Yet, Lovelies, before 'tis too late, While yet the pulse beats in its prime, Consider that wrinkles await, And make up your Quarrel with Time. Before 'tis too late, so will we→ Too long I've your patience be-rhim'd, With Time may we henceforth agree, And henceforth all things be well-tim'd. THE FUNERAL. TUNE. * Come ye careless, come and hear me," NEE the Pall-supporting Bearers, See the train of Sable-wearers, Call'd the GRAND RECEIVER'S Dome; Dismal tolling Tenor sounding, Fellow Mortals follow Home. List! oh list! ye State Declaimers, Hark! oh hark! 'tis Grandeur's Knell. Heralds loud proclaim the Honours Which this once puissant past; Tell his Titles, count his Manors, Lord of only this at last. View the Tomb with Sculpture splendid, Offals ALL to odious worms. Wise folks, weak ones, poor, and wealthy, We'll not lavish Life's expences, Affectations disapprove; Here's my Toast,-The grand Alliance, FRIENDSHIP, FREEDOM, WIT, and LOVE. THE COBLER OF CRIPPLEGATE. TUNE. "Had pretty Miss been at a Dancing-School bred." HO' a Cobler is call'd but a low occupation, The practice of cobling is come into fashion, From me up to those who wou'd cobble the nation. Some say that Old England wants heel-piecing, true, One, vamping our old Constitution pretends, Each Roof in this Island with Liberty rings, If I, but how shou'd I the State have a hand in? Against Want the cunning man wisely provides, With my Awl in my hand I'll Old England defend, Giving room to my betters who've much room to mend, May they soon become better, or soon have an end. K To those who are heedless what here may mishap, Their hearts are as hard as the Stone in my lap, They're taking their swing, wou'd their swing was my Strap. I begin to wax warm, so I'll close up my seam, Το my Last I am come, and that shall not last long, So this is the last of a poor Cobler's Song, May they now be right who till now have been wrong. MUM. YE TUNÉ. "Ye medley of mortals." VE Gossips who blab out the secrets of State, Ye Tell-tales who over the tea-tables prate, Ye Boasters of Favours from Beauties o'ercome, Be wiser, poor Pratlers, henceforward be mum, Sing tantararara mum all. Ye Wives who have Husbands neglecting their duties, That time give the Bottle that's due to your beauties; Would you cure them ?, take care when in drink they reel home, To receive them with smiles, and resolve to be mum. It is good to hold fast, to hold much, or hold long, The Servant who slily keeps silent will rise, She will curt'sy and answer, because I was mum. But enough has been said, and enough has been sung; Remember, dear friends, keep good watch o'er your Tongue; I have no more to say, to an end I am come, THE HUM. TUNE. "Push about the brisk Bowl." USH about the brisk Bowl, 'twill enliven the PUSH heart, While thus we sit round on the-Stay! What business have I an old Song to impart, When I, Sirs, a new one can say. What shall I first say, or what shall I first do? |