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THE SQUABBLE.

TUNE.
"Push the Bottle about," &c.

ON
N Ida one day, at Olympical feast,

The Lass-loving Fove was the Host, Sir, Who gayly proposing a Health to the Best,

On Venus he fix'd for his Toast, Sir; Each Deity smil'd as the Glass went about, But, pettishly, Pallas her Bumper threw out, She spoke not, but seem'd by her manner to doubt

The justice of toasting Miss Venus.

Then Juno broke silence, and swore by her power,

Her face looking pale like a Spectre, “ The Liquor was turning excessively sour,

“ The Toast gave a Fust to the Nectar." Minerva maliciously seconds the Queen, “ I wonder, Papa, what it is you can mean, “ Sure other Celestials are sweet and as clean,"

Tho' not quite so common as Venus.

Dear M'em, replies Demirep Dio, and bow'd,

Your breeding just pars your good-nature, But ask the Gods round, and, Nem. Con. 'tis allow'd,

To all I'm superior in Feature. To be sure you're a Prude, and Enjoyment to spite, That ugly Shield bear, as if Lovers you'll fright, Enough, they are scar'd when they've once had a

sight

Of the old-maiden face of Minerva.

Her Sov'reign and Spouse haughty Juno may teize,

And bed-chamber women be rating,
And you, Miss Militia, as long as you please,

May listen to Sophisters prating;
But I, who am Einpress of Love and its Laws,
Who have from immortals and Mortals applause,
Whose Beauties—but Beauty (quoth Vulcan) has

flaws; When Mars knit his brow and look'd frowning.

Jove rose in a rage, as he rose tho', he reel’d,

And Hiccups gave out by the hundred;
Like Artists on Ice, to the right and left wheel’d,

By Styx then he swore and he thunder'd : “ Two to one, Madam Ox-Eye, is very foul play; “Miss Brain-born I beg you'll dispatch and away, “ Or what Paris told me of both, I shall say.”

The Goddesses went away grumbling.

Come, come! (says young Bacchus) pray, father,

have done, They are off; in the Milky-Way, walking, We'll drink and be merry, the Gossips are gone

Of a Song brother Phæbus was talking. Apollo began, with the help of the Nine, The Ladies returning, good-natur’dly join, Such power has Music when mingled with Wine,

All friendly were fuddled together.

I 5

THE PORTRAIT ;

OR,
LA, LA, LA.

TUNE.
« Colin and Phæbe."

TE Bibbers who sip limpid Helicon's Rill,

YE Hill,

Allow me, a Scribbler, to try at Solfa,
And languish, in liquids, a Love-Song, la, la.
The Grubber in Kennels for old Iron seeks,
A Grubber for Thoughts scrubs the Streams of the

Greeks;
With stumpy Quills raking each Classical Spa,
To pick up some Simile Fragments, la, la.

I wou'd, if I cou'd, with the Muses make free,
But which of those Sisters will listen to me?
Attraction I want, their attention to draw,
As I'm old, they'll object, that it must be, la, la.

Ye Ladies of Lapland who beesoms bestride,
Oi, pair'd in Witch Whiskeys, aslant the Moon

slide; If Fiends, or if Friends, you have harness'd to draw, Let me be Postilion, and trot on la, la.

Ground Ivy has crown'd me instead of the Bays,
Right Hollands inspires my rare Roundelays;
Miss Soap Suds I sing, by Poetical Law,
To Shifts more than to Shirts we are put, la, la, la.

Ye Dabblers in Distichs wherever ye snore,
On flock beds in cellars, or Garretteers soar,
Arouze from your blankets, assist me to draw,
My Love's half, three-quarters, and whole-length,

la, la.

Her Eye-brows are Cross-bows, the Bolts are her

Looks, With which my poor Senses are knock'd down like

Rooks; Her Cheeks—but who can a comparison draw ? Not Carmine, no, no; she has none ! 'tis la, la!

Her Lips! and such Lips, and such Kisses they

gave, That Prudence was gagg’d, and sent off as a slave; They found in my Mind's Magna Charta a flaw; Non-suited my Judgement, and cast me, LA, LA! Her Neck has great Grace, after Meat and before; Her Legs, but, alas ! I must mention no more, For Decency, lately, has kept me in awe, So to say any more wou'd be, but paw, paw, paw.

A TOAST.

TUNE.
“ Ye Lads who approve."

WHEN
VHEN running Life's Race,

We gallop apace,
Each strives to be first at the Post;

Mount Hope with Catch-weights,

For Fame's Give-and-take Plates, And pray what is Fame but a Toast?

The Taste of our days

Is poaching for praise,
All Men of their Services boast;

The Ladies by Dress,

The same ardour express,
Each wou'd if she cou'd be a Toast.

Both Sexes agree,

Over Wine to be free, For Freedom's an Englishman's boast;

As freely we think,

So as freely we drink,
And a Sentiment give for a Toast.

What is Life ? prithee say,

But a Glass and away, While Health is our ruddy-fac'd Host;

But when we abuse him,

We're certain to lose him, By taking too much of a Toast.

These Common-place Rhimes

Suit Common-place Times, Who now can of Genius boast ?

Why, really, I think

'Tis a Science to drink, And there's Genius in giving a Toast.

Even Politics fail,

Altercation grows stale,
Of what now can either side boast ?

No matter to us,

All their Farce and their Fuss, Deserves not the name of a Toast.

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