And a deep hole in his heart,
You may through it drive a cart,
All, &c.

Beauty spurns him, passion burns him,
Like a wizard, guts, and gizzard,
Heigh down, &c.

Then the Soldier ripe for plunder,
Breathing slaughter, blood and thunder.
Lord! at what a tale he runs,
About drums, and swords, and guns;
And talks of streaming veins,
Shatter'd limbs, and scatter'd brains,
All, &c.

What foes he thrash'd, cut, and slash'd,
And here he pop'd'em, there he dropp'd 'em,
Heigh down, &c.

Then the Justice in his chair,

With his broad and vacant stare,
His wig of formal cut,

And his belly like a butt,

Well lin❜d with turtle hash,

Callipee and callipash,

All, &c.

Pimp and cull, bawd and trull,
At his nod, go to quod,
Heigh down, &c.

Then the slipper'd Pantaloon,
In life's dull afternoon,

Shrunk shanks in youthful hose,

And spectacles on nose;

His voice, once big and round,
Now whistling in the sound,
All, &c.

Vigour spent, body bent,

Shaking noddle, widdle waddle,
Heigh down, &c.

Then at last, to end the play,
Second Childhood leads the way,
When, like sheep that take the rot,
All our senses go to pot;
Then death amongst us pops,
And so the curtain drops,
All, &c.

Then the coffin we move off in,
When the bell tolls the knell,

Of high and low, down into the cold ground,
Here's an end to the farcical scene, O.

THE LOVE-SICK TAYLOR.

LADIES, how d'ye do?

Gemmen, how are you too?

The company I view,

I'm proud to scrape my shoe to. You'll ax who am I?

Among the girls a nailer: A blade of spirit high,

Though but a simple Taylor,

And I sigh for my beautiful maid.

Pretty Miss Mactab

My heart knows how to wheedle; Her eyes, a beauteous drab,

Are sharp as any needle.

She enjoys my pain,

Tho' for her I languish,

Her beauties are in grain—
Nobody knows the anguish-

I endure for my beautiful maid.

Love's a sugar-plum,

When heart kindly meets heart;
But wicked rivals come,

And take away our sweetheart:
No one shall have mine,
While I can wield goose-iron;
My valour's superfine,

And demme, like a lion,

I'll fight for my beautiful maid.

LOVE AND BRANDY.

A LANDLADY of France she lov'd an officer, 'tis said, And this officer he dearly lov'd her brandy, oh! Sigh'd she, I love this officer, although his nose is red, And his legs are what his regiment call bandy, oh!

But when the bandy officer was order'd to the coast, How she tore her lovely locks that look'd so sandy,

oh!

Adieu, my soul, (says she) if you write pray pay the post,

But, before we part, let's take a drop of brandy, oh!

She filled him out a bumper, just before he left the town,

And another for herself so neat and handy, oh! So they kept their spirits up, by pouring spirits down, For love is like the cholic cur'd with brandy, oh!

Take a bottle on't, (says she) for your going into camp, your tent, you know, my love, 'twill be the dandy, oh!

In

You're right, (says he) my life, for a tent is very damp, And 'tis better, with my tent, to take some brandy,

oh!

HOW TO TELL A STORY.

OVER port, pipe, or snuff-box, there's always some wight

To tell you a story at club every night;

Wanting wit, at a pinch, the box helps a bad joke, Or deficient in fire, he supplies ye with smoke. Derry down, down, down, derry down.

Since we're told to believe only half that we hear,
Every tale we attempt shou'd from fiction be clear,
Probability carefully keeping in view;
Example, I'll tell a short story or two.
Derry down, &c.

Once a man advertis'd the metropolis round,
He'd leap off the monument on to the ground,
But when just half way down, felt some nervous attack,
Grew frighten'd, reflected, turn'd round, and jump'd
back.

Derry down, &c.

A boatswain who ne'er had seen Punch or his wife, To a puppet-show went, the first time in his life; Laugh'd and wonder'd at ev'ry odd trick and grimace, When a barrel of gunpowder blew up the place. Derry down, &c.

Spectators and puppets were here and there thrown, When Jack, on a tree, who had safely been blown, Took a quid, blew his whistle, and not at all vext, Cried, Shiver me, what will this fellow do next? Derry down, &c.

A bluff grenadier, under great Marshal Saxe,
Had his head cut clean off by a Lochaber axe;

But his comrade replac'd it so nice, ere it fell,
That a handkerchief tied round his neck made it well.
Derry down, &c.

Now, his mem❜ry was short, and his neck very long,
Which he'd bow thus, and thus, when he heard a good

song;

And one night, beating time to the tale I tell you,
He gave such a nod, that away his head flew.
Derry down, &c.

I could tell other stories, but here mean to rest,
Till what you have heard may have time to digest,
Besides, ere my narrative verse I pursue,
I must find some more subjects all equally true.
Derry down, &c.

THE MAIL COACH.

COME listen to my story,
Now seated in my glory,

We make no longer stay;
A bottle of good sherry
Has made us all quite merry-

Let Momus rule the day.
We hearty all and well are,
Drive to the White Horse Cellar,

Get a snack before we go

Bring me a leg of mutton-
I'm as hungry as a glutton-

Some gravy soup-hollo!

Spoken, changing the voice occasionally.)—Why, waitercoming, sir-Make haste, I shall lose my place!-I hope your honour will remember the poor ostler-Are the beef-steaks ready-No! but your chops are all fast behind-Hip!