them by their vinegar countenances, by the title of "most beautiful lady;"-a raw, awkward fellow of a recruit, "most noble cap

an accomplishment that gets little encouragement now-a-days, it's a mere

Tol de rol, &c.

Like a sailor from the wars, covered over with

scars,

When I choose in that character to beg,

My knuckles I hold flat, and with t'other arm my hat,

And this way I hold up my leg.

SPOKEN.] Come, my noble messmate, bestow your charity upon a poor seaman, lamed in the service, stumped in his starboard gam, his kneebraces shot away, and turned out of the service without a smart-ticket. Sings

"Now, dashed upon the billows,

Her op'ning timbers creak, &c." Here, my good fellow, there's something for you; you have been an honour to your country. An honour, ma'am, to be sure I have; but, like most honourable gentlemen, my honour consists in myTol de rol, &c.

There's Dolly and I, as ballads we cry,
On a couple of stools see us stand,
While she bawls aloud as the folks passes by,
I then takes my fiddle in hand.

SPOKEN.] Come, neighbours and friends, here is an excellent new song, entitled and called, "I am a vild and roving boy." Come, Dick, play up. Stop, Moll, let us rosin the bow a bit first. Sings

"I am a vild and roving boy,

My lodging's in the Isle of Troy;
A roving boy although I be,

I'll leave them all, and I'll go with thee." That's a bad halfpenny you've taken, Moll. I a'nt a bad halfpenny I've taken. It is. It a'nt. O! mammy, mammy, mammy. There, you jade, you've set the child a crying; I've a good mind to break my fiddle over your head. I don't care for you nor your fiddle neither, as long as I can singTol de rol, &c. To make the wretched blest, private charity i best

These common beggars spurn at our laws! Though reprobate the train, I mean to beg again, To solicit your smiles and applause.

SPOKEN.] So, you see, my good folks, if you do not condescend to smile upon me, I must e'en say my begging trade is no better than

Tol de rol, &c.

OH! EVER WEAR OF LOVE THIS TOKEN.
A HINDOO GIRL'S SONG.
(Ryan.)

OH! take this rose, and let it lie
Close to thy fond devoted heart;
There let it live its hour and die!

And never from the dear rose part;
For, yester-morn, at noontide hour,

While wand'ring by the Ganges' stream,
Oppress'd and faint, I sought a bower,

And fairies sent me this sweet dream:
I thought a sylph, with wings of light,
Bid me select the brightest tree,
And gather, for my soul's delight,

A sun-bright rose, and give it thee!
Then take this rose, and, near thy heart,
Oh! ever wear of Love this token;
And never from the dear rose part,
For, if 'tis lost, my heart is broken!

IRISH HEARTS FOR THE LADIES. (Cherry.)

ONE day, Madam Nature was busy,

Bright Venus beside her was seated, She look'd till her head was quite dizzy, She long'd till the job was completed; I'm making a heart, cried the goddess,

For love, and its joys, all my trade is, Not a heart for a stays, or a bod dice,

But an Irishman's heart for the ladies. She bound it all round with good nature; "Twas tender and soft as the dove, sir; "Twas sprinkled with drops of the creature; "Twas stuff'd, too, with large lumps of love, sir!

"Twas pure as the streams from the Shannon, As warm, too, as roasted potatoes,

And just like a ball from a cannon,

Is an Irishman's heart for the ladies. Then speak, ye deluders so pretty, Your own silver tongues tell the story, That Irishmen melt you to pity,

For they are the boys that adore ye: In love and in war we're so frisky, Nor of French, Dutch, or devils, afraid is, We've lips for our girls and our whisky, And tight Irish hearts for the ladies.

THREE YOUNG MEN CAME A WOOING. (Upton.)

THREE young men came a wooing, wooing,
All to marry me!

And three young men, more smart young men,
Oh, no, there cannot be.

The first was rich, yet free from pride;
The second sweet did sing;

But the third, he only gaz'd and sigh'd,
And sigh'd, and sigh'd again.

But though they came a wooing, wooing,
All to marry me!

I, cautious, strove to try their love,
And each one's merits see.

The first said nought should us divide;
The second spoke as plain :

But the third, he only gaz'd and sigh'd,
And sigh'd, and sigh'd again.

Now, how I serv'd their wooing, wooing,
You shall quickly see;

I chose to wed who least had said,
And left the talk to me.

For talk we must, can't be denied,

So this I'll tell you plain,

The lad was mine who gaz'd and sigh'd,
But never sigh'd again!

TOM STARBOARD.
(T. Knight.)

TOM STARBOARD was a lover true,
As brave a tar as ever sail'd;
The duties ablest seamen do

Tom did, and never yet had fail'd.
But wreck'd as he was homeward bound,
Within a league of England's coast,
Love sav'd him sure, from being drown'd,
For more than half the crew were lost.

In fight Tom Starboard knew no fear;
Nay, when he lost an arm-resign'd,
Said, love for Nan, his only dear,

Had sav'd his life, and Fate was kind:
And now, though wreck'd, yet Tom return'd,
Of all past hardships made a joke;
For still his manly bosom burn'd
With love-his heart was heart of oak!

His strength restor'd, Tom nimbly ran
To cheer his love, his destin'd bride :
But false report had brought to Nan,

Six months before, her Tom had died.
With grief she daily pin'd away,
No remedy her life could save;
And Tom arriv'd the very day
They laid his Nancy in the grave!

.....

SURE I am a Hebrew man,

And vell known in Duke's Place,
Vere, since honesty's my plan,

I can boldly show my face;
Vat, though monish I lends out,

'Tis but vat my neighbours do,
Den I never sheets the needy,
Upon my vord 'tis true;
No; I'm content vith vat I gets,
Sirs, in an honest vay:
My debts I never once forgets,
But cheerfully dem pay;
And though the Christians flout,
And call me heathen Jew,
Whilst I know I'm acting right,

Vy, I minds not vat they do.

SPOKEN.] No, no; though I say it myself, I have a heart so tremblingly alive to the misfortunes of my fellow-creatures, dat it is only when I am relieving their wants I can sing

Tol de lol, &c.

If ven valking through the street Some poor creature meets my eye, Who, naked, cold, and hungry, Implores my charity;

I never tinks to ask

His religion or his name;
No; he's a brother and in want,
Sure that's sufficient claim
Upon my purse to help his need,
And save him from distress.
Whilst I do this I shall succeed,
And Providence me bless.
Den let the vorld still flout,

And call me heathen Jew,

Vhilst I know I'm acting right,

I minds not vat they do.

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? (Miss Blamire.)

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?
What ails this watʼry ee?

What maks me ay turn cauld as death,
When I tak leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa,

Thou'lt dearer grow to me,

But change o' fowk and change o' place, May gar thy fancy gee.

Then I'll sit down and moan,

Just by yon spreading tree; And gin a leaf fa' in my lap, I'll ca't a word frae thee. Syne I'll gang to the bower,

Which thou with roses tied,

"Twas there by mony a blushing bud I strove my love to hide.

I'll doat on ilka spot

Whare I hae been wi' thee;
I'll ca' to mind some fond love tale,
By ev'ry burn and tree.

"Tis hope that cheers the mind,
Though lovers absent be,

And when I think I see thee still,
I'll think I'm still wi' thee.

Bright beauty alone, shall not conquer my heart,
The maid to my mind must have more,
More charms to enslave than Beauty's keen dart,
For wit and good sense I adore.

Her beauty, wit, and good sense, combined,
Should not fix me her servant for life;
But her manner so sweet, her temper so kind,
Are the charms I seek in a wife.

POOR TOM!

OR, THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH.

(Dibdin.)

Written on the Death of his Brother Thomas.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For Death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;

Faithful below he did his duty,

And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft!

But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall Poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He who all commands

Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands:

Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain, Tom's life has doff'd,
For, though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.

MISS BAILEY'S GHOST.

THE dog had ceas'd to bark,
The silver moon shone bright,
When, in the lone church-yard,
Stood
poor Miss Bailey's ghost.
Oh! what will become of me!
Ah! why did I die!
Nobody coming to bury me!
Nobody coming to cry!

The first time I saw Captain Smith
I was fair, though he treated me foul,
So here tete-a-tete with the moon,
All night will I bellow and howl.

Oh! what can the matter be,

My own ghost in the cold must ex-
pire,

While wicked Smith, o'er his ratafie,
Is roasting his shins by the fire.

The last time I saw my deluder
He gave me a shabby pound-note,
But I borrow'd his best leather breeches,
To wear with my wooden surtout.

And its oh, to be covered in decency,
For a grave I the parson did
pay,
But Captain Smith's note was a for-
gery,

And I was turned out of my clay.

And here am I singing my song
Till almost the dawning of day;
Come, sexton, come, spectre, come, Captain,
Will nobody take me away?

But hold, yet I've one comfort left,

Delightful to most married fair, Though cold, and of all joy bereft, Yet still I've the breeches to wear.

THE LIFE OF PATRICK O'CONNOR.
(H. V. Smith.)

I WAS born one day in the midst of the night,
"Twas a beautiful morning, the moon shone so
bright;

The clouds were so dark, and faith do I say, "Twas the cold month of June in the warm month of May.

Sing phillilu hubbubbabboo, whack botheration, Och! my dear jewel, what a darling was I! When being wean'd from the neck, what a rout did I make,

Compared to sweet music at an Irish wake :
My dad in a passion oft call'd me a brat,
And swore by St. Patrick I squall'd and grew fat.
Sing phillilu, &c.
When I grew older, and was able to run,
Two or three times a-day, as sure as a gun,
I was lost by my parents, but bother my rigs,
They found me again when they look'd for the pigs.
Sing phill lu, &c.

I was soon of an age my living to earn,
So was sent off to school-some lessons to learn;
But not liking the birch, nor the master's fierce
looks,

I oft played the truant, and dog's-eared my books.
Sing phillilu, &c.

I soon fell in love with sweet Mistress O'Whack, But she swore by the powers, she'd hear none of my clack;

And oft on my knees have I stood for an hour,
Besaaching one kiss of that daffy-down flower.
Sing phillilu, &c.

I then left Kilkenny for Albion's ground,
And in the English lads true friends I have found;
That friendship I hope will never dissever,
But may old England with Ireland be coupl'd for

ever.

Sing phillilu, &c.

BANISH SORROW, GRIEF'S A FOLLY.
BANISH sorrow, grief's a folly,

Thought, unbend thy wrinkled brow;
Hence, dull Care and Melancholy,
Mirth and Joy invites us now.
Bacchus empties all his treasure,
Comus brings us wit and song;
Follow, follow, follow Pleasure,
Let us join the jovial throng.

The love-sick swain, who sighs and simpers,
T'other bottle would set free;
Nor artful smiles, nor amorous whimpers,
E'er could fetter you or me.
We for courtship have no leisure;
Bumpers yield us better joys.
Follow, follow, follow Pleasure,
While thus Mirth our time employs.
Why then should dull Care perplex us?
Why should we not jovial be?
Since we're here we've nought to vex us;
Bumpers set from Care all free.
Then let's have bumpers out of measure;
Let's be gay while time we have.
Follow, follow, follow Pleasure,

There's no drinking in the grave.

Wast that time in a drunken fray?

Or t'other when you run away?

Cried, cowards, do the man no narm;
D-me, don't you see he's lost his arm,
Misfortune ever claimed pity from the brave.

Then broach a can before we part,
A friendly one, with all his heart,
And as we put the grog about we'll cheerly sing,
At land and sea may Britons fight,
The world's example and delight,

And conquer every enemy of George our king; 'Tis he that proves the hero's friend,

His bounty waits us to our end,

the grave;

'Fore Slander's wind too fast you fly,

D'ye think it fun?-you swab, you lie, Misfortune ever claimed the pity of the brave.

Old Hanibal, in words as gross,

For he, like Dick, had got his dose,

To try a bout at wrangling quickly took a spell;
If I'm a Lobster, Master Crab,

By the information on your nab,

In some scrimmage or other why they've crack'd your shell;

And then why how you hobbling go`

On that jury-mast, your timber toe,

A nice one to find fault, with one foot in the grave;
But halt, old Hanibal, halt! halt!
Distress was never yet a fault,

Misfortune ever claimed the pity of the brave.

If Hanibal's your name, d'ye see,

As sure as they Dick Dock call

me,

As once it did fall out, I owed my life to you,
Spilt from my horse, once when 'twas dark,
And nearly swallowed by a shark,

You boldly plunged in, saved me, and pleased all

the crew;

If that's the case, then cease our jeers, When boarded by they same Mounseers, You, a true English lion, snatch'd me from the grave,

eye

Air-" Le Point du Jour."-(W. Ball.)
SOFTLY opes the
of day,
O'er lakelet, bay, and shore
Streams of new radiance pour
Where late the darkness lay,

And Morning's lonely star
Now faintly wanes afar.

From the fresh and joyous sky
Night and her train retire;
Armed with pursuing fire
Light's silver arrows fly,

Heralds to man below
Of fated joy or woe.

Wake thee, then, my Imma, wake,
Forth in thy beauty come,
My sadden'd heart illume,
And for true love's sweet sake

Oh, in thy smile decree

The smile of Heaven to me.