Yielding fermentation,
To the home-brew’d beer,
The neighbour’s admiration,
This the maid will tell,
The Bard’s no bragging talker,
Like ale, to keep her well,
Well, by Jove,—I _cork her_.
THE LADIES’ WIGS.
Tune, _Moll in the Wad_.
You’ll pardon me, ma’am, I’m quite a gig,
Is it your hair, or is it a wig?
Upon my life, I mean no quiz,
But is’t your own, or the barber his friz?
Because if it is, ’tis a very neat friz,
Whether it’s yours—or whether it’s his;
But if it’s a wig, it’s a little too big,
And you’ll dance it off in a reel or a jig.
Post-chaises, coaches, chairs, and gigs,
Are let as jobs like ladies’ light wigs;
And scandal gossips (madam) say
Yours is a jasey hir’d by the day.
Be that as it may, it’s a very cheap way,
Jaseys to lett of all colours but grey;
But, what do I see, that gives me such glee,
You’re cocking your cap and your caxon at me.
Now into a scrape, by love, I’m led,
Your wig, dear ma’am, has twisted my head;
My heart, too, I feel, goes pitty pat,
But what care you or your jasey for that;
Yet I’m no flat—I know what I’m at,
I’ll soon mount a wig of my own to match that:
I care not a fig—the woman I twig
I’ll marry, by jasey, in spite of her wig.
The light or dark, brown, black, or flax,
No jasey pays Pitt’s hair-powder tax;
And when with men, maids romp and play,
How cool to throw the wiggy away;
By night or by day, to frisk, romp, or play,
On carpet, bed, sopha, green grass, or new hay;
Whate’er it’s upon, a little crim. con.,
With a lady’s rough jasey’s _expensive bon ton_.
Pray, ma’am, does the colour of your scratch
With the hair of your _madgery_ match?
Perhaps as it is the kick and go,
You’ve mounted, ma’am, a merkin below!
But the merkin you’ll find, from water and wind,
Strong torrents before, and stiff breezes behind,
Will not stick at all; but with glue to the cawl,
’Twill stick like a snug _swallow’s nest_ to the wall!
Ah, happy, happy, happy hour,
When I get your wig in my pow’r;
Then we’ll count the coming joys,
Buxom girls, and prattling boys;
Dolls, trinkets, and toys to feast their young eyes,
And lullaby ditties to quiet their noise;
While sweet lolly-pob stops the sigh and the sob,
Sing higgledy, piggledy, jiggummy bob.
CHORUS.
So bibere bob,
Let’s all hob and nob,
To the ladies’ brown bob,
And sing plenty of money in ev’ry fob.
A GENTLEMAN’s WIG.
Tune, _Derry Down_.
I sing not of despots, or slaves who submit,
Not of farmer GEORGE, JENKY, DUNDAS, FOX, or PITT!
My ballad’s the bantling of laughter and gig,
’Tis of an old cock in a c—tified wig.
’Gainst the poll-tax of Pitt this old codger did rave,
Like a felon transported, it forc’d him to shave;
“Tho’ tried for my life,” said th’ old buck, I’ll rob
The tail of some DOLLY to build a brown bob.
Near Somerset House he fell in with a tit,
And he thought, for his purpose, the c—tling was fit;
But, when he examin’d her parts, d’ye see,
All the hair of her c—t would’nt make a toupee.
The same night he pick’d up a merry-ars’d wench,
With hair quantum suff. for the wisdom-wig’d bench;
Whilst on her back sleeping as fast as a top,
He with keen-cutting scissars her c—t made _a crop_.
Away went the thief, and the barber received
The booty, for which a fine cawl he had weav’d;
But strange! whilst old RAZOR the wig had in hand,
The _pole_ in his breeches did constantly stand.
Well pleas’d with his plight, Razor laid by his work,
And lather’d the beard of his wife like a Turk;
Keep the wig, said she, Love, don’t expose it for sale,
’Tis a _bob_ for your head, and a _bob_ for my _tail_.
The wig frizz’d and curl’d, closely shav’d Codger’s nob;
Away went the barber to try on the bob;
But the bob waxing warm, Codger’s passions did rise,
Which brought _tears_ in his breeches, instead of his _eyes_.
In rampant condition he flew to a fair,
And per chance met the Dolly he’d robb’d of her hair,
She whipp’d off the wig, cloath’d his parts with the cawl,
So in went his dry bob, and wet bob, and all.
Now we know to be true what anatomists state,
That the fountain of love is supplied from the pate;
’Twas the jasey provoking,—sirs, mark what I say,—
Made his fountain of love in love’s bason to play.
Then take my advice, ye old cocks of the game,
Whenever you find your _wild_ passions grown _tame_;
Get a wig made of hair, from the spot ye all prize,
And in spite of your _prudence_ your p—o will _rise_.
AN IRISH DYING DITTY.
I am in my nature as brisk as a fly,
Resolving to live the day after I die;
And when I am dead, this live body to save,
Plant a peck of potatoes plump over my grave;
Then, hedge me well round with some big pebble stones,
Else father Mai’s pigs will soon root up my bones;
For sure foolish I’d look at the trumpet’s last sound,
When my body’s to rise, and no bones to be found.
As I’ve nothing to leave, so I’ve made my last will,
Chalk’d up on a slate, without paper or quill;
And JUDAH my wife, the delight of my bed,
Swears she won’t open it till I am dead;
With tears in her eyes too, that did her face souse,
She vows she’ll keep single, tho’ I quit the house;
When I know that the moment my back’s to her face,
She’ll be flying to Paddy O’Blarney’s embrace.
Good luck t’her, say I, for the comfort I’ve had,
For when I was merry, she always was sad;
Dead husbands, she tells me, are not worth a curse,
And live ones are often no better than worse.
When she sleeps all alone, she’s all night wide awake,
And dreams that the devil her conscience will take;
To drive him away from her head, my sweet bride
Must have a live spouse to lie by her backside.
Well, let her be married again, what care I,
I’m off to my grave, other fish I’ve to fry;
I forgive her, God knows, sure without any bother,
Oh, she’ll think of Pat’s thing if she gets such another.
And now, as the breath in my body’s all gone,
A word or two more, and then Paddy has done;
But yet, when I think on’t, I’ve nothing to say,
For to-morrow we’re here, and are all gone to-day.
COFFIN CLUB.
CONSTITUTIONAL DIRGE.
COSTUME.—Members to appear in black or faded crape cravats, tobacco-boxes
in the shape of patent coffins, the end of the pipes to be put in
mourning, with black sealing wax, white pocket handkerchiefs (if
convenient) to catch the tears.
N. B. A heavy fine on persons indulging in that foolish practice, called
laughter.—“Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.”—Secretary. The president,
whoever he may be, for the evening, to be called—Mr. Undertaker; and
whoever takes the chair, _grave_ subjects will be expected from him.
_To the Solemn Tune of_ “JACK RAN.”
Ye giddy youth, in life’s gay spring,
Who wanton joke, laugh, drink, and sing;
Ah, look at us, and change your ways,
In sackcloth we spend all our days.
CHORUS—WITH A GROAN.
May fate bestow what’s good for you,
Horrors jet black, and devils dark blue.
Did you but know how sweet is grief,
The flowing tears that yield relief;
Sweet sorrow’s sigh, heart-heaving moan,
Your life wou’d be one _grunt_ and _groan_.
For life’s like bubbles made by rain,
No sooner come, but gone again;
So we must go, as ’tis our doom,
To make for other bubbles room.
Then ne’er rejoice, or e’er look glad,
Keep cloudy front, and visage sad;
For life’s a flake of smoke at best,
And not as poet’s say, “_a jest_.”
Away with idle hopes and fears,
Cut short your days, and nights, and years;
When desp’rate grown, and hating life
Go off by _water_, _rope_, or _knife_.
_Coffins to be shewn._
Then comes this tight-screw’d patent case,
The undertaker’s last embrace;
Fast lock’d in which, four feet in ground,
We’re safe until the trumpet’s sound.
But, hark! the sexton tolls the bell!
So coffin comrades fare ye well.
THE TOY.
At Hampton-court a mansion stands,
A tavern, called the Toy, sir,
A captain there and ensign came,
A seeming beardless boy, sir;
The waiter shew’d ’em both a room,
And as the story teaches,
He shortly saw the captain’s hand
Within the ensign’s breeches!
The captain damn’d the waiter’s soul,
And bid him straight retire, sir,
The ensign swore, in bouncing tone,
He’d throw him on the fire, sir!
“I beg your pardon, sirs,” said he,
And thus express my sorrow,
“This is the Toy at Hampton-court,
“Not _Sodom_ and _Gomorrah_!”
Away the waiter ran down stairs,
No waiter e’er ran faster,
Half out of breath he told the tale
To Boniface, his master;
A council at the _bar_ agreed,
That chambermaid and cook, sir,
To give proof of their dirty tricks,
Should thro’ the key-hole look, sir.
So up went cooky first, and spied
The parties billing, cooing,
When to herself, she said, “God’s curse,”
“What nasty work’s a brewing;”
I’ll _spit_ ’em, _baste_ ’em, _roast_ ’em too,
I’ll clyster-pipe the fellows,
Then straight with water scalding hot,
She fill’d the kitchen bellows.
Nell chambermaid next crept up stairs,
Saw th’ ensign on a table,
The captain charging ’twixt his legs,
With bayonet so able;
“I’ll tuck you up, I’ll warm your bed,
“And when warm in your places,”
Said Nell, “I’ll scorch your nasty scuts,
“Throw p—s in both your faces.”
The laundress swore she’d mangle ’em,
The dairy-maid would skim ’em,
The bar-maid vow’d she’d squeeze ’em too,
The ostler swore he’d trim ’em;
The post-boy was for whipping them,
The boots, for brushing, beating,
The scullion was for scow’ring them,
The waiter was for cheating.
The landlord up stairs led the way,
His servants follow’d after,
They found the captain full of play,
The ensign full of laughter;
The captain cry’d out, “Who’s afraid?”
But th’ ensign look’d disgrace, sir,
And carried, as the landlord said,
The _colours_ in his face, sir.
Old Boniface said, “fie for shame!
“Sure, captain, you are no man,
“You lie,” said he, “and look ye here,
“My ensign is a woman;”
And when he ope’d her waistcoat wide,
The parties were struck dumb, sir,
For a pair of bubbies bolted out,
God Cupid’s kettle drums, sir.
The cook said to the ensign gay,
“I’m quite up to the rig, sir,
“You _Sodomiters_, people say,
“Have breasts as dumplings big, sir;
“And ’till I feel I’ll not believe,
“For I knows dogs from bitches,”
And saying this, she thrust her hand
Into the ensign’s breeches!
The captain, in a passion, flew
To his fair friend’s assistance,
He damn’d the cooky for a whore,
And bid her keep her distance;
She’d laid her hand upon the place,
That spreads the ensign’s p—s, sir,
Then looking humbly in his face,
Said, “beg your pardon MISS—SIR.”
CATASTROPHE.
The captain drew his sword, and stood
To bear ’gainst all the brunt, sir,
And said—I mount not guard in rear,
But always in the front, sir;
He turn’d ’em one by one down stairs,
And shew’d the cook his ’tarse, sir,
While with his sword, as she pass’d by,
He PINK’D her in the a-se, sir.
THE CROPT COMET.
Tune, _I have a Tenement to let_.
The Comet passed its perehelion on the 20th of June, 1797, and was seen
in the Southern Hemisphere, passing from Argo through Orion, up towards
_Auriga_; near the head of which, it was seen by Miss Caroline Herschell,
and to her wonder and disappointment, without a tail.
What’s all this bustle and alarm,
This buzzing ’bout the nation,
A Comet crop’d, now heaves in sight,
A stranger constellation;
Tho’ Newton, Tycho Brahe, Des Cartes,
Concerning Comets vary,
Yet Comets, call them what you will,
Are stars both rough and hairy.
CHORUS.
And some are crop’d,
Nick’d, hog’d, fig’d, dock’d,
Fir’d, bearded, tail’d, and whisker’d,
Doodle, doodle, doodle doo,
Doodle, doodle, dil do.
But truce to all the learned trash,
All vague and loose conjecture,
And take from me, ye Comet skill’d,
A plain and simple lecture;
If this foul fact I fully prove,
No odds will be between us,
This Comet got his tail close crop’d,
By stroking planet Venus.
Now where d’ye think when last you peep’d,
This Comet was a posting,
When he had lost his fiery tail,
Left Venus orbit roasting;
Why? to the planet Mercury,
To state his woeful case, sir,
And rubbing in his recipe,
His nose dropt off his face, sir.
It seems this Comet oft was seen,
With Venus cutting capers,
And Mars had heard his damag’d tail
Emitted noxious vapours;
So off he went to Jupiter,
About his wife’s ellipsis,
For he didn’t like to see her have
So many strange eclipses.
How came, quoth Jupiter to Mars,
Fair Venus out of order,
For I suspect ’twas you old boy
Who gave her this disorder;
It may be so, said planet Mars,
To Jupiter, his king, sir,
For I’ve been in the milky way,
And Saturn’s filthy ring, sir.
This Comet crop’d hangs o’er our heads,
I wish he’d travel faster,
For in his course eccentrical,
He dealeth dire disaster;
Pale Luna’s got the clap of him,
Bright Sol’s reflecting mopsey,
With water too, he’s fill’d our earth,
And given her the dropsy.
Piss M⸺k, B⸺m, both M. D. D.
Ascend by a balloon, sir,
The first, the Comet has call’d in,
The last attends the Moon, sir;
Humbug B. cures her clap,
And Humbug M. gratis,
Undertakes the Comet’s case,
A dreadful Diabetes.
Now if I’m wrong, sirs, set me right,
Banks, Herschell, Loft, and Walkers,
All you who of cropt Comets are,
The astronomic talkers;
Go tell the town I’m nebulous,
_Word_ “_caviare_ to the million,”
Swear radiant Phœbus Cromwell cropt,
The Comet’s perehelion.
Enquirers into nature say,
That bucks, when rutting’s over,
Inter their old-tails in the park,
And new ones soon discover;
The Comet and the buck alike,
With new tails bound and jump, sir,
While old DUKE Q., not I or you,
Wags on with his old stump, sir.
This Comet, timid people talk,
Forebodes a revolution,
A total change and overthrow
Of Britain’s constitution;
But still I think we’ve nought to fear,
Tho’ enemies divide us,
Our leading light of freedom is,
The steady GEORGIUM SIDUS.
THE ACTRESSES.
When Momus, laughter-loving boy,
THALIA fill’d with pleasure,
At one home stroke, spring tides of joy
Swept off the virgin treasure:
The stroke gave birth to nature’s child,
A child, like fortune fickle;
So Momus laugh’d, Thalia smil’d,
And out pop’d little Pickle!
When Pickle came to London town,
Plain truth confirm’d this rumour,
A naval duke, of high renown,
Fell in with Pickle’s humour;
For _art_ had lost the pow’r to charm.
Which wakes the passions sleeping,
So He, to quiet love’s alarm,
Took—_nature_ into keeping.
Pickle’s rise gave birth to gall,
She scarcely was respected,
The green-room seem’d a surgeon’s hall,
Her body there dissected;
Tho’, both were sore, she had two eyes,
Said _envy’s_ bitter daughter,
And while she prais’d her legs and thighs,
On c—t she threw cold water.
Syren C⸺h, of luscious look,
Envied Pickle’s belly,
Tho’ she hugg’d a CORNISH DUKE,
And her _bravura_ K—y;
Thus do dukes and dollys meet,
Ye, Gods, how chaste this age is,
When horned husbands, in the _suite_,
Attend their wives as pages.
Lovely, lively, young, and fair,
M—a may-day blooming,
Skin as sleek as racing mare,
Just after finish’d grooming;
See her fashion, style, and grace,
Hear Polly Peachum warble,
And if your tears don’t wash your face,
Your heart’s a block of marble.
I hate the gothic stately pile,
The comic, tragic, ruin,
Give me the new, not the old style,
Some work of modern doing;
Miss C⸺f⸺d and Miss Ab⸺n,
Both sock and buskin bred, sir,
What would I give, I blush to own,
For both their maidenheads, sir.
Whither is S⸺e fled?
And where’s her cock of wax gone?
Who us’d to rear his crested head
Within her curly caxon!
When Jew Braham’s cabbage came,
She quitted Drury’s station,
To enjoy (was she to blame)
_The early vegetation_!
Becky W⸺s, who went to pot,
From burton ale and brandy,
Fonder was of Tippy Top,
Than children’s sugar candy;
No more the cut of Tippy’s frock,
No more his strut invites her,
’Tis now the cut of Israel’s cock
That comforts and delights her.
Still Mother M⸺r’s virtues mark;
She lives in chaste condition,
With her hautboy puffing P—k,
Who plays for his admission;
Most titled things I’ve heard her say,
Are dry b—s next-door neighbours,
Before such husky pipes can play,
Their bums are bang’d like tabors.
Jordan laughs at gibes and jeers,
At envy, spite, and spleen, sir,
And says, to mortify their ears,
“Ecod, I may be queen, sir;”
Her keeper, too, keeps up the farce,
Whose love of Jordan such is,
He bids her foes to kiss her a—e,
For he’s made her c—t a Duchess.
Long in love’s hammock may they swing,
Health, wealth, and peace abounding,
With all the bliss that life can bring,
To swell the scene surrounding;
So fill a bumper, ’tis the debt
That’s due from loyal freemen,
Here’s may the press between ’em get
A crew of gallant seamen.
THE CROP.
Dear ladies attend to the song,
Of a CROP in the prime of gay life,
Young, healthy, and wealthy, and strong,
And languishing for a fond wife.
CHORUS.
Crop’s determin’d to marry,
He’s tir’d of a bachelor’s round,
Crop wants a comely clean woman,
With some dirty acres of ground.
A bachelor wild CROP has been,
But variety’s charms he’ll forsake,
And constancy, maids, will be seen,
To follow the reign of the rake.
Your suitor for conjugal rites,
Promises, maids, to his praise,
To crown, with affection, your nights,
With mirth and good humour your days.
Says Lydia, with love-looking eye,
Vow and promise you bachelors can,
But sure, till his virtues she try,
No maid should decide on her man.
The language of Spintext let’s cite,
’Tis take him for better or worse,
His heart, girls, you’ll find is as light,
Aye! light as a transparent purse.
But _Crop’s_ an estate in the fens,
Deeply dipp’d in the water we hear,
For his steward the reck’ning sends,
And it brings him in nothing a year.
To a widow, some say, he is sold,
Who keeps in the Borough a shop,
As she kill’d her first DEARY, behold!
A beautiful prospect for Crop.
In an old maid’s affection’s CROP’S place;
But he ne’er will be married, we hope,
To one in whose frost-bitten face
There’s ruin in razors and soap.
Gods! give Crop the girl kind and fair,
Of feminine manners and grace,
Whose skin is not cover’d with _hair_,
To kiss without scrubbing his face.
Crop once lov’d a boarding-school gig,
All his letters she stitch’d in her stays,
Which made little Tittup look big
With vows, protestations, and praise.
If, present, there be such a lass,
And tho’ but one _chemise_ to her back,
I’ll take her to Gretna’s green grass,
On swift Pegasus poet’s old hack.
The life that is merry and short,
Crop’s reason and passions approve,
A life of all lives, ’tis the sort
To give life to the woman we love.
So Crop’s determin’d to marry,
He’s tir’d of a dull single life,
He’ll not die an old bachelor,
If he can get a young wife.
THE WHIRLIGIG WORLD.
This song is the joint production of Col. Kirkpatrick and Mr. Hewerdine.
A fig for the cares of this Whirligig World,
Shall still be my maxim wherever I’m twirl’d;
From the spring of my youth, to the autumn of life,
It has cheer’d me and whisk’d me through trouble and strife.
CHORUS.
So this is my maxim wherever I’m twirl’d,
A fig for the cares of this whirligig world.
It has taught me to rise to the summit of ease,
By simply submitting to fortune’s degrees;
Thus I’m rich without pelf, for content is true wealth,
And the best _vade mecum_ in sickness and health.
Just as full of defects as the rest of my kind,
“Give and take” is my measure, for specks in the mind;
For who in another shou’d pry for a spot,
When he knows, in his heart, he has blot upon blot.
Mankind I contemplate as Heaven’s great work,
Whether Christian or Jew, Pagan, Gentoo or Turk;
In a nutshell the creed of my conscience will lie,
To others I do, as I wou’d be done by.
’Gainst chill poverty yet, I have ne’er set my face,
For I hope all my heart’s a benevolent place;
A friend in distress my tobacco shall quaff,
And while I’ve a guinea, he’s welcome to half.
From the Court to the Change as I skim o’er each phiz,
Of the sharp, flat, and blood, natty crop, kiddy quiz;
I read as I walk, without study or plan,
The cunning, the weakness, and folly of man.
Yet my spleen never kicks at the whims that it meets,
For in oddity’s circle each gig a gig greets;
So I laugh and grow fat at the figures I see,
And they’re welcome to fatten by laughing at me.
Of the virtue and zeal of the ins and the outs,
After many years musing I’ve clear’d up all doubts;
The outs wou’d get in, if the ins wou’d get out,
And I think it but fair they shou’d take spell about.
All fanatic dispute and sophistical rant
I leave to the crafty professors of cant;
Content if my course from the day-break of youth,
Has steer’d by the rudder and compass of truth.
Fast wedlock I frankly confess not my whim;
Nay, the man, who best marries, I envy not him;
I love the soft sex, and I know, to my cost,
My love has not always been love’s labour lost.
Light, in freight, as a cutter return’d from a cruize,
Finding little to gain, having little to lose;
My anchor is cast, and my sails are all furl’d,
So a fig for the cares of this Whirligig World.
THE ZODIAC.
The signs of the Zodiac, learned men say,
Are confin’d to the regions above,
And none yet imagin’d they serve to display
The tokens terrestrial of love;
But my muse, ever merry, will sing to explain,
Tho’ learning look grave and austere,
We cherish the whim of each whirligig brain,
Starch’d gravity enters not here.
Sign Aries, then maids, is your ram or lew’d tup,
A rich pond’rous bag ’twixt his legs,
With juicy-joy pregnant, and closely tied up,
Is the essence of oysters and eggs;
In figure ’tis Cupid with arrow and bow,
Sagittarius, that archer divine,
Letting fly at the target of yielding Virgo,
To prick _rouge_ virginity’s sign.
By twin bubbies, sign Gemini’s amply express’d,
In a maiden just leaning to man,
The ripe blooming fruit of the firm heaving breast,
The flame of love’s passion doth fan;
When exhausted in raptures, how charming to lie
’Twixt love’s hillocks, gay mortals delight,
Feel the heave, hear the sigh, mark the languishing eye,
Which the _Signum Salutis_ invite.
Sign Scorpio, no doubt, is an evil that fled
From Pandora’s combustible box,
A sign you may tell by the tail or the head
Of that hell-born disease call’d the pox.
Sign Cancer’s the cod-clinging crab we all know,
And wifely clings he; for you’ll find
He’s ever in danger, above or below,
Of destruction by water or wind.
Sign Capricorn goatish old Q. doth denote,
Or them who of lust strongly smell,
Teaze, fumble and feel, drivel, dangle, and doat,
On the bawd, or the old batter’d belle;
Sign Pisces too plainly refers to the thing
Sweet and clean, kept by laudable art,
But the _bidet_ neglected, we wind the old ling,
And turn from the fishified part.
Sign Taurus alludes to Old English beef-steaks;
For this cabbaging, love-feeding food,
Gives vigour to age, is a bracer of rakes,
And enriches the brain and the blood;
This Taurus may mean too, the lusty big Pat,
Who bellows about London streets,
whose nose is eternally smelling old hat,
And who mounts ev’ry cow that he meets.
Sign Libra’s the balance that ought to prevail,
In an act we delight to enjoy,
For a feather we’re told will turn nature’s near scale,
When we bob for a girl or a boy;
Aquarius appears as the word doth instruct,
An object, who once was a man,
An Italian castrato’s cut-down aqueduct,
A mere spout for a watering pan.
Brave Leo the lion’s our national sign,
Where foreigners come for good fare,
True freedom, true friendship, good humour, good wine,
We hope they will ever find here;
Our houses alone are the Garter and Star,
Jolly Bacchus the sign of the tun,
Where Venus receives us with smiles at the bar,
To fill up life’s measure of fun.
CHORUS.
But the sign of all signs, good and truly divine,
Is a bumper of heart-cheering generous wine.
IRISH EXTRAVAGANCE, AND SCOTCH ŒCONOMY.
An Irishman and Scottishman,
Both full of fun and brogue;
Sly Sawney—for a saving plan,
Big Pat—a spending rogue:
Together, arm in arm, they hied,
From Pall-Mall to the City;
When in a shop by chance they spied
A damsel wond’rous pretty.
“By heavens!” Pat exclaim’d in love,
“In that fair form I trace
“A charming pattern from above,
“Of Angel shape and face.”
While thro’ the window-glass he star’d,
Struck dumb with admiration,
Sawney, too, the rapture shar’d,
Of love’s fond inclination.
Long Paddy then did feast his eyes
On this—the first of belles,
“I’ll go into her shop,” he cries,
“And buy whate’er she sells.
“Two yards of ribbon black, I’ll buy,
“And speak to the dear creature,
“Perhaps,” said he, to Sawney, sly,
“The maid will let me meet her.
“_Ha’d your hand_,” said Sawney, “do,
“What need of such expence,
“Into the shop we both may go
“With this right good pretence:
“Save your penny while you live,
“The lass looks kind and willing;
“Let’s ask her, civilly, to give
“_Twa Tizzys_[2] for a _shilling_.”
[2] A cant term for Sixpences.
AN EXTRAORDINARY FISH.