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In Spring-time observing my Husbandmen sow,

Then see how my Yearlings go on ; Sometimes, riding round, mark my Turnip-men hoe,

Or in Barn what my Threshers have done.
At Home, with the Parson, 'bout Markets I prate,

His Tythes, tho' I never delay;
We properly each shou'd maintain in his State,

The Vineyard-man's worthy his pay.
My Milk-maidens, morn and eve, Dairy-cows press,

For custards, cream, puddings, and cheese ; My Daughters keep market in neat but plain dress,

And Dame too—but 'tis when she'll please. We never for Master or Mistress-ship strive,

But Man and Wife's Lot share and share; As Gratitude tells us, in Friendship we live, Do so ye Crim. Cons. if ye

dare.

My Poultry is all by my good Woman bred,

My Garden gives Roots for my Health, For London my Bullocks on best fodder fed,

Yet pinch not the Poor for my Wealth. I've plenty of Game in my copses and woods,

My Flock on its Thyme feeding thrives; With Fishes well stor'd are my ponds and my floods,

And Honey from yon' row of hives.

What grateful Return is to Industry made ?

What Reward have the Bees for their Toil? We boast of our Rights, yet, their Rights we

invade, And seize on their Labours as Spoil. But 7ustice to Power is only a name,

Great Fishes devour the small; Great Birds, and great Beasts, and great Men do

the same,

'Till Death, the grand Robber, robs all,

Content spreads my cloth, and says Grace after Meat, While Welcome attends at

my

board; No Outlandish Mixture disguises my treat,

My Wine my own Orchards afford. With a Glass in my Hand, to Church, Country,

and King, I drink, as a Subject shou'd do ; Perhaps my Dame smiles, then one Song I must sing,

So, Sir, if you please, pray do you. .

THE BOTTLE.

TUNE.
« On a Time I was great, now little am grown."

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USH the Bottle about, name the Toast, and ,

With Wine be our Sentiments flowing; We idly grow old while we drinking delay,

Be merry, my Bucks, and keep doing. Keep doing I say, fill it up to the brink, 'Tis a Trouble to talk, 'tis a Trouble to think, 'Tis a Trouble-no, no!-'tis a Pleasure to drink.

Prithee ring, we must have t'other Bottle.
Our Classic is Bacchus, his Volumes prefer,

To all that's in old Aristotle ;
But why, with quotations, shou'd we make a stir ?

We'll stir about briskly the Bottle.
A Fool once to find how the World cou'd

go round, Leap'd into the deep where the puppy was drown'd, But deep had he drank, he the secret had found,

Such wonders are work'd by a Bottle.

The Sportsman arous'd when the Horn harks away,

Shrill echo Tantivy repeating, His warm wishing Wife clings around him to stay,

But shouts put to silence entreating. Yet what is his Chace to the Chace that we boast? So, ho! here's a Bumper, hark, hark ! to the Toast. Hit it off, and be quick, lest the scent shou'd be lost,

And we're cast in the Chacè of a Bottle.

Let Heroes or Neroes run mad after Fame,

We're charg'd and rang'd ready for battle ; Let Placemen perplex, and let Patriots declaim,

Let both be indulg'd in their prattle ; But Preachers o'er Liquor we always confute, Without 'tis the Toast, at our meetings we're mute, For what, with our Wine, can be worth a dispute,

Except 'tis a Short-measure Bottle.

Shou'd Sickness with sadd’ning Captivity join,

The Ancients I'll equal in thinking;
But all my Philosophy shou'd be my Wine,

Despair I defy when I'ın drinking.
Stood Death like a Drawer to wait on me home,
Or, Bailiff-like, dare he rush into my room,
I'd try for one moment to tip him a Hum,

While I bumper'd the last of my Bottle. .

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RIADNE one morning,

To Theseus was turning, When missing her Man, to the Beach down she flew;

Her cries unavailing,

She saw far off, sailing, His Ship’fore the wind less'ning swift to her view.

She tore her fine hair,

Beat her breast in despair, Spread her arms to the skies, and sunk downin a swoon,

When Bacchus, 'midst Æther,

Begg'd leave of his Father
To comfort the Lady, Fove granted the Boon.

Then gently descending,

Her sorrows befriending, His Thyrsis he struck ’gainst the big-belly'd Earth,

When o'er the smooth gravel,

In murmuring travel, A spring of Champaign at her Head bubbled forth;

She, wak’d with the scent,

Gave her sorrow fresh vent, Yet to drink was determin'd, exhausted by tears ;

She tastes the Champaign,

Licks her lips, tastes again,
And feels herself suddenly freed from her fears.

As still she kept sipping,

Her heart lightly leaping,
She look'd upon Thes. as a pitiful Elf;

Wine turn’d her to singing,

In hopes it wou'd bring in
A Lover,—'twas lonely to drink by herself.

The God, her Adorer,

Confess'd, stood before her,
She hail'd the Celestial, she welcom'd the Guest;

Champaign stopp'd resistance,

She kept not her Distance,
But jollily clasp'd the young Buck to her Breast.

Each Girl given over,

Betray'd by her Lover,
To Hartshorn, to Salts, or Salt-water may fly;

But we've an Elixir

Will properly fix her,
If properly she'll the Prescription apply:

The Recipe's wholesome,

'Tis Beauty's best Balsam, For which we refuse tho' to pocket a Fee.

As gratis we give it,

Girls grateful receive it, So here's to the Practice of Love's Beaume de Vic.

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