At Havre we play'd well our parts,

Tho' our Game they pretended to scoff, For Trumps we turn'd up English Hearts,

They threw down their Cards and sheer'd off. They have met with their match now they feel, Their Shuffling and Cutting we check ; They were lurch'd at Crown Point, and lost Deal, And faith they got slamm'd at Quebec.

vapours,

Our Music gave French folks the
It took an odd turn on Conflans;
We knew they were all fond of Capers,
So set up an old English Dance.

'Twas Britons strike home that we sounded,

By the strength of that tune they were trounc'd, The Tididols looking confounded,

While Hawke faith their feather-heads pounc'd.

Our instruments always do wonders,
From Round-tops we give serenades ;
Our Organs are twenty-four pounders,
Our Concerts are brisk Cannonades.
For Cooks, thof the French folks are neater,
Our messes they never can beat,
Our Dishes have so much Salt-petre,

And as to our Balls they're forc'd-meat.

God bless our King George, with Three Cheers, Sirs,
And God bless his Consort, Amen.

In past times we've drubb'd the Mounseers, Sirs,
For pastime we'll drub them again.
There's one thing I have more to say,-Tho'
Beyond seas, my boys, we'll o'ercome,

If you'll give Old England fair play tho',
And keep yourselves quiet at home.

WHY shou'd you, lov'd Sensible, shou'd you

WHY be pale,

The portrait of Grief you appear;

You look like yon' Lily that droops in the vale,
With my lips let me wipe off that tear.

Disdain a reply to Malignity's tongue,

Let Patience to Clamour submit ;

It is better that Slander shou'd say you was wrong,

Than that the
you

wrong

shou'd commit.

The Atheist, if really such madmen exist,
Belief will delirious decry,

In Infidel Doubtings pretend to persist,
What they cannot conceive they deny.

Thus some of your sex, old and ugly, will rail,
Like Atheists all goodness they doubt,
Insisting men may o'er all beauties prevail,
Because themselves could not hold out.

You must pardon the cry, think not strange what I say, They Mercy from you must receive;

Be it known to your tenderness, 'tis the world's way, Who injure will never forgive.

Smile, smile, and smile on, let Day beam on your face, To Oblivion be Obloquy hurl'd;

By the best you're belov'd, thou fair figure of Grace, So laugh at the rest of the world.

THE WHIM.

THAT

TUNE.

"If I ever shou'd know, and that knowledge impart."

HAT the World is a Stage, and the Stage is a
School,

Where some study Knave's parts, and some play the
Fool,

Was said, and again so we say;

For as the World's round, and rolls round about,
Old fashions come in, and new fashions go out,
As Vanity dresses the Play.

Do not seriously think of these whimsical times,
But sing or say something in whimsical rhimes,-
The World's but a Whim, and all that;
I mean not the world which revolves on the poles,
But the Animal World, that's made up of odd Souls,
The sons and the daughters of Chat.

For a new Exhibition their portraits we'll plan,
And Pen and Ink Likenesses sketch if we can,
Where all may their semblances see;

Tho' folks of fine breeding, immensely polite,
Their own faces finish, with Rouge and Flake White,
So leave no employment for me.

Let us tenderly take off those masks, and their cures
Attempt, by exposing such caricatures

In Impartiality's Hall;

But if the gall'd sinner shou'd wince at a line,
And cry,
"Curse the fellow! the picture's not mine,"
The Prime-serjeant Painter I call.

Come, Satyr, assist me, my project is new.—
The Demi-beast, grinning, his range of reeds blew,
And this was his Symphony's Song:-
"Shou'd I sing of these Times, or in prose or in verse,
"Weak things, but not wicked ones I shou'd rehearse,
A medley betwixt Right and Wrong.

"This Æra is much too insipid for me, Futility's only in practice I see,

66

Ι

Unworthy one stroke of my lash; "The fashion is Folly, let Folly go on,

"To shew Sense subsides, and True Taste to Bon Ton, "And Genius is banish'd for Trash."

Disdain frown'd his brow, redd'ning Rage his eyes cast,
Contempt o'er his countenance spread as he past,
No more Dissipation he'll school.

We'll be quite the thing then, as life's but a toy,
A bustle in which we can only enjoy

The Pleasure of playing the Fool.

THE SCURVY.

TUNE.

"E'er Phoebus shall peep on the fresh budding flow'rs."

EVE

VE tempted to err, ill betide the sad time,
Ye modern wives pity her fall,

Since we

her sons suffer for Grandmamma's crime, The Scurvy has tainted us all.

To curb the contagion which putrifies here,
In vain have the Faculty try'd;

Its pestilent symptoms offensive appear
In vulgar Eruptions of Pride.

For all Pride is low, 'tis a Cancerous Brain,
A Poorness or Foulness of Blood;

The want of Sound Sense renders wretches insane
Who are lifted above what they shou'd.

Epidemic Prognostics appear in each State,
Where Meanness in office is plac'd,
Who scurvily ape the odd airs of the Great,
And fancy ill breeding is taste.

But when their high mighty Superiors approach,
The malady takes a new turn;

As abjectly then the base Scurvy things crouch,
As before they were bloated with scorn.

With Artists the Scurvy of Envy appears,
When Comates they coldly commend;
Nay, oft it breaks out in illiberal sneers,
And poisons the Fame of a Friend.