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,
All in Undertaker's shew;

See the train of Sable-wearers,
Acting ev'ry Mode of woe.
Silent crouds the spot surrounding,

Call'd the GRAND RECEIVER'S Dome;

Dismal tolling Tenor sounding,

Fellow Mortals follow Home.

List! oh list! ye State Declaimers,
On whose words the many dwell;
Place-bestowing, Patriot-tamers,

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,
View the Sod with Briars bound;
There the Farce of Finery's ended,
All are equal under ground.
Fashions there, there Envy's banish'd,
Beauties there can't plead their forms;
There Precedencies are vanish'd,

Offals ALL to odious worms.

Wise folks, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting Graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Briton's sons, and Asian slaves.
Gloom no more the brow with sorrow,
Meet the moment, come what may;
If we're all to dye To-morrow,
Let us live, my Lads, To-day.

We'll not lavish Life's expences,
Nor be Niggards when we pay;
Let us please, not pall our Senses,
This is Reason's holiday.
Here, to Dunces bid defiance,

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,
Our Country is trod upon like an old Shoe,
And may Heel-pieces want, aye, and Head-pieces too.

One, vamping our old Constitution pretends,
And turn and translate it to serve self and friends,
All this is but botching to serve their own Ends.

Each Roof in this Island with Liberty rings,
The Good of their Country each Party-man sings,
The Sense of that Phrase is,-My Country's good
Things.

If I, but how shou'd I the State have a hand in?
Good souls I'd be picking, the bad be disbanding,
And then we shou'd come to a right understanding.

Against Want the cunning man wisely provides,
A Storm-shunning shepherd beneath a bush hides,
So as the Times change we are sure to change Sides.

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,
Or else I cou'd hammer out such a fine theme,
It was about something I saw'd in a dream.

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,
But the best hold of all is the holding your Tongue;
Tho' Wits by their words good companions become,
Can they get half so much as the Man who is mum?

The Servant who slily keeps silent will rise,
His ears he must doubt, nor give faith to his eyes;
Ask the fine Waiting-maid how she rich cou'd
become,

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,
My Rhymes are all out, I must henceforth be mum.
Sing tantararara mum all.

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, can say,

When I, Sirs, a new one can say.

What shall I first say, or what shall I first do?
What best will my bad voice become?
Why faith, Sirs, I'll strive by my verses to shew;
That Life is, alas! but a Hum