There's a great many people as I will maintain,
Who, like me, do by asses a livelihood gain :
Quack-doctors and lawyers, and gamblers, too,
If it wasn't for asses, pray, what would they do.

Come up, Neddy, &c.

'Tother day, when a donkey I took to be shod,
A queer Bond-street Lounger popp'd in rather odd;
He too wanted shoeing, as I could discern,
Whoa, master, says I, every ass in his turn.

Come up, Neddy, &c.
Stop, Neddy, I cried, t'other day in the street,
When one of these kiddies I chanc'd for to meet;
His name being Ned, he look'd round thro' his glass,
Says I, I did'nt mean you,~I mean't Neddy my ass.

Come up, Neddy, &c. So now there's an end of my song, d'ye see, Pray what d'ye think of my Neddy and me, Tisn't easy to say if my ditty don't pass, Whether Neddy, or I, will look most like an ass.

Come up, Neddy, &c.


TUNE-" The Irish Wedding."
Old Father Pat was blythe and free,

He kiss'd the lasses daily, 0,
And his fame so ran thro' Donaghadee,

There was none like him so gaily, 0;
For, day or night, 'twas his delight,

Devoid of care or sorrow, O,
With pæ, sweet pæ, to wet his clay,

And the devil may have to-morrow, O.

Then father Pat was Judy's brat,

The wife of Durfy's brother, O,
And whisky nail'd his queen for that,

So he learn'd it of his mother, O;
For, day or night, 'twas his delight,

Devoid of care or sorrow, 0,
So come, says he, I'll cosey be,

And the devil may take to-morrow, O.
Then father Pat he kept a school,

But it was for more than thinking, 0,
For, lest his scholars' wit should cool,

He kept them always drinking, 0.
Thus, day and night, 'twas his delight,

Devoid of care or sorrow, O:
To booze away, old Pat would say,

And the devil may take to-morrow, 0.


Now we're all met here together,
In spite of wind and weather,

To moisten well our clay;
Before we think of jogging,
Let's take a cheerful nogging:

Where's the waiter? ring away.
Where's the glees and the catches,
The tobacco-pipes and matches,

And plenty of brown stout?
Yet the glasses, e'er we start 'em,
Let's proceed secundum artem,

Let the clerk call the names out. | Spoken.)—Gentlemen of the Quizzical Society, please to answer to your names--Farmer Scroggins; why I be hereDoctor Horseleach; here- Taylor Tit; here-(So he goes on for about twenty)—at last-you're here, are you, all assem. bled? All, all, all, all.

So here's to you, Mr. Wiggins,
Here's to you, Mr. Higgins,

So put the beer about, &c.


Come tell us what the news is,
Who wins and who loses,

Of the times what do people say?
Hard, hard the landlord racks us,
Then we've such a load of taxes;

Indeed? well, and how goes the hay?
Why, now there's Master Wiseman,
He tells the Exciseman

The cause of all this pother and rout-
Order! order and sobriety,
Are the rules of this society,

Let the secretary read them out. (Spoken.)-Every member of this society, that spills his liquor in his neighbour's pocket, shall forfeit 2d.-Every ber of this society that singes his neighbour's wig with his pipe, shall forfeit 2d.—Every member of this society that refuses to laugh at a good joke, shall forfeit 2d.-Every member of this society who reproaches his neighbour with coming to distress by unavoidable misfortunes, shall forfeit 2d.-Mr. Pre. sident, I move that this forfeit be a shilling; and I second the motion. Are you all agreed ? I am unanimously-A no ble resolution-D'ye think so?

Why, then, here's to you Mr. Higgins,

Here's to you Mr. Wiggins, &c.
And now the potent liquor,
Not even spares the vicar,

But to all their noddles mounts.
While among this set of queerers,
All talkers, and no hearers,

Each his favourite tale recounts:

The soldier talks of battle,
The grazier sells his cattle,

Conversation to provoke;
Till the juice of the barrel
Begets some curious quarrel,

While the company's lost in smoke. (Spoken.) Upon my soul, neighbour, I had no hand in the death of your wife; it was all in the way of business. Nay, but Doctor, 'twere a cursed unneighbourly thing of you, not that the woman were any sitch great things, but to put a body to sitch an expense.- Why you don't tell me so! killed fifa teen with your own hand: Fifteen, by my laurels! D’ye hear that, butcher? Hear it, yes; but I'll lay'n what he dares he has not killed so many as I have by hundreds.-Powder my whiskers. -Come, come gentlemen, says the Bellows-maker, no breezes. Let me exhort you to temperance, says the Parson.— Amen, says the Clerk.- That's right, says the Undertaker, let us bury all animosities. That's what I like, says the Fiddler, I like to see harmony restored—D'ye tho'? you like to see harmony restored!

Why, then, here's to you, Mr. Wiggins,
Here's to you Mr. Higgins,

So put the beer about, &c.

O Allister M Allister,
Your chanter sets us aastir,
Then to your bags, and blaw wi' birr,

We'u dance the Highland fling.
Now Allister has tun'd his pipes,
And thrang as bum-bees frae their bykes,
The lads and lasses loup the dykes,
And gather on the green.
O Allister M'Allister, 8c.

The miller, Hab, was fidgin-fain
To dance the Highland Aing his lane;
He lap as high as Elspa's wame,

The like was never seen.
As round about the ring he whuds,
An' cracks his thums, and shakes his duds,
The meal flew frae his tail in cluds,
And blinded a' their een.

O Allister M'Allister, fc.
Neist rackle-handed smiddy Jock,
A' blacken’d o'er wi' coom and smoke,
Wi’ shachlan blear-e’ed Bess did yoke,

That slaverin-gabbit quean.
He shook his doublet in the wund,
His feet, like hammers, struck the grund,
The very moudiwarts were stunn'd,
Nor ken'd what it cou'd mean.

O Allister M'Allister, &c.
Now wanton Willie was nae blate,
For he got haud o'winsome Kate;
Come here, quo' he, I'll show the gate,

To dance the Highland fling.
The Highland Aling he danc'd wi' glee,
And lap as he were gaun to flee;
Kate bak'd and bob'd sae bonnilee,
And tript it light and clean.

O Allister M Allister, &c.
Now Allister has done his best,
And weary hough's are wantin' rest;
Besides, they sair wi' drouth were streste

Wi' dancin' sae, I ween:
I true the gantrees gat a lift,
And round the bicker flew like drift,
And Allister, that very night,
Could scarcely stan' his lane.

O Allister M'Allister, &c.

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