In French varnish'd chariots see Quack's drawn along, Like Death, looking down on their Victims, the Throng;

With Tales of their Med'cines each paper abounds,Hunt their Nostrums;-no, no!-they wou'd poison our hounds.

Disappointment against the Successful exclaims,
And Envy will always make Uproar call names.
Those pests of the public to Clamour make court,
To kennel such curs, for they only spoil sport.

The Outs 'gainst the Ins will for ever take aim,
And Ministers must be the Multitude's game;
'Tis Tempests and Tides which preserve the pure Sea,
We soon shou'd be stagnate if all shou'd agree.

Beat about for fresh sport, thro' yon' Hall let us draw,
It abounds in Black Game, and that Game is the Law;
Call the Dogs off, I say,-there have nothing to do,-
If
you meddle with them they'll soon turn and hunt

you,

We're at fault, but whose is it? come, Sportsmen, try back,

Hark to Honesty, that's the prime hound in our pack; We are all sound and staunch, for a brisk Burst

prepare,

Talio! 'tis a Bumper,-fill free and drink fair.

Here's the Queen of our hunt, 'tis Britannia's our boast;

Old England for ever! let that be the Toast;
See a fresh bottle starts, one view hollow;-huzza!
The Fox Brush, and Beauty's Brush, brush them

away.

I'LL

TUNE.

T'LL strive to sing something, yet wou'd not do wrong,

Will you please to accept of a Common-place Song;This World's like an Auction for selling and shewing, Truth, Friendship, and Gratitude, -going! a going!

They are going!-but how? not by hammer knock'd down,

No, no! out of Taste, they must go out of Town,
Such stuff wou'd our dear dissipation encumber,
They are shipp'd off for sea, and exported as lumber.

Preferment put up! who bids? I, I, I, I;
Such a noise it has made we the Lot must put by:
At the name of Preferment if uproar is heard,
No wonder such clamour against the preferr'd.

Confusion, and eke contradiction its mate,

Fill our heads with, I don't know what politic prate;

As all to be in, suppose equal pretences,

Of Innings when baulk'd, they're out of their senses.

Yet, seriously, Sirs, this world's not so bad,

Some Women are chaste, and some Men are not mad;

But where do they live? 'tis not worth while to try, They are such sort of folks other folks can't live by.

How easy is Weakness by Wickedness turn'd, Unworthiness welcom'd, and Worthiness scorn'd; The Female Sex charge not with prostitute vice, Mankind will be bought come but up to their price.

All Men and their Measures 'tis easy to see,
No Parties, but Parties of Pleasure for me;
Let this Side, or that Side, or both Sides be mad,
We know no distinction but good Men and bad.

Will any here hesitate how they declare?
Or, Toast the good people at home and elsewhere;
Their country, complexion, religion, or wealth,
We heed not, but drink to the HONEST MAN'S
HEALTH.

THE MAN.

TUNE.

"How pleasant the meads were, how joyful the scene."

T

is he who's unaw'd by the sound of a Name, Yet harbours no Hate in his breast;

What his Betters may do he pretends not to blame,
As he hopes they do all for the best.

To his King he is just, to his Country he's true,
And true to his Friend and his Glass ;
A Sportsman who always with spirit comes thro'
And ne'er baulk'd a Leap, nor a Lass.

No Office he flatters, compounds with no Cheat,
But ever takes Honesty's part;
Compassion awaits on his Justice's seat,
And Charity tenants his heart.

When a love-laden Lass with contrition appears,
For Girls are ensnar'd like the Game;
His tenderness turns not away from her tears,
His pity prevents her from shame.

To Game-Acts he fancies our Liberty yields,
So sets their inflictions aside;

Protection allows not to vermin in fields,
Which is to the Freeborn deny'd.

Suppose a Young Idler at birds shou'd take aim,
Ör Puss take, perhaps, in a snare,

Must Englishmen's Birthright be forfeit for Game,
And Man made a Slave for a Hare?

I

If Sticks from the Hedge of his Honour are found In the lap of the big-belly'd poor,

While sleet fills the air, and deep snow's on the ground,

And Misery groans at the door. Humanity tells him to seek out the cause, Which prompted Distress to turn Thief; Convinc'd 'twas mere Want, he awakes not the laws, But stops future crimes by Relief.

This, this is the Man, uncorrupted he stands,
To Baal who ne'er bow'd the knee;
Unmortgag'd, enjoys all his Ancestor's Lands,
And ever liv'd debtless and free.

Yes, Yes, this is He, this the Man to my mind,
The Man who no Party can snare;

Shall I tell you, my Friends, where this Man you may find,

I wou'd-if I cou'd but tell where.

MY NOSE.

TUNE.

"An Ass, an Ass.”

HILE people call'd Poets, in Blank Verse,

WHILE

or Rhime,

Pindarics or Epics compose,

And celebrate Heroes in Sonnets sublime,

The fact is, simply,-my Nose.