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 And Pantomime Scorn by your power of Face; 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, 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 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? As insects will cluster round pots full of honey, 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; 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? But look by its lights 'till we spy Common Sense. If chance she is seen, tho' for fear we mistake her, Let us first call at Court, but, perhaps, we intrude, Then at Church! to be sure, Common Sense there succeeds, Unless Superstition should choak it with weeds; 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, you see, as a Sailor, I'll heave off But, if you don't like it I'll leave off, Concerning Flats, Sharps, and all that; Outlandish folks tickle your ears With Solos, and such sort of stuff, Through Canada loudly 'twas rung, At Gaudaloupe merrily sung, And Martinique chorus'd Encore. |