Which made me so mad,

I swore away I'd run, sirs;
I packed up clothes so smart-

Ribbed stockings, waistcoats pretty,
With money, and light heart
Tript off for Lunnun city.

Ta, ra, la, ra, la, ta, ra, la, ra, la, di.

Soon as I got there,

I run'd about quite silly, At all the shows to stare,

In a place called Piccadilly. Oh! such charming sights! Birds in cages thrive, sirs, Coaches, fiddles, fights,

And crocodiles alive, sirs.

Believe me now, good folk, (To lie I am not willing,)

I see'd, without a joke,

All Dublin for a shilling; A man com'd by the door,

Ta, ra, la, &c.

Who call'd me awkward dunce, sirs,

And said he paid no more

To see the world at once, sirs.
Ta, ra, la, &c.

Then to the Strand I sped,

And there my eyes did feast, sirs,

To see a man in red

Exhibit the wild beasts, sirs, Saying, "Gentlefolk, walk in— We've apes and monkies plenty." Says I, "For one within, Without-I'll show you twenty." Ta, ra, la, &c.

I went one day to spy

The gentry in Hyde-Park, sirs,

A girl pushed rudely by,

To whom I did remark, sirs,

"Though your face be mighty fair,
I've seen a bear more civil;'
Then so little clothes they wear,
Oh! Lunnun is the devil.

Ta, ra, la, &c.

GOOD NIGHT! GOOD REST! (Shakspeare.)

my

share,

GOOD night! good rest! ah, neither be
She bade good night! that kept my rest away,
And daft me to a cabin, hanged with care,

To descant on the doubts of my decay! Farewell! (quo' she) and come again to-morrow! Fare well I could not, for I supped with Sorrow!

Yet, at parting, sweetly did she smile,

In scorn or friendship will I construe whether; It may be, she joyed to jest at my exile,

It may be, again, to make me wander thither!

FREEDOM AND LIBERTY.
(Beazley.)

HARK! I hear the bugles ring,

'Tis freedom gives the huntsman glee;
What makes the lark so blithely sing
Through fields of air?-'tis liberty.
What enjoyment of our life
Equals that of being free?
What care we for worldly strife
If we have but liberty?

Woman's wrong to use her spell
To chain us to her destiny;
We cannot love her half so well
As when we love at liberty.

What patriot heart will ever yield
His freedom up to tyranny?
What cry gives courage to the field?
"Tis "a la mort" for liberty.

THE DOGS'-MEAT MAN.
Air-" White Cockade."-(Hudson.)

IN Gray's Inn, not long ago,

An old maid lived a life of woe;

She was fifty-three, with a face like tan,
And she fell in love with a dogs'-meat man.
Much she loved this dogs'-meat man,
He was a good-looking dogs'-meat man;
Her roses and lilies were turn'd to tan,
When she fell in love wi' the dogs'-meat man.

Every morning when he went by,
Whether the weather was wet or dry,
And right opposite her door he'd stand,

And cry "dogs' meat," did this dogs'-meat man,
Then her cat would run out to the dogs'-mea.

man;

Then he took up his barrow, and away he ran,
And cried" dogs' meat," did this dogs'-meat man

He soon saw which way the cat did jump,
And his company he offered plump;
She couldn't blush, 'cause she'd no fan,
So she sot and grinned at the dogs'-meat man.
"If you'll marry me," says the dogs'-meat man
"I'll have you," says the dogs'-meat man;
For a quartern of peppermint then he ran,
And she drink'd a good health to the dogs'-mea

man.

That very evening he was seen,

In a jacket and breeches of velveteen,
To Bagnigge-Wells, then, in a bran

New gown, she went with the dogs'-meat man :
She'd biscuits and ale with the dogs'-meat man,
And walked arm-in-arm with the dogs'-meat man;
And the people all said, what round did stan'
He was quite a dandy dogs'-meat man.

He said his customers, good lord!
Owed him a matter of two pound odd;
And, she replied, it was quite scan-
Dalous to cheat such a dogs'-meat man.

"If I had but the money," says the dogs'-meat

He pocketed the money and went away,
She waited for him all next day,

But he never com'd; and then she began

To think she was diddled by the dogs'-meat man;
She went to seek this dogs'-meat man,
But she couldn't find the dogs'-meat man;
Some friend gave her to understan'

He'd got a wife and seven children-this dogs'meat man.

So home she went, with sighs and tears,
As her hopes were all transformed to fears,
And her hungry cat to mew began,

As much as to say," where's the dogs'-meat man?"

She couldn't help thinking of the dogs'-meat man, The handsome, swindling, dogs'-meat man;

So

you see, just in one day's short span,

She lost her heart, a five-pound note, and the dogs'

meat man.

WHILE THE LADS OF THE VILLAGE
SHALL MERRILY, AH.
(Dibdin.)

WHILE the lads of the village shall merrily, ah,
Sound their tabors, I'll hand thee along,

And I say unto thee that merrily, ah,
Thou and I will be first in the throng.

While the lads of the village, &c.

Jut then, when the youth who last year won the dower,

And his mate shall the sports have begun, When the gay voice of gladness resounds from each bower,

And thou long'st in thy heart to make one.
While the lads of the village, &c.

Those joys that are harmless what mortal can blame?

"Tis my maxim that youth should be free; And, to prove that words and my deeds are the

same,

Believe thou shalt presently see.

my

While the lads of the village, &c.

The delights that around me hath roved When blessed with my Winny and Wales. But sorrow too quickly appeared,

And Winny was ta'en to the tomb, The smile that so sweetly endeared, Was lost in death's pitiless gloom. A wanderer now, sad and forlorn,

All hope in this drear bosom fails, And in anguish I ever must mourn

For the loss of my Winny and Wales.

THE SAILOR'S SHEET ANCHOR IS GROG. (Dibdin.)

SMILING grog is the sailor's best hope-his sheetanchor,

His compass, his cable, his log, That gives him a heart, which life's cares cannot canker;

Though dangers around him

Unite to confound him,

He braves them, and tips off his grog. "Tis grog, only grog,

Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log;
The sailor's sheet-anchor is grog.

What, though he to a friend, in trust,
His prize-money convey,

Who, to his bond of faith unjust,
Cheats him, and runs away;
What's to be done? he vents a curse
'Gainst all false hearts ashore,

Of the remainder clears his purse,
And then to sea for more.

There, smiling grog, &c.

What, though his girl, who often swore
To know no other charms,

He finds, when he returns ashore,
Clasp'd in a rival's arms:

What's to be done? he vents a curse,
And seeks a kinder she;

Dances, gets groggy, clears his purse,
And goes again to sea.

To crosses born, still trusting there,
The waves less faithless than the fair;
There into toils to rush again,

And stormy perils brave-what then?
Smiling grog, &c.

MY LOVE'S LIKE THE RED RED ROSE.

(Burns.)

OH, my love's like the red red rose That's newly sprung in June; My love is like the melody

That's sweetly played in tune.

As far art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,

Though a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands of life shall run.
But, fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my dear,
Though 't were ten thousand mile.

But scarce was the honeymoon dim

When the Devil cried, Flam, come away. Oh! oh! story of woe, when the Devil cried, Flam, come away.

How she wish'd that the tear-drop would fall,
Mrs. Flam could not weep;
But poor
And soon, in a black velvet pall,
She popp'd the old lawyer to sleep.

Oh, oh, story of woe, &c.

She thought of her love as she lay,
When the ghost of the late Mr. Flam,
In his green velvet cap, came to say,
Phoo, nonsense! your grief is all sham."
Oh! oh! story of woe, &c.

THE WANDERING MAID.

Air" Oh, rest thee, Babe."

COME hither, poor maiden, and yield not to woe,
My cottage shall shelter thy form from the snow.
The little thatched cottage which yonder you see
Is mine, and, poor maiden, it shall shelter thee;
Then, hasten, poor maiden, and yield not to woe,
My cottage shall shelter thy form from the snow.
Though the winds sharply freeze, they've not
frozen my heart;

I am poor, but thou shalt of my bread share a part;

My children to thee shall be tender and kind; I've taught them compassion, poor maiden, thou❜lt find.

Then, hasten, poor maiden, &c.

My dame, worthy creature, will welcome her guest,

For tender compassion resides in her breast,
Down her cheeks often flow sensibility's tears
When the tale of the orphan or wand'rer she hears.
Then, hasten, poor maiden, &c.

Though Fortune her comforts around me has shed,
And the clouds of misfortune have burst o'er thy

head,

We're one by creation, and thou, too, shall share My cottage, my comforts, and my humble fare. Then, hasten, poor maiden, &c.

But, as cobbler, in my way of trade
You'll allow I've some trouble in mending them;
When a boot is without any sole,

Like a husband who's lost a good wife it is;
But when mended by me, and made whole,
Then just like a dead corpse brought to life it is!

SPOKEN.] That is turning evil into good; it is renovation, resurrection, transubstantiation, reinvigoration,-in short, an old upper with a new sole has all the benefit a new soul could give to an old body! Your parsons are all cobblers, I'll grant; but what are they all to me? they can't make souls, though they pretend to the craft of mending them; now I can both make soles, and mend them afterwards, without half the hammering they make about it! Besides, I never take my money till I have finished the job, while the parsons are always paid beforehand, and never finish the job at all; but make bad worse by their way of mending evils. Cobblers, generally, that is, I mean the fact is, in short, of all trades,

Cobblers are knaves?-prone you'll find them,
In in-sole and out-sole, to cheat;
But cobblers of souls, if you mind them,
Wo'n't leave you a sole to

your

The lawyer's a cobbler of note,

feet.

For he notes, while your suit he keeps lin-
gering,

Where he may, through a hole in
your coat,
The soul of your pocket be fingering:
Then the doctor so cobbles your health,
With pretences of mending your stamina,
That when wasted the sole of your wealth,

You find his prescriptions all gammon are! SPOKEN.] These are both cobblers, who, instead of mending evils, make them greater, the more they cobble them. If the sole of your estate be a little out of repair, put the lawyer to work upon it, and his cobbling will soon destroy the leather of your means, and when he has cobbled you into limbo, he leaves you to cobble yourself out again as you can! In the hands of the doctor, he first cobbles you into sickness, and next into the stall of the undertaker, who finishes the job by cobbling you into your grave! That is a pretty way of mending evils, is it not? bling rogues in all trades, excepting mine;—in short, the fact is, that all

There are cob

here,

To his stall, 'twould be better, forsooth,

If the devil would take all together there! SPOKEN.] That is, I mean all, excepting myself only for I am too honest for him! It would be mending the world at any rate; and I dare say he would do us that favour, if a proper application were made to his lowness,-I beg his pardon, his highness, I mean, of course; no offence to his majesty, I hope. But of all the cobblers, I think the lawyers would puzzle him the most; for, being of the same colour, both inside and out, he might sometimes mistake them for himself, and there, as is usual with them every where, they would thus create a great deal of confusion! To this I have only to add a singular fact to the plural number,-. that all

Cobblers are knaves;-prone you'll find them, &c.

MASONS WILL NOT LIVE THE DUPES TO

GOLD.

AIR-" Smile, Britannia."

ATTEND, attend the strains
Ye masons free, whilst I,
To celebrate your fame,

Your virtues sound on high;
Accepted Masons, free and bold,
Will never live the dupes to gold.

Great Solomon, the king,

Great architect of fame,
Of whom all coasts did ring,

Revered a Mason's name :

Like him, accepted, free, and bold,
True wisdom we prefer to gold.

Since him, the great and wise
Of every age and clime,
With fame that never dies,

Pursued the art sublime;
Inspired by heaven, just and free,
Have honoured much our mystery.

The glorious path of those,

With heaven-born wisdom crowned, We every day disclose,

And tread on sacred ground;

A Mason righteous, just, and free,
Or else not worthy Masonry.

MY SOLE AMBITION IS TO DRINK. (H. Carey.)

BACCHUS must now his power resign,

I am the only god of wine.

It is not fit the wretch should be

In competition set with me,

Who can drink ten times more than he.

Make a new world, ye powers divine!
Stock'd with nothing else but wine.
Let wine its only product be;

Let wine be earth, and air, and sea;
And let that wine be all for me.

Let other mortals vainly wear

A tedious life in anxious care;
Let the ambitious toil and think;
Let states and empires swim or sink;
My sole ambition is to drink.

TWIST YE! TWINE YE!
(Walter Scott.)

TWIST ye! twine ye! ever so
Mingle shades of joy and woe;
Hope and fear, and pain and strife,
Weave the thread of human life.
While the mystic thread is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,

Dimly seen through twilight bending;
Lo! what varied shapes attending;
Passions wild and follies vain;
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain.
Hope and fear, and peace and strife,
Weave the thread of human life..

Twist ye! twine ye! &c.

RUN, NEIGHBOURS, RUN, ALL LONDON IS QUADRILLING IT.

Air-" Oh, what a Day."

RUN, neighbours, run, all London is quaċilling it,
Order and sobriety are dos-a-dos.

This is the day for toeing it and heeling it,
All are promenading it from high to low,
King Almack, with his star-and-garter coteries,
Never did anticipate such democratic votaries;
Courtiers and citizens are flirting with Terpsichore,
The town's an amphitheatre for capering and
kickery.

Run, neighbours, run, &c.

Dames, cavaliers too, unwilling all to stand alone, Thinking practice requisite to do the thing right, Like Harlequin and Columbine, rehearsing with Lord Pantaloon,

Meet slyly in the morning to prepare for night : Paines, first set, invented to delight us, is

Danced at St. James', St. Giles', and St. Vitus's: Dandies, turning figurantes, conceive they've made a clever hit;

And widows, weighing thirty stone, attempt to pas de Zephyr it.

Run, neighbours, run, &c.

Now, not inanimate who fatter or who thinner is, So wonderful, so blunderful, is fashion's freak, Baronets at Bootle's, money-lenders from the Minories,

Are jumbled antithetically, jowl by cheek. Trade stands still, while tradesmen are chasse-ing it; Brokers from the Stock-Exchange are busy balloteing it;

Commodores on timber-toes are driven from thei latitudes,

While gawky lady may'resses are sprawling int attitudes.

Run, neighbours, run, &c.

The three black graces, Law, Physic, and Divi nity,

Walk hand-in-hand, along the Strand, humming La Poule ;

Trade quits her counter, Alma-mater her latinity, Proud again, with Mr. Paine to go again to

school.

THE EXCISEMAN.

To a village that skirted the sea
An exciseman, one Midsummer, came,
But prudence, between you and me,
Forbids me to mention his name.
Soon Michael he chanced to espy,
A cask on his napper he bore,
With six gallons of brandy, or nigh,

And where is the head can bear more.
Says the exciseman, let's see your permit;
Says Mike-'t'ant convenient to show it;
T'other cried, sir, I'm not to be bit,
You've smuggled that stuff, and you know it;
Your hogs to fine market you've brought,
For, seeing you've paid no excise,
As customs have settled you ought,
I seizes your tub as my prize.
Now don't be so hard, says poor Mike;

The exciseman was deaf to complaint,
Why then take it, says Mike, if you like,
For I've borne it till ready to faint.
Four miles, in hot sunshine, they trudged,
Till on them they'd scarce a dry rag;
The exciseman his labour ne'er grudged,
But cheerfully carried the cag.

To the Custom-house, in the next town,

'Twas yet some three furlongs, or more, When, says Michael, pray set your load down, For this here, sir, is my cottage-door; T'other answered, I thank you, friend, no, My burthen just yet I sha'n't quit; Then, says Michael, before you do go, I'll get you to read my permit. Your permit: why not show it before? Because it came into my nob, By your watching for me on the shore, That your worship was wanting a job; Now, I had need of a porter, d'ye see, For the load made my bones fit to crack,

THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade,
He climbs the mast, to feast his eyes once more,
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now each dear domestic scene he knew,
Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,
Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd by time.
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This the last wish, that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.
When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,

Or Eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave, When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,

Still, still he views the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,

Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope, to soothe his troubled soul. Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove,

In many a plantain-forest, waving wide, Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. But lo! at last he comes, with crowded sail, Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend, And, hark! what mingled murmurs swell the gale In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl'd; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.