人

When Lord of the Feast, 'midst your Parasite

Group,

You're the slave of Conceit, and low Forgery's dupe; All artists (but English ones) praise and procure, By your band of Bear-leaders you're dubb'd Con

noisseur.

For Words, when you're lost, fill the blank with
Grimace,

And Pantomime Scorn by your power of Face;
If Merit dares speak, and he's known to be poor,
Knock him down with a Bett, then your triumph's

secure.

.

With high-varnish'd masters, and bronz'd bustos grac'd,

Your house, like a toy-shop, is lumber'd in Taste, All, all are Antiques, Ciceroni procures,

For who dares deceive such complete Connoisseurs?

The Worth of a man, say the Wise, is his Pence: 'Twas said so, and so it will centuries hence, Then Money's the thing, the Grand Pimp that pró

cures,

Full work for the Wits, when she forms Connoisseurs. Sing tantararara Taste all,

THE SONGSTER's HORN-BOOK.

TUNE- ALLY CROKER."

REAT A was alarm'd atB's bad behav❜our,
Because he refus'd C, D, E, F, favour,
G, got a Husband, with H, I, K, and L,
M, marry'd Mary and scholars taught to spell.
Abcdefghiklm, &c.

It went hard at first with N, O, P, and Q,
With R, S, T, single and also double U;
With X and Y it stuck in their gizzards,
'Till they were made friends by the Two crooked
Izzards.

This A, B, C, tho' so little it is thought about, Each Change in the World, by its power has brought

about;

'Tis the ground-work of Wisdom, of Science the key, Sir,

What can a man know, who don't know A B C? Sir.

Some Fiddlers, in dress, pretend to ape their betters. They had better mind their Horn-book and study all their letters;

Their Knowledge now no farther goes, from A B C, Sir,

To the four more letters call'd, D, E, F, and G, Sir.

As to Words 'tis not worth while to mind their precision,

If we thro' the Gamut can run a division;

The Annals of England, to our shame, will tell ye, That Newton was nothing to fine Farinelli.

How ravishing that swell! what sweet Symphonina?
What Cantabilis? what Taste? Ah cara divina!
O chigusto the voice of Signior Sustinuti,
Miltonic the language of Tace titti tutti.

As insects will cluster round pots full of honey,
Imported illiberals swarm for our money,

Sense is scar'd off by Sound, and Trash over Taste glories,

Only Shew 'tis succeeds now, O Tempora, O Mores!

This A B C excuse without Ceremoni,

My hoarse voice and harmony is not Unisoni;
If you censure my singing, for censure is free, Sir,
As a Songster, remember, I'm but in A B C, Sir.
Abcdefghiklm, &c.

COMMON SENSE.

TUNE.

"One morning young Roger accosted me thus."

NE night having nothing to do-nor to drink,

;

What my subject shou'd be, kept me some time in doubt,

I consider'd, at last-what we all were about.

Such frauds and such fractions, such follies, such fictions,

Such out-of-door clamours, and in contradictions; What must this be owing to ? why ? or from whence ? What is it we want ?-why, we want Common Sense.

O yes! who can tell us where Common Sense dwells? Does it burnish Gold Roofs, or strew Rushes in

Cells?

Does it beam in the Mine? does it swim in the Sea?
Does it wing the wide Air ? does it blossom the Tree?
If folks wou'd accept Common Sense as their guest,
With Meum and Tuum at home they'll be bless'd;
Not Lunatic Lacqueys run mad up and down,
Nor mind any business but what was their own.
But which is the way to find Common Sense out?
She feasts not on Turtle;-cuts in at no rout ?—
Get the Tub Cynic's lanthorn, we won't mind ex-
pence,

But look by its lights 'till we spy Common Sense.

If chance she is seen, tho' for fear we mistake her,
She's natively neat, like a lovely young Quaker,
Pure Beauty, despising false Drapery's aid,
And Common Sense scorns all pedantic parade.

Let us first call at Court, but, perhaps, we intrude,
'Twas told so by Miss Affectation, the Prude;
There Fashion forbids the free use of the mind,
What can Common Sense say in a place so refin'd?

Then at Church! to be sure, Common Sense there succeeds,

Unless Superstition should choak it with weeds;
And tho' Infidelity dares a pretence,

She's easily vanquish'd by plain Common Sense.

When I mention'd the Church, you expected at least, In the common-place mode, some stale joke 'gainst a Priest;

That a laugh I shou'd raise, at the Clergy's expence, But he who wou'd wish it, must want Common Sense.

As to Trade, no accounts can be well kept without her,

Yet Stock-jobbers say they know nothing about her. Bear witness 'Change-Alley-the Omniums declare, Common Sense shall for ever be under Par there.

Come, I'll give you a Toast, if I give no offenceHere's the Sensitive Plant, and the Root Common Sense.

Here's Love's Magic Circlé, which all Senses binds, And Delicate Pleasures to Sensible Minds.

A FORE-CASTLE SONG.

TUNE.

"How happy cou'd I be with either,"

DX bit of a song in my way,
D°

you see, as a Sailor, I'll heave off
A

But, if you don't like it I'll leave off,
I soon can my bawling belay.
Odd Lingos Musicianers write in,

Concerning Flats, Sharps, and all that;
We Seamen are sharp in our fighting,
And as to the Frenchmen they're flat.

Outlandish folks tickle your ears

With Solos, and such sort of stuff,
We Tars have no more than Three Cheers,
Which French folks think music enough.

Through Canada loudly 'twas rung,
Then echoed on Senegal's shore,

At Gaudaloupe merrily sung,

And Martinique chorus'd Encore.