pretty, A school I kept for many years in London's famous city; The arts and sciences I taught, though somewhat fond of roving, For this my motto always was-to push along, keep moving. SPOKEN.] How d'ye do, old one? how d'ye do? Want a little instruction in bang up. That do'n't come within the circle of the sciences; explain. Oh, I only want to gammon the flats. Gammon the flats? now I have it-music! this is the science you want to learn! Do me the honour to become my pupil, and I'll teach you to gammon the flats on the new principle of Push along, keep moving. A wife I had, and she was young, (oh, think of wedlock's joys!) She wouldn't let me keep a school, because I whipped the boys; Says she-a doctor improving, you shall be, your talents thus And all your patients, by your drugs, shall push along, keep moving. SPOKEN.] I want summut for my wife's infernal parts, she ha' gotten the gripes. Oh! fie! I am ashamed of you! Your wife's complaint is inwardly? Yes, she ha' gotten a pean in her head. Very well, carry her this box of pills: she must take fifteen of 'em three times a day, for seven days, and man; So scanty the fruit of his humble employ, Remember, though luxury cloys you by day,. Obscuring your pleasures with poverty's frown; While Apathy's flint and cold steel you employ, Nor e'er give a mite to the poor little boy, The tinder of feeling you never can light; Who cries. buy my matches, from morning till night. And you, ye proud fair, of this once happy land, With beauty external, so gifted by fate; Whose smiles can enrapture, whose frowns can command, Prove also your mental endowments are great: The crumbs of your tables, which lap-dogs destroy, Might comfort our orphan, and yield him delight; Then O! give a mite to a poor little boy, Who cries, buy my matches, from morning till night. SNUG MOORINGS FOLLOW STORMS, (Arnold.) WHEN storms are sunk to rest, And thunder rolls no more, The seaman's heart, how blest, Who seeks his native shore. That shore, where many a fai His cheering spirit warms, All crowd his joys to share,Snug moorings follow storms. Then rage, ye blustering winds, Ye foaming billows, roar, The tar a welcome finds Upon his native shore; Though tempest tost at sea, On shore affection warms, All sailors' creeds agree, Snug moorings follow storms. JOHN AND JEAN. SING the loves of John and Jean, She's his queen, he's her don; Whate'er rejoices happy Jean, Is sure to burst the sides of John, Does she, for grief, look thin and lean, He instantly is pale and wan: Thin and lean, pale and wan, John loves Jean, and Jean loves John. "Twas the lily hand of Jean Filled the glass of happy John; Joyful seen, they'll dance anon, For John weds Jean, and Jean weds John. John has ta'en to wife his Jean, Jean's become the spouse of John, She no longer is his queen, He no longer is her don; No more queen, no more don; John hates Jean, and Jean hates John. Whatever 'tis that pleases Jean, Is certain now to displease John; With scolding they're grown thin and lean, With spleen and spite they're pale and wan. Thin and lean, pale and wan, John hates Jean, and Jean hates John. John prays heaven to take his Jean, Jean at the devil wishes John; He'll dancing on her grave be seen, She'll laugh when he is dead and gone; They'll be seen, gay dead and gone, For John hates Jean, and Jean hates John. NEWSPAPER VERACITY. THE newspaper, while with attention I view, I've rejoiced at a victory-given a treat, At night, if the playhouse is empty and bare, But yet for these blunders there is this excuse, SANCO PANCA'S MEDLEY. WHEN first I took Teresa, For better or for worse, I wouldn't let, to please her, That's neither here nor there. I think of my beautiful maid, You brute, you're going to gallivant. This proved that Mrs. Panca Herself was half inclined To fish for sprats, deuce thank her! I found she had an inkling For she loved a bold dragoon, with his long sword, saddle, bridle, Crying Wo'n't you, wo'n't you come, Mr. Mug. Beg pardon, quarrel ends, And then we lived in clover, Short reck'nings make long friends. Till I took on to wander, And left dear Mrs. P.; Now I'm a great commander, White serjeant she shall be. For I'm a dancing, dancing governor.- Diddle me out of my deary, I shall say when I'm dealing with Yorkshire folks, Why I be Yorkshire too.- Come from Yorkshire, Trotting along the road. THOU PRIDE OF THE FOREST. (Viscount Strangford.) THOU pride of the forest, whose dark branches spread, To the sigh of the south wind her tremulous green, And the tinge of whose buds is as rich as the red, As the mellowing blushes of maiden eighteen. O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow, And the lightnings of summer pass heedlessly by; For ever thy buds keep their mellowing glow, Thy branches still wave to the southerly sigh. Because in thy shade, as I lately reclined, The sweetest of visions arose to my view, "Twas the swoon of the soul, 'twas the transport of mind, "Twas the happiest minute that ever I knew. For this shalt thou still be my favourite tree, In the heart of the poet thou never canst fade; It shall often be warmed by rememb'ring thee, And the dream which I dreamt in thy tremulous shade. .... A BUMPER OF ENGLISH GOOD ALE. D'YE mind me? I once was a sailor, And in different countries I've been; If I lie, may I go for a tailor, But a thousand fine sights I have seen: I've been crammed with good things like a wallet, And I've guzzled more drink than a whale; But the very best stuff to my palate Is a glass of your English good ale. Your doctors may boast of their lotions, But When my trade was upon the salt ocean, It sets one's good spirits agog: Dood.-Oh, 'tis a day Of jubilee, cajollery; A day we never saw before; Nood. That you may say, Their majesties may boast of it; And since it never can come more, 'Tis fit they make the most of it. Dood.-Oh, 'tis a day Of jubilee, cajollery; Nood.-That you may say, Their majesties may boast of it; And since it never can come more, "Tis fit they make the most of it. Dood.-Sure such a day, So renowned, so victoriousSuch a day as this was never seen; 26 Nood.-Courtiers so gay, And the mob so uproariousNature seems to wear a universal grin. TO WATCH YOUNG SPRING'S RETURN. The drooping snowdrop's blowing; The cowslip and the violet blue On the gales their sweet breath strowing: O, it is sweet in Kelvin-grove To watch young Spring's return, On the twined flower or crocus bed, Proud fair thus low before you A prostrate warrior view, Whose sole delight and glory Are centred all in you. I COULD NEVER CRY FOR LAUGHING. (T. Dibdin.) LUCK in life, or good or bad, Ne'er could make me melancholy, Seldom rich, yet never sad, Sometimes poor, yet always jolly; Fortune in my scale, that's poz, Of mischance put more than half in, Yet, I don't know how it was, I could never cry for laughing, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I could never cry for laughing. Monstrous grave are men of law, (Law knows no end, when once beginning,) Yet those dons I never saw, But their wigs would set me grinning; Once, when I was very ill, Seven doctors came-such quizzes! Zooks! I thought they would me kill With laughing at their comic phizzes. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! With laughing at their comic phizzes. After that, in love I fell, (Love creates a deal of trouble,) But my courtship, strange to tell, Only made my mirth redouble; I laughed-she frowned-I laughed again, We mean to laugh through life together, We mean to laugh through life together. WAKE, MAID OF LORN. (Sir Walter Scott.) WAKE, maid of Lorn, the moments fly By hope, that soon shall fears removeWe bid thee break the bonds of rest, And wake thee at the call of love. Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay Lies many a galley gaily manned; We hear the merry pibrochs play, We see the streamer's silken band. What chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, WINE, WINE, GOOD WINE. Air" C'est l'Amour."—(D. A. Corkc.) WINE, wine, good wine, good wine, Oh, charms us to repletion, Woman looks ne'er so divine As through impurpled vision. Does love-tale in numbers glow, With wine, the muse, delighted, Likes to stay where goblets flow, E'en should he be benighted, 'Twas glorious sport, none e'er did lag, The hounds were out, and snuffed the air, "Twas glorious sport, &c. Like pea pon drum-head, make you skip, Ching, ching'ring, ching; ching, ching'ring, ching, so hard Poor negro worky, worky. Massa one bit of ground bestow, Make negro work a' Sunday; Soon something good begin to grow, While overseer he jerk ye, kind No peace, no sleep, no yam, get fat, Cudgo for wife young Quashy take, Quashy wear a small clothes; Wear horns and be contented. As much you please, you go to play, So four-and-twenty hour a-day Ching, ching'ring, &c. Then 'cause so sweet he lead him life, If he can't peace in this world find, Then let um wait till that world come, Meet Sissy, Quashy, uncle Tom, Ching, ching'ring, &c. |