The Riots and Routs

Of the Ins and the Outs,

Is only a newspaper roast;
Óf Cricket I sing,

In and Out there's the thing,
And there I'll attempt a new Toast.

May our Innings be long, May our bowling be strong, Middle-wicket I chuse for my post; Come, bumper away,

'Twixt the Stumps your Balls play, And win the Game Love-that's the Toast.

THE

HE World, and its Works, which we grieve to forsake,

Are good or bad, just as we hit or mistake;

We write and we wrangle, make parties and plan,
As wise when we finish as when we began ;

So let us laugh on, to be serious is sad,

A Man in his Senses wou'd now be thought mad.

Our Senses are bubbles in Vanity's Fair,
And Men-children sillily make a shew there.
Each mounting his hobby-horse starts for the race,
Expects Admiration, but ends in Disgrace;
For so Dissipation our training has schem❜d,

The more we're look'd into, the less we're esteem'd.

Behold the Booth's Shew-cloth to draw the croud

in,

The Rustics are wrinkl'd with open-mouth grin. Each Muscle's in motion at Andrew's grimace, Who tickles the throng 'till they push in for place; Pray tell me what more is the World's present plan,

Than places to get in, and push who push can.

The shirtless untrowzer'd Philosophers Saws,
Once obsolete Reason pretended were Laws;
But Instinct turn'd Rebel, so Instinct was try'd,
The Passions were Jurors, NOT GUILTY! they
cry'd.

Keep Sapience in schools, Folly now is the mode,
Truth's ways want repairing, I'll ride the new Road.

My Bottle's my Hunter, I mount with a Song,
And ti-tup about like a Sunday-hack throng.
Each raises his Portion of Dust for the day,
And he who's a Buck here will dust it away.
We'll laugh at the Dust which is made about

Town,

And up with our Brushers, to brush the Dust down.

L

ET those who have nothing to do but to hear,
And those who have nothing to do but to sneer,
Glean Scandal from Infamy's stubble;
Praise is but a vapour, and Censure the same,
Go ask of Philosophers what they call Fame?
'Tis Anglice, Vanity's bubble.

This scribbling, this pen-and-ink-itch is a crime,
Yet Heaven forgive each poor Sinner in Rhime,
Condemn'd to the penance of Thinking;

For what are all Similes to a Sirloin,

The flowing of Fountains to filling of Wine?

Huzza! for good eating and drinking.

The Sapphics so soft, the Pindarics so rare,
The Epics, Iambics, and such sort of fare,

With many more names that are harder.
To Turtle, what signifies Tytire tu?

With Classics, I beg you'll have nothing to do,
But study the style of a Larder.

Parnassus and Pegasus, cold Hypocrene,
Are words which I warrant give school-boys the spleen.
And as to the Pedant Apollo,

Let him take his Snuff, let his Sisters drink Tea,
No Coxcombs I want, Sir, no old Maids for me,
But Bacchus and Venus I'll follow.

The Choice Spirit Horace compos'd Lyric Verse,
Catullus and Ovid good Scholars rehearse,

Cap, scan 'em, and conjugate clever;
My Sentiments are for a Sentiment Toast,
And Syntax abolish for bak'd, boil'd, and roast.
So BEEF and a BUMPER for ever!

SPRING.

TUNE.

"Come! pledge me Love, &c."

OOK round, my Love! how chang'd the Scene,
So late white o'er with Snow;

Now 'ray'd in flow'r enamell'd green,

How rich the meadows shew?

The Sun creative pow'r resumes,
And warms the breezy air;

The bursting buds expand their blooms,
While birds their nests prepare.

The Herds, and Flocks on herbage feed,
Sweet Spring renews its pride;

The Ice-bound Streams from fetters freed,
Now tinkling, roll their tide.

On leafless boughs no candy'd frost
In icycles appears;

But as in grief, for Winter lost,
Dissolving into tears.

Thus sordid senseless Human Kind

But mere existence prove;

'Till Beauty's Sunshine ope's the Mind, And melts the Mass to Love.

For spite of Wealth, or Power's controul,
Or all the Wise can say,

'Till WOMAN warms the frozen soul,
We are but Clods of Clay.

A WONDER.

TUNE.

"Since Life's but a Jest."

A

You'll wonder, indeed, when this Wonder you know,

We are wonderful high, and as wonderful low.
Which nobody can deny.

We always are wond'ring at ev'ry thing new,
The good things we wonder at rich people do,
'Tis a Wonder indeed if such Wonders are true.