HILARIA.

HILARIA.

THE
FESTIVE BOARD.

“Mirth, admit me of thy crew.”

Milton.

——“Vino pellite curas.”

Hor.

London:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1798.

PRELIMINARY.

Tres mihi convivæ prope dissentire videntur,

Poscentes vario multum diversa palato.

Hor.

We, for the most part, differ in our notions of pleasure; one man’s delight is another’s aversion: but felicity is the aim of all. Where then shall we find it? a celebrated poet observes, “’tis no where to be found, or everywhere.” I say with an air of triumph, which the experience of a laughing life has imparted, the delights of love and joys of wine, happily blended, will enable us to attain the summit of human enjoyment. Would you meliorate the condition of the mind, and give to the body its best energies; fly to the circle of convivial gaiety for the one, and to the arms of indulgent beauty for the other—Life without this charming union, is like wine without fermentation, perfectly insipid—for the vinosity of wine, as well as the libidinosity of carnal nature, is produced (as Doctor Johnson, that leviathan of literature would have said) by the same exquisite process—fermentation.——So much in ancient as well as modern times has been said and sung of love and wine, that novelty on these topics cannot be expected. I am an enemy to every species of innovation; but more particularly to that lately broached by the celebrated original four-legg’d, long-tail’d, philosopher, Lord Monboddo, Who is full of regret because we do not mix water with our wine.

Read with sober attention what his lordship says on this subject.

“As, by Isis, a plant was discovered, which furnished bread to man; so by Osiris, her husband and brother, an art was invented of making drink for man: this art is what is called fermentation, which he applied to the use of the grape; and so first made wine: which, though it has been very much abused, as almost every production of nature and art has been by man, and, therefore, is very properly styled by Milton, The sweet poison of misused wine. It may be applied to the most useful purposes, for it is the best cordial of old age: and at all times of life it enlivens the spirits; and, therefore, Bacchus is called Lætitiæ Dator; and it cherishes the stomach: but it is a great abuse of this liquor, in modern times, to drink it pure, without mixture of water, which, I am sorry to observe so much practised in Britain.”—Horace says this ironically.

Notwithstanding this opinion, the gentlemen of Britain, whose fondness for pure, unadulterated, wine, cannot be doubted, will continue the old custom of drinking a bumper of wine with the first toast after dinner, to the first thing that ever was created for the enjoyment of their sex.

Solomon, who was at least as wise as the author in question, says, “Give strong drink to him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts:” “Let him drink and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.”

Burns, the admirable Scots bard, agreed with Solomon, and agreed with himself also, to versify these doctrines:

“Give him strong drink until he wink,

That’s sinking in despair;

And liquor good to fire his blood,

That’s prest with grief and care:

There let him bouse, and deep carouse,

With bumpers flowing o’er,

Till he forgets—his loves or debts,

And minds his griefs no more.”

But what are the vital elixirs, gold tinctures, wonder-working essences, electricity, and animal magnetism, compared to the properties of wine? Dr. Franklin, a name dear to political liberty, has recorded a curious fact concerning the effects of wine. When in France he received a quantity of Madeira, that had been bottled in Virginia: in some of the bottles he found a few dead flies, which he exposed to the warm sun in the month of July, and, in less than three hours, these apparently dead animals recovered life, which had been so long suspended. The philosopher then asks whether such a process might not be employed with regard to man? if that be the case, I can imagine, adds he, no greater pleasure, than to cause myself to be immersed along with a few friends in Madeira wine, (not wine and water,) and to again called to life, at the end of fifty, or more years, by the genial solar rays of my native country; only that I may see what improvement the state has made, and what changes time has brought along with it.

I cannot conclude these few observations on the virtues of wine, without introducing the sentiment of another philosophical gentleman. A modern practitioner of considerable medical skill, has given an opinion worthy the attention of the convivial world: he tells us, if our vital sensation require to be much exalted, neither alembics nor crucibles are necessary for that purpose; Nature herself has provided for us that most excellent spirit—wine, which exceeds all those prepared by the art of man: if there be any thing in the world which one can call the prima materia, that contains the spirit of the earth in an incorporated form, it is certainly this noble production:

“With genial joy to warm the soul,

“Bright Helen mix’d a mirth-inspiring bowl.”

Odyssey.

To promote hilarity, to keep up the good humour of life, to help digestion by the salutary exercise of the risible faculty, the compositions that follow were chiefly written;—the cynic, the sanctified hypocrite, and the misanthrope, will eagerly condemn many of them, but the man of the world, who thinks liberally, and acts up to his feelings, the bon vivant, the friend of the fair sex, the bottle and song, will, it is hoped and presumed, place them under their private care and protection.

PAT-RIOT,
A REVOLUTIONARY SONG.

I.

Och! my name is Pat Riot,

And I’m never easy;

For when all is quiet,

It turns my head crazy;

So to kick up a dust,

By my soul is delighting;

Then to lay it again,

I fall to without fighting.

Chorus—Row, row, row, row, row, row.

II.

Nought but times topsy turvy

Suit my constitution;

And all that I want, is

A snug Revolution:

Then in rank and in riches

I’ll equal my betters;

And a long list of creditors

Change into debtors.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

III.

I dare not be loyal,

For this loyal reason;

My tutor, Tom Paine,

Tells me loyalty’s treason:

And Priestley my Faith has

Shook to its foundation;

So I’ve no prospect on earth

But eternal damnation.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

IV.

In this plight I’ve a plan,

Tho’ it’s not ripe for broaching;

But between you and me,

’Tis a little encroaching;

By a stroke—slight of hand—

To surprize all beholders:

Why I mean to take off

The king’s head from his shoulders.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

V.

Then the crown, d’ye see,

I wou’d lay on a shelf, Sir;

Tho’ it fits me as if it

Was made for myself, Sir:

Och! good luck to the sound,

How the dumb bells will ring, Sir,

When I’ve made all men equal,

And made myself king, Sir!

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

VI.

Just to guard off th’effect

Of fell lightning and thunder,

That together split churches

And steeples asunder,

I mean to pull down

All old orthodox structures;

’Cause Priestley says chapels

Are Heaven’s conductors.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

VII.

To see chapels, from churches,

Like Phœnixes rising,

Good souls, the dissenters

Wou’d deem it surprising,

And, grateful to me,

They wou’d down on their knees too,

Who hate both a church

And a chapel of ease too.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

VIII.

Now the lands of the church,

That feed fat and lean preachers,

By their leaves, I’ll bestow

On the puritan teachers:

Of their tithes, and their off’rings,

And gifts, I’ll bereave ’em;

And nought but their stomachs

And consciences leave ’em.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

IX.

The law long establish’d

No longer shall bind me;

With my father before,

Or my father behind me,

I’ve nothing to do:

Then your bother pray cease, Sir;

I’ll lay down the law

By a breach of the peace, Sir.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

X.

Since the law and the gospel

I’ve taken by storm, Sir,

Physicians shall swallow

My pills of reform, Sir;

I’ll take off their wigs,

Canes, fees, and degrees;

And poison the rogues

With their own recipes.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XI.

Since the Commons are cyphers,

The Lords but nick-names, Sir,

I mean to prorogue ’em

All into the Thames, Sir;

And, lest folks should say

I don’t humanely treat ’em,

Doctor Hawes and cork jackets

At Gravesend shall meet ’em.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XII.

I’ll abolish all titles

Mankind may inherit;

From the fountain of honour,

Worth, virtue, and merit:

I’m a naked reformer:

The doctrine I preach, is

To take coats of arms off

Shirts, waistcoats, and breeches.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XIII.

Thus age, youth, and beauty,

Miss, master, and madam,

All decently figg’d

By the taylor of Adam:

Why this is not new;

Because high and low station,

Were all in confusion

Before the creation.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XIV.

By Jasus, to think how

’Twou’d tickle the devil,

To see from a mountain,

All things on a level;

For the devil’s a patriot

Not over nice, Sir,

And he hates all distinctions

’Twixt virtue and vice, Sir.

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

XV.

Here’s long life after death

To all hot-headed fellows,

Who night and day work at

The devil’s big bellows:

What charming confusion,

What fine botheration,

To blow up the coals,

And extinguish the nation!

Chorus—Row, row, &c.

THE
MARRIAGE MORN.

Tune, The Merry Dance.

The marriage morn I can’t forget,

My senses teem’d with new delight;

Time, cry’d I, haste the coming night,

And Hymen, give me sweet Lisette:

I whisper’d softly in her ear,

And said, the God of Night draws near.

Oh, how she look’d! Oh, how she smil’d! Oh, how she sigh’d!

She sigh’d—then spent a joyful tear.

Now nuptial Night her curtain drew,

And Cupid’s mandate was, “Commence

“With ardour, break the virgin fence;”

Then to the bed sweet Lisette flew—

’Twas heav’n to view her when she lay,

And hear her cry, Come to me, pray;

Oh, how I feel! Oh, how I pant! Oh, I shall die!—

Shall die before the break of day!

Soon Manhood rose with furious gust;

And Mars, when he lewd Venus view’d,

Ne’er felt his pow’r so closely screw’d

Up to the standing post of Lust:

But when the stranger to her sight

Sweet Lisette saw in rampant plight,

Oh, how she scream’d! Oh, how she scream’d! Oh, how she scream’d!

She scream’d—then grasp’d the dear delight.

Now lustful Nature eager grew,

And longer could not wanton toy;

So rushing up the path of joy,

Quick from the fount Love’s liquor flew:

At morn, she cry’d, full three times three

The vivid stream I’ve felt from thee;

Oh, how I’m eas’d! Oh, how I’m pleas’d! Oh, how I’m charm’d!

I’m charm’d with rapt’rous three times three!

CONVIVIAL.

Tune, Mrs. Casey.

When round reflection foggy Care

His dreary damp disperses,

And Prudence, with didactic air,

Her cautious code rehearses;

Then grant us, gods, some glowing wine,

Such foes of glee to banish;

’Twill make our heart’s horizon shine,

And ev’ry vapour vanish.

CHORUS.

Then laugh and drink,

And never think;

Each frisky festive fellow

Will seize the time,

The season’s prime,

T’ enjoy the fruit while mellow.

The heights of love we can’t attain,

Till wine’s electric potion

Reach the summit of the brain,

To quicken Fancy’s motion:

Then Nature’s still, with rapid flow,

In am’rous fermentation,

Fills thro’ the worm the vat below

With luscious distillation.

When safe arriv’d our latter end,

And time to dust shall grind us,

Our atoms can’t the eyes offend

Of neighbours left behind us:

If with the heart-expanding bowl,

Inspiring love and laughter,

We soak the body and the soul,

’Twill lay the dust hereafter.

The hardy tars more valiant fight,

The soldiers sally quicker,

The poets with more spirit write,

When charg’d with conqu’ring liquor:

And to sorrow-sinking hearts

Wine’s the true salvation;

For, take enough, and soon departs

Suspended animation.

His journey soon must end, they say,

Who drives thro’ life so quickly;

And, ere in years his hair turn gray,

His body will be sickly:

If Velnos’ Syrup he pursue,

’Twill strengthen trunk and twig, Sir;

And if his hair should change its hue,

He can but mount a wig, Sir.

Kind Fortune, fix the jolly soul

On Plenty’s full-plum’d pinion,

To soar beyond the sad control

Of Poverty’s dominion;

And when, with eager fatal claw,

You take him by the throttle,

His precious cork of life to draw,

O Death! don’t shake the bottle.

THE
HIGH-METTLED P⸺O.

Tune, The Race Horse.

View the lass lewd and lovely, of high sporting race,

Prepar’d to encounter the lustful embrace;

Her t—s wide extended, her tempting breasts bare,

The lustful receiver conceal’d by black hair:

While ruddy and rampant, erecting his crest,

With ardour rebounding from knee to the breast,

The signal observ’d, firmly fix’d on his seat,

The high-mettled P⸺o first starts for the heat.

Full stretch’d, crossing, justling, see onward they rush,

And o’er the same ground three times speedily push;

Till weary’d, worn out, we behold P⸺o tame,

As he crawls off the course lifeless, jaded, and lame.

A short time elaps’d, when examin’d his case,

He’s found sorely injur’d by running the race;

And the high mettl’d P⸺o, erst proud and elate,

Is pronounc’d by the knowing ones in for the plate.

Confin’d to the stable, shut out from the stud,

Restrain’d in his diet, and oft losing blood,

He’s plaister’d and poultic’d, in linen rags rob’d,

Fir’d, purg’d, and bolus’d, cut, syring’d, and prob’d;

Till burning like stones that are turn’d into lime,

Alas! luckless P⸺o’s cut off in his prime.

Lament the hard fate this sad story informs,

The high-mettl’d P⸺o’s made food for the worms.

BOTANY BAY.

Tune, Liberty Hall.

Britannia, fair guardian of this favour’d land,

Lately sanction’d a scheme, in full Cabinet plann’d,

For transporting her sons who from honour dare stray,

To that sweet spot terrestrial, term’d Botany Bay.

Toll de roll, &c.

Now this Bay, by some blockheads we’ve sagely been told,

Was unknown to the fam’d navigators of old;

But this I deny, in terms homely and blunt,

For Botany Bay is the spot we call ⸺.

Toll de roll, &c.

Our ancestor Adam, ’tis past any doubt,

Was the famous Columbus that found the spot out;

He brav’d ev’ry billow, rock, quicksand, and shore,

To steer thro’ the passage none ere steer’d before.

Toll de roll, &c.

Kind Nature, ere Adam had push’d off to sea,

Bid him be of good cheer, for his pilot she’d be:

Then his cables he slipp’d, and stood straight for the Bay,

But was stopp’d in his passage about the midway.

Toll de roll, &c.

Avast! Adam cry’d, I’m dismasted, I doubt,

If I don’t tack the head of my vessel about;

Take courage, cry’d Nature, and leave it to me,

For ’tis only the line that divides the red sea.

Toll de roll, &c.

Tho’ shook by the stroke, Adam’s mast stood upright,

His ballast was steady, his tackling quite tight;

Then a breeze springing up, down the red straits he ran,

And, o’erjoy’d with his voyage, he fir’d off a great gun.

Toll de roll, &c.

High from the mast head, by the help of one eye,

The heart of the Bay did old Adam espy;

And, alarm’d at a noise—to him Nature did say,

That it was the trade wind, which blows always one way.

Toll de roll, &c.

So transported was Adam in Botany Bay,

He dame Nature implor’d to spend there night and day,

And curious he try’d the Bay’s bottom to sound,

But his line was too short by a yard from the ground.

Toll de roll, &c.

The time being out, Nature’s sentence had pass’d,

Adam humbly a favour of her bounty ask’d,

That when stock’d with provisions, and ev’ry thing sound,

To Botany Bay he again might be bound.

Toll de roll, &c.

Nature granted the boon both to him and his race,

And said, oft I’ll transport you to that charming place;

But never, cry’d she, as you honour my word,

Set sail with a Clap, Pox, or Famine on board.

Toll de roll, &c.

Then this Botany Bay, or whate’er be the name,

I have prov’d is the spot from whence all of us came;

May we there be transported, like Adam our sire,

And never return ’fore the time shall expire.

Toll de roll, &c.

THE
NEWLY-DUBB’D JEW.

Tune, Derry Down.

My muse, t’other day, having laughter in view,

Selected George Gordon, the now no more Jew,

Resolving to state, with Mosaic precision,

What befel poor Crop’s P⸺ on the late circumcision.

The Rabbi appear’d, and the Christian’s foreskin

Was about to be banish’d, to cleanse Crop of sin;

But Gentiles and Jews, mark the cream of the joke,

By Prometheus inspir’d, his P⸺ suddenly spoke.

Tho’ with fear first poor P⸺o had prudently shrunk,

And, like snail in its shell, snugly hid lay his trunk;

To the Priest then he cry’d, put your knife in its case,

Or, you terrible Cut P⸺k, I’ll piss in your face.

My Lord stood amaz’d, and the Rabbi was mum,

To hear a thing talk that had ever been dumb;

Tho’ Crop said his P⸺ ne’er obey’d his command,

But always lay down when he wish’d him to stand.

This damnable riot in Crop’s private part,

Baffl’d the Priest and resisted his art,

So he swore, if P⸺ did not cease making a route,

He’d pull out his c—d—m, and muffle his snout.

Not a crab-louse car’d P⸺ for the Priest and his laws;

He stood up for his prepuce, and spoke to the cause;

His language was nervous, his reasoning clear,

And he spoke full as well as the Members elsewhere.

Your life, cry’d he, Crop’s a mere mock of devotion;

Well spoken, said Cods, who was backing each motion;

Such conduct, he said, combin’d madness and sin;

And Cods swore his friend P⸺ should sleep in a whole skin.

Now in Akerman’s synagogue Crop’s got a place,

A beard like a Jew doth his pious front grace;

In time ’tis to grow so enormously big,

As to make Tommy Erskine a full-bottom’d wig.

Mr. P⸺, said Crop, to turn Turk I intend,

And ’mongst smack and smooth eunuchs my days will I end;

Poor P⸺ took the hint, and did woefully weep,

Till his flesh cap flipp’d o’er him, then he fell asleep.

The Flats and the Sharps of the Nation.

Of Handel’s fam’d Commemoration,

And what was let loose there, I sing,

When the Flats and the Sharps of our nation

Assembled along with their King.

Madam Mara (now mark what will follow)

Her ravishing sounds was imparting;

Momus play’d off a trick on Apollo,

And set the sweet lady a f—t—g.

At Sowgelders’ Hall, rural scene,

The seat of a Knight and his swine,

The musical Madam had been

Invited by Mawbey to dine:

So the cause of this windy commotion

Was owing, if we’re not mistaken,

To her bolting too great a proportion

Of pease-pudding and gammon of bacon.

Sir John Hawky, the musical Knight,

Who in wit all the Quorum surpasses,

And to whom, if we judge of him right,

The wise men of Greece were mere asses,

Has defin’d Antient Music to be

What sprung from the bottom of Madam,

And that under the wisdom-fraught tree

Eve f—t—d in concert with Adam.

Now those sages renown’d in our nation,

The fam’d F.R.S.es, do tell us,

That to blow up the coals of creation,

The bum is a species of bellows.

But Priestley, who loves to oppose,

Doth a different system insist on,

And swears that he’s led by the nose

To pronounce it a Cask of Phlogiston.

The moment the Lady let fly,

Billington, Storacci, and Kelly,

With laughter were ready to die

At the pickle of poor Rubinelli;

For Rubi, the father of screeches,

In laughing at Mara, so strain’d it,

That his pipe let the piss in his breeches,

For no cistern has he to retain it.

Hurlowe Thrumbo, your wonder ’twill raise,

Is of catgut so charming a scraper,

That, old Orpheus-like, when he plays,

The trees and the brutes round him caper.

He blasted the Thing I won’t name,

Hop’d she’d burst on the rock of damnation;

But he stopp’d when the Bishop cry’d “Shame,

“Brother, think of the late proclamation.”

That famous reformist, Jack Wilkes,

Martin Luther the Second now deem’d,

Sat in converse with Lawn Sleeves and Silks,

And declar’d Sacred Music blasphem’d;

But Jack turning round to Jem Twitch,

Swore ’twas like the affair on the Terrace,

When Bethsheba, impudent bitch,

Shew’d bollocking David her bare arse.

Now Sir Watkin ap Williams ap Wynne,

Who came from whence came John ap Morgan,

Roar’d out to the band-leading Bates,

To drown the foul noise with bur organ:

So Bates, by a blast of the bellows,

Made peace and sweet sounds rule the roast;

Then drink about, laughing fellows—

For f⸺g and fiddling’s my toast.

RUNNYMEDE PILLAR.

Air, I can’t for my Life guess the Cause of this Fuss.

To celebrate deeds of renown, ’tis agreed

That a pillar on fam’d Runnymede be erected:

Men of Parts of all parties then here may proceed,

To relate how this wonderful work is effected.

The pillar’s to stand in Middlesex land,

Bushy Park’s centre’s the sweet pleasure ground;

A strong-fenc’d retreat, well water’d and sweet,

Where Adam first fell, Runnymede’s to be found.

CHORUS.

Rare Runnymede such pleasures producing,

No language of mortals is equal to tell;

Tho’ Moses declines it, my Muse thus defines it:

The paradise where our progenitors fell.

When the midwife, our welcome deliverer, came,

Runnymede witness’d a great revolution;

From bondage she brought us, and Nature, dear dame,

To Britain’s brave sons gave their good Constitution:

For blessings like these, let gratitude seize

The critical minute its ardour to shew;

The stones first prepare the pillar to rear,

Then discharge in this mede the just debt that we owe.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

When Eve, with a mixture of fear and surprise,

Beheld the huge pillar of Adam erected,

Her bare bosom heav’d, and gave vent to soft sighs,

While with curious eye she the structure inspected.

O’erjoy’d did she trace the moss round its base,

But its altitude did her chaste senses appal;

Eve fainted away, and Moses doth say,

That her apron of fig-leaves flew up in the fall.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

Adam’s instinct divine display’d powers that prove,

Mighty man most sagacious of Nature’s creation;

Eve’s distress he beheld, and, in pity, Love

His column convey’d to its dear destination.

What follow’d, you’ll find, is wisely design’d,

And the Hercules’ Pillar of Pagan renown

Ne’er long could stand in Middlesex land,

Adam’s basis gave way, so the Pillar fell down.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

By the magical touch of his heaven-tun’d lyre,

Amphion, the Theban King, wonders effected;

Stones erst in confusion his sounds did inspire,

They danc’d, and we’re told tow’ring walls were erected.

Such harmonic sway this Mede doth display,

And from chaos, thus transient, can order restore;

A quick resurrection succeeds the defection,

To meet the same fate that befel it before.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

That architect, old Mother Phillips I mean,

Doth cases prepare of a curious constructure,

From the fury of fire standing Pillars to screen,

As light’ning’s disarm’d by th’ attractive Conductor:

But curst be her traffic for things polygraphic;

To vend for original, Pillars she plann’d;

Monuments base usurping the place,

Where alone the proud pillar of Nature should stand.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

Tho’ partisans differ, in this all agree,

From Reason’s clear light, and from Nature’s dictation,

That the Mede, at this moment, my mind’s eye doth see,

Is alone the sweet spot for the proud pillar’s station.

There stout may it stand, resisting Time’s hand:

And, Nature, great architect, as thee we prize!

From fire protect it, when down don’t neglect it,

Let it rise but to fall, let it fall but to rise.

Rare Runnymede, &c.

THE
BANKRUPT BAWD.

Tune, Vicar of Bray.

Near Jermyn-street a Bawd did trade,

In credit, style, and splendor,

Well known to ev’ry high-bred blade,

And those of doubtful gender:

How Nature once, in marring mood,

Her body form’d, I’ll tell ye,

Upon her back a swelling stood,

To mock her barren belly.

CHORUS.

For some succeed, and others fail,

That into commerce enter,

So sew are chaste, and many frail,

In this great trading Center.

In coney skins her commerce lay,

A charming stock she’d laid in;

She ne’er to smugglers fell a prey,

Her practice was fair trading:

These skins when dress’d were red and white,

The fur of each fair creature,

Of diff’rent hues, hath day and night

Kept warm man’s naked nature.

For some succeed, &c.

The trading stock of this old Bawd

A vital stab sustain’d, sir;

The news like wild-fire flew abroad,

Each customer complain’d, sir;

Some coney-skins lay with a lot,

By caution uninspected;

So quarantine, alas! forgot,

Foul plague the whole infected.

For some succeed, &c.

Now old and young her shop forsook,

Insolvent was her plight, sir,

When Habeas Corpus Catchpole took

Her body off by night, sir;

From Banco Regis civil law,

To liquidate her debt, sir,

Between the sheets this old Bawd saw

Of London’s fam’d Gazette, sir.

For some succeed, &c.

To give each creditor his due,

Three men, the Lord’s Anointed,

Jack Wilkes, Lord Sandwich, and old Q.,

Were Assignees appointed:

But, luckless Bawd! the after day

Her stock on fire they found, sir;

So ’twas agreed she could not pay

A cundum in the pound, sir.

For some succeed, &c.

The skin (her own) this Bawd had left,

Each Assignee did handle;

’Twas found of all its fur bereft,

By singing flame of candle:

Some butter’d bunns conceal’d within,

Old Q.’s keen eye beset, sir;

So Wilkes defin’d this coney skin

A fund for floating debt, sir.

For some succeed, &c.

By headlong lust her claimants led,

They seiz’d her mortal treasure;

The furless coney skin was spread,

A dividend past measure.

Now all came in, not one stood out;

The Bawd was set at large, sir;

Her coney skin (of worth, no doubt)

Did ev’ry man discharge, sir.

For some succeed, &c.

MEDLEY.

Air, Bow Wow.

Silence, humbugs all, and I’ll sing you a merry song;

Like our lives, ’tis a medley, neither short nor very long;

I mean plainly to prove, that in high and low station,

Hub, bub, bub, bub, boo, is the business of the nation.

Hub, bub, boo, fal, lal, &c.

As late from the hall Hurlow Thrumbo came growling,

A carman’s great dog at his coach set up howling;

Enrag’d with the brute, Hurlow let down the glass, sir,

Cry’d, “whose dog is that?” quoth the carman, “ask his a—, sir.”

The coachman drove on; but ere he’d driven very far,

Two wheels were left behind, and snap went the splinter bar;

Hurlow roar’d out aloud (tho’ no doubt he did wrong to’t),

For he blasted the bar, and all that belong’d to’t.

’Tis not long ago, since poor Jack, the Brighton taylor,

For stitching well a button-hole, was pinn’d up by the jailor:

The trial tells us, by surprise, snip seiz’d an artless lass, sir,

And cabbag’d her virginity, the best piece of her a—, sir.

The maiden scream’d, and snip teem’d with love’s delicious liquor;

O there never was a taylor that could stitch it nine times quicker;

Twas ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto,

Till he work’d up all the thread, then he ripp’d up the slit O.

“R⸺,” dames cry, “what a ravishing creature!

“His pipe! and his shake! and each delicate feature!”

But la! what a pity, divine R⸺!

Your pipe can but carry the p— from your belly!

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

If wedlock’s your plan, ere you scheme to open trenches,

Humbugs pray take heed of our modern made-up wenches:

Fore and aft they are plump to view, but feel, and you will find, sir,

They’ve bubbies like blown bladders, and all is hum behind, sir.

Oh poverty! our purses spare, and pains, do not perplex us,

Still the cheerful song we’ll chaunt, nor shall trifles ever vex us;

But leave to dreary dull dogs their cheerless hours to spend, sir,

Whilst we, in mirthful mood, meet our bottles, c⸺s, and friends, sir.

Now the sequel of my song mark well each humbug brother,

Tho’ here we laugh, drink and joke, and humbug one another;

When out of wind, Death hums us, and we’re sent the Lord knows where, sir,

If we’ve humbugg’d the Devil, I’ll be d⸺d if we need fear, sir.

HUMBUG CLUB CONSTITUTIONAL SONG.

Air, The Roast Beef of Old England.

This tastey gay town’s grown of humbug so full,

That ev’ry new day starts new matter to gull,

Credulity’s known by the name of John Bull.

O the humbugs of Old England;

How finely Old England’s humbugg’d!

Sham patriots profess, with a plausible grace,

The nerves of the nation they shortly could brace,

But pro bono publico means a good place.

O the humbugs, &c.

Here clergy the minister flatter and fawn,

Stick close to his skirts to secure sleeves of lawn,

And the curate’s old cassock goes weekly to pawn.

O the humbugs, &c.

The dunce is dubb’d doctor, sans sense in his head,

And fame unacquir’d is thro’ quackery spread,

With cures that are cureless credulity’s fed.

O the humbugs, &c.

The captain’s a compound of flash and cockade,

Cosmetics, pink powder, with curl carronade,

And his feats are confin’d to box-lobby parade.

O the humbugs, &c.

Now lawyers are licens’d their clients to cheat,

Trading justices equity tread under feet,

And rascally runners all rogu’ry greet.

O the humbugs, &c.

The stage, to amuse us, sings “Fal de Ral Tit,”

With “Che chow cherry chow, and cherry chow chit;”

And then, to humbug us, they puff it as wit.

O the humbugs, &c.

So now, brother humbugs, you all plainly see,

That few modern modes from humbugging are free;

Let’s distinguish our humbug with wine, wit, and glee.

O the humbugs, &c.

The celebrated patroness of the young Chimney Sweepers, whose hard fate was so often deplored by the late Jonas Hanway, has had fitted up an elegant apartment in her town residence, decorated with Feathers; here follows a description of what is termed

“The FEATHER’D ROOM.”

I.

The blue-stocking club, when abandon’d by fame,

On a project resolv’d to revive a lost name,

So for each member’s comfort in life’s chilling gloom,

Old mother M⸺tague feather’d her room.

CHORUS.

Sing a Ballynamona oro,

A fine feather’d chamber for me.

II.

Like old mother Philips, tho’ doubtless her betters,

These blue-stocking ladies are ladies of letters;

Not in love, but in learning, their passions prevail,

And they feather the head whilst they moult at the tail.

III.

An Irish upholsterer Murphy’s the man,

Who furnished my muse with a sketch of this plan;

To guard off the wind that hard by the spot gathers,

He told me she’d paper’d her front room with feathers.

IV.

By the hair-broom of Nature this room was neglected,

Here lay dust undisturbed, and there cobweb collected;

Till a lewd son of Adam, a son of a whore,

To get into the room had burst open the door.

V.

Then wicked wit W⸺ and old lolly-pop Q⸺,

This fine feather’d drawing-room hasten’d to view;

Old Q⸺ first got in, but he soon turn’d about,

For the feathers flew round him and tickl’d his snout.

VI.

W⸺ stood undismay’d at old Q⸺’s queer mishap,

And swore, tho’ the devil should stand in the gap,

Into it he’d wriggle; when in it he got,

He turn’d pale and fell sick, and dropt dead on the spot.

VII.

Birds of passage, alas! all us mortals are here,

Exclaim’d Johnny W⸺ when he spent his last tear;

In his last dying speech, he declar’d with dejection,

He’d not the least hope of a flesh resurrection.

VIII.

Now ere like Johnny W⸺ my muse gives up the ghost,

She leaves, as a legacy, Nature’s first toast;

The front room of Eve Adam fill’d full of sin,

Well feather’d without, and well furnish’d within.

LITTLE PERU,
OR THE
WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.

I.

My sweet native land, the first place of my birth there,

Good luck to you dear if the story be true,

In your bowels I’m told on the face of the earth there,

Lies Mexico’s wealth, a snug little Peru;

Back to Ireland I’ll trot and fall digging for riches,

These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold,

For a pair I’ll get measur’d of ready-made breeches,

And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.

II.

Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters,

Leave nothing behind you but what you can take,

’Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull’s rags and tatters,

No longer at Pat can he fun and game make.

No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies,

No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram,

As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland’s rich God is,

Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.

III.

You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call’d ponies,

Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs,

You’ll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies,

If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares.

I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger,

With big lumps of nature’s coin’d gold in your hand,

When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James’s you stagger,

Bid tabbies go carry themselves and be d⸺d.

IV.

And you flashy captains who oft go recruiting,

’Mongst England’s brisk widows, fond daughters and wives,

Leave war for a peace, and don’t be after shooting

Of Frenchmen, to frighten them out of their lives.

What’s honour and glory to flush ready rhino,

Without which no captain can keep up the ball,

Quick march to Peru, the sweet spot you and I know,

Fill your bellies with full pay and half-pay and all.

V.

Oh! you my Bath Bobadils hunting for acres,

And shaking your elbows, cry seven’s the main,

For the bodies of belles you’re the live undertakers,

But you take them, it’s true, for no prospect of gain.

It’s not for a gold-mine you Bobadils marry,

’Tis all for pure love, beauty, temper, and grace!

’Tis for kindness and tenderness said Captain Larry,

Who kill’d his last wife by too tight an embrace.

VI.

Ye limbs of the law living on little pittances,

Fertile in quibbles, tho’ barren in fees,

Yet pregnant with bother ’bout Irish remittances,

Which you mighty well know never cross the salt seas;

Leave the law’s crooked path for the straight path of pleasure,

The road to Peru is the turnpike to wealth;

And when you walk thro’ it pursuing your treasure,

Pay as you come back, when your purse is in health.

VII.

You gentlemen all in St. Giles’s gay quarter,

To carry a hod, make you shoulder an ass,

My tight peep of day boys, leave stones, bricks, and mortar,

Come one after t’other, rise all in a mass.

Go taste but the water of Wicklow’s clear fountain,

And then, in a moment, you’ll miracles find;

By the stream that runs up to the top of the mountain,

Like a watch case of gold will your bodies be lin’d.

VIII.

And you L⸺M⸺M like penny-post walking,

All up and down London to bother the stones,

In a pair of jack boots there no longer be stalking,

But to Ireland convey yourself, body, and bones.

As an absentee go and dwell on your estate then,

“Lay the root to the axe” of your tenants distress,

A slice of Peru for old Pompey the great then,

Will make him look bigger sure never the less.

IX.

And you father O’Burke, first of Irish defenders,

Of war and corruption, of tyrants and slaves,

Protector of kings, not of humbug pretenders,

So you pray for their lives, and keep digging their graves.

As their old priest and sexton you’ve got a snug pension,

The gift of our king, wealthy, worthy, and wise;

’Twas to make you see clearer, ah! lucky invention,

He threw the gold dust of Peru in your eyes.

X.

Jew Aaron of old, in the absence of Moses,

Set up a gold calf, a strange fancy I think;

When Moses came back, they pull’d each others noses,

Burnt the gold calf, and mixt it with water to drink.

To be sure for pure gold with some silver alloy now,

I shan’t be of worship and gratitude full;

But I make a calf when you know my dear joy now,

For half the expence I can make a nate bull.

XI.

While planning prosperity for brother paddies dear,

I took up the news, called the National Star;

I read it aloud, and was mightily vex’d to hear

Peru had been seiz’d for the king, not the war.

So said I to myself, talking to a bye-stander,

I hate all damn’d wars and their consequent ills;

But Peru for the king, sedition and slander,

’Tis to pay future ministers’ blunders and bills.

THE
BLUE VEIN,
A TRUE WELCH STORY.

I.

Ye fun-loving fellows for comical tales,

Match this if you can, truly current in Wales;

The bible so old, and the testament new,

Have none more authentic, more faithful, or true.

Four frisky maidens, young, handsome, and plump,

Who cou’d each crack a flea on their bubbies or rump,

Took it into their heads, just to bother the tail

Of Ned Natty, a groom, so they jalap’d his ale.

II.

Now Ned on red herrings that ev’ning did sup,

So he drank ev’ry drop of the gripe-giving cup,

Soon his guts ’gan to grumble, and shortly Ned found

His bowels give way, and his body unbound:

The buckskin’s gay leather, by gallows confin’d,

Could not be cut down ’till indecently lin’d,

This made Neddy’s P⸺o, accustom’d to sprout,

Shrink into his belly, and turn up his snout.

III.

The time this damn’d jalap in Ned’s belly lurk’d,

No post-horse like Neddy was ever so work’d,

Three nights and three days he lay squirting in bed,

And neither could hold up his tail nor his head:

The storm, at length, ceasing, purg’d Ned ’gan to think

On some revenge sweet for this damnable stink,

“For I’m damn’d,” exclaim’d Ned, “if these bitches shan’t find

“That I’m cabbag’d before, tho’ I’m loosen’d behind.”

IV.

’Twas early one morn, exercising his steed,

Ned saw an old gipsey hag crossing the mead,

Straight he hail’d her, and said, “Woman, where do you hie?”

She replied, “to tell fortunes of females hard by”:

Now these females Ned found were his jalapping friends,

So he thought it the season to make them amends,

Then he brib’d for the cant, and the gipsey’s old cloaths;

Thus equipp’d, said Ned, trick for trick, damn me, here goes.

V.

First Molly, the cook-maid, he took by the hand,

From her greasy palm, told her what fortune had plann’d,

She was soon to be married, each year have a brat,

“Indeed,” cried the cooky, “how can you tell that?”

“I’ll tell you the number,” said Ned, “let me see

The blue vein that’s low plac’d ’twixt the navel and knee,”

When she pull’d up her cloaths, Ned exclaim’d, “I declare

Your blue vein I can’t see, ’tis so cover’d with hair.”

VI.

Next dairy-maid Dolly, of letchery full,

Swore she was then breeding, for she’d had the bull;

To the gipsey, said Doll, “can you, old woman, tell

Whether bull or cow calf make my belly so swell?”

When he view’d her blue vein, he said, “Doll, by my troth,

You must find out two fathers, for you will have both,”

For the squire and the curate, when heated with ale,

Doll Dairy had milk’d in her amorous pail.

VII.

Now Kitty, the house-maid, so frisky and fair,

Who smelt none the sweeter for carrotty hair,

Presenting her palm to the gipsey so shrewd,

Was candidly told that her nature was lewd:

While feeling the vein near her gold-girted nick,

Kate play’d the old gipsey a slippery trick,

So Kate, that had ne’er been consider’d a whore,

Was told she’d miscarried the morning before.

VIII.

Then came Peggy the prude, who no bawdy could bear,

Yet wou’d tickle the lap-dog while combing his hair;

“Is the butler, my sweetheart,” said Peggy, “sincere,

“And shall we be married, pray, gipsey, this year?”

Quoth the gipsey, “you’ll have him for better or worse,

“But you’ll find that his corkscrew is not worth a curse;

“So when you are wed, ’twill be o’er the town talk’d,

“There goes Peggy, a bottle, most damnably cork’d.”

IX.

Now Ned, thus reveng’d, bid the maidens good day,

But, curious, they ask’d him a moment to stay,

For said Molly, the cook-maid, “we all long to see

“If you’ve a blue vein ’twixt the navel and knee:”

Ned pull’d up his cloaths, Sir, when to their surprise,

They beheld his blue vein of a wonderful size,

The sight Kate the carrotty couldn’t withstand,

She grasp’d the blue vein ’till it burst in her hand.

X.

So alarm’d, the prude Peggy fell into strong fits,

Frighten’d cook and Doll dairy went out of their wits;

Then carrotty Kitty to gipsey Ned spoke,

“We’ll each give a guinea to stifle the joke:”

But Ned swore that no money should silence his tongue,

That the tale should be told in a mirth-moving song;

“As a caution,” cry’d Ned, “to all Abigails frail,

“That there’s more fun in f⸺g than jalapping ale.”

XI.

The story like wildfire o’er Cambria was spread,

From the borders of Chester, to fam’d Holyhead,

In a vein of good humour, the vein that is blue,

Will long be remember’d by me and by you:

Then fill a bright bumper to honour this vein,

A bumper of pleasure to badger all pain;

So hear us, celestials, gay mortals below!

Drink c—t, the blue vein, wherein floods of joy flow.

COUNTRY LIFE.

Written by CAPTAIN MORRIS.

WITH ADDITIONAL STANZAS BY MR. HEWERDINE, MARKED BY INVERTED COMMAS.

Captain Morris’s song is here inserted, for the sake of the answer that follows.

In London I never know what to be at—

Enraptur’d with this, and transported with that;

I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan—

And life seems a blessing too happy for man!

But the Country (Lord bless us!) sets all matters right—

So calm and composing from morning to night:

Oh, it settles the stomach, when nothing is seen

But an ass on a common—a goose on a green!

In London how easy we visit and meet!—

Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat;

Our mornings a round of good humour delight—

And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night!

In the Country how pleasant our visits to make,

Thro’ ten miles of mud, for formality’s sake;

With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,

And no thought in our head—but a ditch or a bog!

In London, if folks ill together are put,

A bore may be roasted, a quiz may be cut.

“In the Country your friends would feel angry and sore,

“Call an old maid a quiz, or a parson a bore.”

In the Country you’re nail’d like a pale in your park,

To some stick of a neighbour cramm’d into the ark;

Or, if you are sick, or in fits tumble down,

You reach death, ere the doctor can reach you from town.

I’ve heard that how love in a cottage is sweet,

When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet:—

I know nothing of that; for, alas, I’m a swain

Who requires (I own it) more links to my chain!

Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees,

And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please:

But a house is much more to my mind than a tree;

And, for groves—oh, a fine grove of chimneys for me!

“In the ev’ning you’re screw’d to your chairs fist to fist,

“All stupidly yawning at sixpenny whist;

“And, tho’ win or lose, ’tis as true as ’tis strange,

“You’ve nothing to pay—the good folks have no change!

“But, for singing and piping, your time to engage,

“You’ve cock and hen bullfinches coop’d in a cage;

“And what music in nature can make you so feel,

“As a pig in a gate stuck, or knife-grinder’s wheel!

“I grant, if in fishing you take much delight,

“In a punt you may shiver from morning to night;

“And, tho’ blest with the patience that Job had of old,

“The devil a thing do you catch—but a cold!

“Yet ’tis charming to hear, just from boarding-school come,

“A Tit-up tune up an old family strum:

“Play God save the King in an excellent tone,

“With the sweet variation of Old Bob and Joan!

“But, what tho’ your appetite’s in a weak state,

“A pound at a time they will push on your plate:—

“’Tis true, as to health, you’ve no cause to complain;

“For they’ll drink it, God bless ’em, again and again!”

Then in Town let me live, and in Town let me die;

For, in truth, I can’t relish the Country—not I.

If I must have a villa in London to dwell,

Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall-mall!

The ANSWER to CAPTAIN MORRIS’s
SONG, “The COUNTRY LIFE.”

I.

As town-bitten bards, bred in fashion and noise,

The country decry, and its health yielding joys;