Thy lips are cherries, tweeter far Than thofe which in the barrow are; With fuch a ftore of charms, tis well You may have ftolen hearts to fell. Mine, dear Ceriffa, too, you know, You ftole it from me long ago; And now I ftoop to afk of thee, To give it back, or marry me. RECITATIVE. Ceriffa archly leering as he fpake, While all the cherry blushed on her cheek, The melloweft fruit, unnotic'd cull'd apace, And fent like thunder at his doleful face;
Then grafp'd her barrow, trundled foft along, And looking round at Will, triumphant fung.
Shall I, poffefs'd of all these charms,
Sleep nightly in a porter's arms!
M'ambitious foul detefts fuch fcum,
And fighs for conquefts yet to come.
Fair youths my fov'reign pow'r fhall feel!
Ten thousand hearts I daily fteal,
And beauteous nymphs fhall envious fee
Crown'd heads and dukes fubmit to me.
"TWAS at the gate of Calais, Hogarth tells,
Where fad defpair and famine always dwells,
A meagre Frenchman, madam Granfire's cook,
As home he fteer'd his carcafe, that way took;
Bending beneath the weight of fam'd firloin,
On whom he often wifh'd in vain to dine:
Good father Dominick by chance came by.
With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye;
Who, when he first beheld the greasy load,
His benediction on it he beftow'd ;
And as the folid fat his fingers prefs'd,
He lick'd his chops, and thus the Knight address'd.
AIR. [A lovely lafs to a friar came, &c.]
Oh rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind,
If I were doom'd to have thee,
When drefs'd and garnish'd to my mind,
And fwimming in thy gravy,
Not all thy country's force combin'd
Should from my fury fave thee
Renown'd firloin, oft-times decreed
The theme of English ballad;
On thee e'en kings have deign'd to feed,
Unknown to Frenchman's palate :
Then how much doth thy tafte exceed
Soup-meagre, frogs and fallad!
RECITATIVE.
A half-ftarv'd foldier,. fhirtlefs, pale and lean,
Who fuch a fight before had never seen,
Like Garrick's frighted Hamlet, gaping food,
And gaz'd with wonder on the British food.
His morning's mefs forfook the friendly bowl,
And in small ftreams along the pavement ftole.
He heav'd a figh, which gave his heart relief,
And then in plaintive tone declar'd his grief.
AIR. [Foot's Minuet.]
Ah! facre Dieu! vat do I fee yonder,
Dat look fo tempting red and vite?
Begar, it is de roast beef from Londre;
Oh! grant to me von lettle bite.
But to my guts if you give no heeding,
And cruel fate dis boon denies;
In kind compaffion unto my pleading,
Return, and let me feast mine eyes.
RECITATIVE.
His fellow-guard, of right Hibernian clay,
Whose brazen front his country did betray,
From Tyburn's fatal tree had hither fled,
By honeft means to gain his daily bread,
Soon as the well-known profpect he defcry'd,
In blubb'ring accents dolefully he cry'd:
AIR. [Ellen a Roon.]
Sweet beef, that now caufes my ftomach to rife,
Sweet beef, that now caufes my stomach to rife,
So taking thy fight is,
My joy, that fo light is,
To view thee, by pailfuls runs out at my eyes, While here I remain, my life's not worth a farthing, While here I remain, my life's not worth a farthing, Ah hard-hearted Loui!
The gallows, more kind, would have fav'd me from
RECITATIVEE.
Upon the ground hard by poor Sawney fate,
Who fed his nofe, and fcratch'd his ruddy pate;
But when old England's bulwark he efpy'd,
His dear-lov'd mull, alas! was thrown afide:
With lifted hand he bless'd his native place,
Then fcrubb'd himself, and thus bewail'd his cafe.
A 1R. [The broom of Cowden Knows.]
How hard, oh! Sawney, is thy lot,
Who was fo blythe of late,
To fee fuch meat as can't be got,
When hunger is so great?
once on a time a young frog, pert and vain,
held a large ox grazing o'er the wide plain,
boafted his fize he could quickly attain.
O the roast beef of old England,
And O the old English roast beef.
in eagerly ftretching his weak little frame,
ma, who ftood by like a knowing old dame,
'd,“ Son, to attempt it you're furely to blame."
O the roast beef, &c.
deaf to advice, he for glory did thirst; effort he ventur'd more ftrong than the first, Ifwelling and ftraining too hard made him burft. O the roast beef, &c.
n, Britons, be valiant, the moral is clear; tox is old England, the frog is Monfieur, ofe puffs and bravadoes we need never fear. O the roast beef, &c.
while by our commerce and arts we are able
fee the firloin fmoking hot on the table,
French may e'en burst like the frog in the fable.
O the roast beef of old England,
And O the old English roast beef.
BRITONS, attend; I Ang in merry lay,
The feats atchiev'd upon a Lord-mayor's day:
What furfeits caught, what feeding when they dine;
What fober citizens get drunk by nine;
What fights are feen; what ratling, fufs and noise,
Of coaches, carts, men, women, girls, and boys,
Who ftreets, bulks, windows, tops of houses throng,
To view his lordship pass in ftate along.
A1R. [Ob! London is a fine toton. &c]
Oh! Lord-Mayor's fhew, fo brave and gay,
Does honour to the city;
And old and young, and rich and poor;
Must own 'tis vastly pretty,
To fee the gilded coach and fix,
And man in armour ride,
In pomp and fplendor, from Guildhall,
Unto the water-fide.
And when the barges clofely pent,
Such plenty of good cheer,
What pity 'tis fo fine a fight,
Should come but once a year!
Oh! Lord-Mayor's fhow, fo brave, &c.
RECITATIVE.
The bustle o'er, the cavalcade gone by,
The mob difpers'd, "To dinner's" all the cry.
With haften'd steps, as keeneft hunger calls,
The ftarv'd mechanics feek their diff'rent halls;
At the full-groaning board each takes his feat,
With brandish'd knife and fork, prepar'd to eat.
AIR. [Ghosts of every occupation.]
Cits of ev'ry occupation,
Ev'ry age, and ev'ry station,
Parfons, juftices of quorum,
All with napkins tuck'd before 'em,
Prefs to have their plates fill'd first.
With the victuals here fuch work is,
Snatching turtles, geefe, and turkies,
Hares, with puddings in their bellies,
Cheesecakes, cuftards, tarts and jellies:
Bawling, fwearing,
Cutting, tearing,
Sweating, puffing,
Licking, ftuffing,
Just as if they all wou'd burft.
RECITATIVE,
Their prowess now in eating having prov'd,
The dishes emptied, and the cloth remov'd;
Again the table fmiles with wine and ale,
And toafts and bumpers ev'ry where prevail; [lie
Some talk, fome laugh, fome fmoak, fome snoring
And fome with jovial fongs old care defy.
AIR. [Come bither, my country Squire, &c.]
Come fill the glafs to the brink;
Brifk wine foon away forrow drives ;
Like cowards ne'er fhrink, but valiantly drink
Confufion to bailiffs and wives,
Such foaking, fuch froaking and joking,
Such guzzling here you fee;
The buck and furr'd gown together fit down,
And all are good company.
To enjoy life while we may,
I'll prove from the fcripture, is right:
Old Lot us'd they fay, to fuddle all day,
And lie with his doxy at night.
Such foaking, &c.
RECITATIVE.
But foon the lufcious grape too potent grows;
Mirth and good humour turn to words and blows;
Now Rogue and Cuckold through the hall refound,
And wigs, and canes, and cravats ftrew the ground;
'Till bright Aurora rears her rofy head,
And bids the noisy crew reel home to bed.
AIR. [There was a jovial beggar, &c.]
Let heroes, both by land and fea,
Their deeds in battle boat;
They only fame acquire now,
Who eat and drink the moft.
Then a guttling we will go, will go, will go
Then a guttling we will go.
[In ftory we are told, of one
An ox flew with his fift;
Then at a meal he eat him up,
Gods! what a glorious twift!
Then a guttling, &c.
If then good erting's fo renown'd,
Be this each Briton's pray'r,
"God bless the Court of Aldermen,
"The Sheriffs and Lord Mayor,
When a guttling they, &c.
34
RECITATIVE.
"TWAS when the feas were roaring,
With hollow blafts of wind,
A damfel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclin'd:
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She caft a wishful look ;
Her head was crown'd with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.
AIR.
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days,
Why didft thou, vent'rous lover,
Why did thou trust the seas ?
Ceafe, ceafe, thou rolling ocean,
And let my lover rest!
Ah! what's thy troubled motion,
To that within my breast?
The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,
Views tempefts with despair;
But what's the lofs of treasure
To the lofing of my dear?
Should you fome coaft be laid on,
Where gold and di'monds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you fe.
How can they fay that nature
Has nothing made in vain ?
Why then, beneath the water,
Do hideous rocks remain ?
No eyes thofe rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover, And leave the maid to weep.
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd fhe for her dear, Repaid each blast with fighing, Each billow with a tear: When o'er the white waves ftooping, His floating corpfe the spy'd; Then like a lily drooping,
She bow'd her head-and dy❜d.
AND can't thou leave thy Nancy,
And quit thy native shore,
It comes into my fancy,
I ne'er fhall fee the more.
Yes, I muft leave my Nancy,
To humble haughty Spain,
Let fear ne'er fill thy fancy,
For we shall meet again.
Amidst the foaming billows,
When thund'ring cannons roar,
You'll think on these green willows, And wish yourself on fhore.
I fear not land nor water;
I fear not fword or fire;
For fweet revenge and flaughter
Are all that I defire.
May guardian gods protect thee
From water, fire, or steel,
And make no fears affect thee
Like those which now I feel.
I leave to heav'n's protection,
My life, my only dear;
You have my foul's affection,
So ftill conclude me here.
As tink'ring Tom thro' treets his trade did cry,
He faw his lovely Sylvia paffing by;
In duft-cart high advanc'd, the nymph was plac'd,
With the rich cinders round her lovely waift:
Tom with uplifted hands th' occafion bleft,
And thus, in foothing strains, th' maid addreft.
AIR.
O Sylvia, while you drive your cart,
To pick up duft, you fteal our hearts;
You take up duft, and steal our hearts:
That mine is gone, alas! is true,
And dwells among the duft with you;
And dwells among the duft with you:
Ah! lovely Sylvia, eafe my pain;
Give me my heart, you ftole, again;
Give me my heart, out of your cart ;
Give me my heart, you ftole, again.
RECITATIVE.
Sylvia, advanc'd above the rabble rout,
Exulting, roll'd her sparkling eyes about:
She heav'd her fwelling breaft, as black as floe,
And look'd difdain on little folks below:
To Tom fhe nodded, as the cart drew on,
Tnd then, refolv'd to speak, the cry'd, stop John,
|