Saturday Night.

TIS said we vent`rous die-hards
When we leave the shore,
Our friends should mourn,
Lest we return,

To bless their sights no more;
But this is all a notion

Bold Jack can't understand;
Some die upon the ocean,
And some die on the land.
Then since 'tis clear,

Howe'er we steer,

No man's life's under his command,
Let tempests howl,
And billows roll,
And danger press;

Of those in spite there are some joys,
Us jolly tars to bless ;

For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
To drink to Poll and Bess.

One seaman hands the sails,
Another heaves the log,
The purser swops
Our pay for slops,

The landlord sells us grog
Thus each man to his station,
To keep life's ship in trim,

What argufies 'noration?

The rest is fortune's whim:
Cheerly, my hearts,

Then play your parts,

Boldly resolv'd to sink or swim

The mighty surge
May ruin urge,
And danger press;

Of those in spite there are some joys
Us jolly tars to bless;

For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
To drink to Poll and Bess.

For all the world, just like
The ropes on board a ship,
Each man's rigg'd out
A vessel stout,

To take for life a trip.

The shrouds and stays and braces
Are joys and hopes and fears;
The halliards, sheets, and braces,
(Still as each passion veers,
And whim prevails,)

Direct the sails,}

As on the sea of life he steers:
Then let the storm

Heav'ns face deform,

And danger press;

Of those in spite there are some joys
All jolly tars to bless;

For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
To drink to Poll and Bess.

Yorkshire Concert.

IZE a Yorkshireman just come to town, And my coming to town was a gay day; For fortune has here set me down,

Waiting gentleman to a fine lady.

My lady gives galas and routs,

And her treats of the town are the talk here, But nothing Ize seen hereabouts

Equals one that was given in Yorkshire.

Rum ti iddle ti iddle ti, &c.

Johnny Fig was a green and white grocer,
In bus'ness as brisk as an eel, sir,

None than John to his shop could stick closer,
But his wife thought it quite ungenteel, sir.
Her neighbours resolv'd to cut out,

And astonish the rustic parishioners,
She invited them all to a rout,

And ax'd all the village musicioners.

The company met, gay as larks, sir,
Drawn forth all as fine as blown roses,
The concert commenc'd with the clark, sir,
Who chaunted the Vicar and Moses;
The barber sung, Gallery of Wigs, sir,
The gemmen all said 'twas the dandy;
And the ladies ancor'd Johnny Fig, sir,
Who volunteer'd Drops of Brandy.

The baker he sung a good batch;
While the lawyer for harmony willing,
With the bailiff he join'd in the catch;
And the notes of the butcher were killing
The wheelwright he put in his spoke ;

The coachman he flogg'd on with fury;
The coal-man he play'd the Black Joke;
And the fish-woman sung a bravura,

To strike the assembly with wonder,
Miss screams a quintette loud as Boreas,
Sung, and wak'd farmer Thrasher's dog Thunder,
Who starting up, join'd in the chorus;
While a donkey, the melody marking,
Chim'd in too, which made a wag say,
"Attend to the Rector of Barking's

Duet with the Vicar of Bray, sir.'

sir,

A brine tub half full of beef salted,
Madame Fig had trick'd out for a seat, sir,
Where the tailor to sing was exalted,

But the covering crack'd under his feet, sir, Snip was sous'd in the brine, but soon rising, Bawl'd out, while they laugh'd at his grief, sir, "Is't a matter so monstrous surprising,

To see pickl'd cabbage with beef, sir?"

To a ball then the concert gave way,
And for dancing no souls could be riper,
So they struck up the Devil to Pay,
While Johnny Fig paid the piper.
But the best thing came after the ball,
For to finish the whole with perfection,
Madame Fig ax'd the gentlefolks all
To sup on a cold collection.

Honest Ben.

I'M call'd honest Ben, but for what I don't know, I only, d'ye see, do my duty!

'Tis every one's place for to lighten the woe That presses down virtue and beauty.

Why gold was first made, I can't tell, to be sure,
To learning not being addicted,

Unless it was meant for to cherish the poor,
And comfort and aid the afflicted.

Once honest Bill Bobstay, a true-hearted lad,
Became for a land lubber bail;

Who soon got from Bill all the money he had,
And then coop'd him up in a jail.

My pockets with prize-money then were well lin❜d,
So Bill I restor'd to his friends:

Their transport made him nearly out of his mind, And me for the act full amends.

In that gallant fight t'other day off the Nile,
My niessmate, Sam Stern, chanc'd to die;
The battle once o'er, tho' I cheer'd with a smile,
A tear for poor Sam dimm'd my eye:

Thinks I, here's rough news for his prattlers and
Kate,

They'll scarcely survive the sad shock, So I'll save my rhino to soften their fate, And steer them from poverty's rock.

If safely thro' life's troubled sea you would steer, And make the right haven at last,

Still kindly all messmates distress'd strive to cheer,
And shield them from poverty's blast.

For my part I know tars must fight and must fall,
And leave their poor widows hearts sad:
Lord love 'em! I wish I could marry them all,
And be to each orphan a dad,