« ForrigeFortsett »
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
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
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.
TUNEL" ALLY CROKER."
REAT A was alarm’d atB's bad behav'our,
, 21 G, got a Husband, with H, I, K, and L, M, marry'd Mary and scholars taught to spell.
It went hard at first with N, O, P, and Q,
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 BC? 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, 0 Mores!
This A B C excuse without Ceremoni,
COMMON SENSE. :
NE night having nothing to donor 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 niind
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 Senseo
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 Circle, which all Senses binds, And Delicate Pleasures to Sensible Minds.
A FORE-CASTLE SONG.
you see, as a Sailor, I'll heave off
A bit of a song in my way, But, if you don't like it I'll leave off,
I soon can my bawling belay.
Concerning Flats, Sharps, and all that ;
And as to the Frenchmen they're flat.
With Solos, and such sort of stuff,
Which French folks think music enough.
And Martiniqué chorus'd Encore.