There was grumbling and chattering, hammering | tain;"-any person in a carriage, "right honoura and battering, Tinkering and clattering, polishing and planishing, Old Vulcan, forging direful arms, And outraged all confounders; 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 Squalling, bawling, grumbling and chattering, &c. hands, like an attorney; and, as to honesty, that's 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, 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; 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. OH! take this rose, and let it lie And never from the dear rose part; While wand'ring by the Ganges' stream, And fairies sent me this sweet dream: A sun-bright rose, and give it thee! 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, And three young men, more smart young men, The first was rich, yet free from pride; But the third, he only gaz'd and sigh'd, But though they came a wooing, wooing, I, cautious, strove to try their love, The first said nought should us divide; But the third, he only gaz'd and sigh'd, Now, how I serv'd their wooing, wooing, I chose to wed who least had said, 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, TOM STARBOARD. TOM STARBOARD was a lover true, Tom did, and never yet had fail'd. In fight Tom Starboard knew no fear; Had sav'd his life, and Fate was kind: His strength restor'd, Tom nimbly ran Six months before, her Tom had died. ..... SURE I am a Hebrew man, And vell known in Duke's Place, I can boldly show my face; 'Tis but vat my neighbours do, 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; 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 maks me ay turn cauld as death, 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; "Tis hope that cheers the mind, And when I think I see thee still, Bright beauty alone, shall not conquer my heart, Her beauty, wit, and good sense, combined, POOR TOM! OR, THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH. (Dibdin.) Written on the Death of his Brother Thomas. No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 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, And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, 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, MISS BAILEY'S GHOST. THE dog had ceas'd to bark, The first time I saw Captain Smith Oh! what can the matter be, My own ghost in the cold must ex- While wicked Smith, o'er his ratafie, The last time I saw my deluder And its oh, to be covered in decency, And I was turned out of my clay. And here am I singing my song 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. I WAS born one day in the midst of the night, 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 : I was soon of an age my living to earn, I oft played the truant, and dog's-eared my books. 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, I then left Kilkenny for Albion's ground, ever. Sing phillilu, &c. BANISH SORROW, GRIEF'S A FOLLY. Thought, unbend thy wrinkled brow; The love-sick swain, who sighs and simpers, 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; Then broach a can before we part, And conquer every enemy of George our king; 'Tis he that proves the hero's friend, His bounty waits us to our end, But hold you, Dick, the poor soul has one foot in Though crippled and laid up, with one foot in the 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; 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; 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, 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.) And Morning's lonely star From the fresh and joyous sky Heralds to man below Wake thee, then, my Imma, wake, Oh, in thy smile decree The smile of Heaven to me. |