The thoughts on't makes me ill,
I'm ready for to vomit ;
And do whate'er I will,

I thinks about the comet !

(Spoken)-Oh Lord! I'ze sure as how 'twill do for me; I says to neighbour Clod, says I, 'Ifegs it sha'n't roast I; for, dang it, I'll get up to my neck in a tub o' water." 66 Oh, my lad," says he, "but then if it don't roast you 'twill boil you, and make you sing

Tooral looral, &c.

But let's hope for the best,

I hopes it won't come nigh us,

I shou'd n't get no rest,

If I thought as how 'twould fry us.
It wo'n't come here I'ze sure,

But if it does, why dom it!

For I'll my house insure

From burning by the comet!

(Spoken.)-Ecod, and so I wull; I'll go instanterly and insure myself, and my housen and all; and then setting in case it should come I don't care, I shall sit still and sing.

Tooral looral la, &c.

The Aukward Recruit.

BEHOLD poor Will just come from drill,
Not long ago I listed;

I sold my cart, to pay the smart,
But money they resisted:

1 can't tell what may be my lot,
But still 'tis mighty odd, sir,
That they should pop a lad like me,
Into their aukward squad, sir.
Row de dow, &c.

I wish I was at home again,
And got my working clothes on,
My greasy hat that easy sat,

And Sunday's woollen hose on;
But at command, I'm forc'd to stand,
As stiff as any poker,

And in this plight, wheel to the right,
Or my head it would be broke, sir.

I walk'd and run with Corporal Fun,
'Till I wore three pair of shoes out,
And had such knocks, as if in the stocks,
To make me turn my toes out :
I'm sure they can no good intend,
To run me out of breath, sir,
And then the stock, around my neck,
It throttles me to death, sir.

But like a malkin I must stand,
My fingers below my breeches;
Nor dare not even move my hands,
To scratch my head when't itches:
And then there's so much soap and flour,
Is plaister'd on my head, sir;
But for my king and country,
I'll fight until I'm dead, sir,

с

If Serjeant Kite informs me right,
I cut a pretty figure;
And might'nt I in battle try,
Sure I can pull a trigger:
It is my will, the French to kill,
I'll do with all my heart, sir;
Who knows, but I may chance to kill
Great Gen'ral Bonaparte, sir.

If I can kill this great Frenchman,
And my country be befriended,
"Twill be a thunderbolt for France,
And make the wars be ended:
No doubt but I shall captain be,
And then I'll merrily sing, sir,
I'll tear my throat from night till morn,
Shout huzza! God save the king, sir.

But now my blood begins to rise,
It shews that I'm a Briton,
And if the French should dare to land,
Huzza, my boys, we'll spit 'em!
Let every man t'his motto stand,
And that's we know a Lion;
Let English boys go hand in hand,
Then d-n 'em we'll defy them.

Fatima's Dream.

WHEN pensive I thought on my love,
The moon on the mountain shone bright

And Philomel down in the grove,
Broke sweetly the silence of night.

Oh! I wish'd that the tear drop would flow,
But I felt too much anguish to weep;
'Till worn with the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.

Methought that my love, as I lay,

His ringlets all clotted with gore; In the paleness of death seem'd to say, Alas! we must never meet more!

Yes, yes, my belov'd we must part,
The steel of my rival was true,
The assassin has struck in that heart,
Which beat with such fervour for you.

Bang-Up in the City.

TAKE life throughout, both high and low, in ev'ry rank and station,

Where'er you look, you'll find that folks are led by imitation;

Thus four-in-hand, while at the west, so prime they dash away,

You'll find us east of Temple-Bar as knowing lads

as they ;

For each one, now-a days, to ape his betters will be striving,

And 'prentice boys, as well as peers, will have a touch as driving.

(Spoken.)-There was Tom Ledger, Billy Poster and I, were three as prime lads as any in the city -we were the boys for keeping it up of an evening

billiard tables, knock about the balls-half-price

at the play oysters, spruce beer, bottled porter, and pipe, turn-out about three, quite frisk, break lamps, ring bells, knock down watchmen, home to bed, got the key all snug, counting-house next morning at nine-bang-up.

*

Then keep it up, it's all the go, such natty lads and pretty,

Whatever other bucks may say, we're bang-up in the city.

The alderman's fat wife, you know, must copy from my lady,

With concert, ball, and crowded rout, she'll often keep a gay day;

At Easter Monday's ball she'll mix with city belles so dashing,

And stand a scrouging all the while, because it is the fashion.

Thus mounted on our Sunday nags, like Rosinante and Dapple,

Soon Rotten-row, and Bond-street too, will scarce eclipse Whitechapel.

(Spoken.)-Ay, we're knowing dogs at Houndsditch, and deep files at Wellclose-square-in Cannon-street they're all prime—and about St. Mary Axe they're as keen as a hatchet.

So keep it up, it's all the go, such natty lads and pretty,

Whatever other bucks may say, we're bang-up in

the city.