delicacy by the antients, and is eaten, at present, by the Italians;
Rondelius gives us two receipts for the dressing, which may be continued
to this day; Athenæus also leaves us the method of making an antique
cuttle-fish sausage; and we learn from Aristotle, that those animals are
in the highest perfection when pregnant.
Attend wives and widows, and daughters, dear creatures,
To hear of a fish caught off Anglesea Isle,
Be silent, compose all your muscles and features,
Friends and neighbours around who love time to beguile;
Saint Peter took most sorts of fish in his net, sir,
Like so many hooks were his fingers and toes,
But Peter ne’er caught, I wou’d lay any bet, sir,
A fish with one eye, bushy tail, and red nose.
This fish lately found, from the top to the bottom,
Of inches, then measur’d a full half a score,
Girls swallow’d ’em faster than fishermen got ’em,
Yet ne’er were so cloy’d, but they still long’d for more;
’Tis just at low water when crabs are seen crawling,
For shelter beneath heavy tang-cover’d stones,
That girls from all quarters come eagerly calling
For fish full of gristle, hard roes, and no bones.
At the gills of this creature you’ll see them all peeping,
And if as sick damsels they’re livid and pale,
They’ll tell you these fish are no better for keeping,
Like lobsters long caught, they’ve no spring in the tail;
But when fresh and frisky, maids, trout-like, will tickle ’em,
Till in the net of Dame Nature they go,
Where shou’d wanton women e’er take ’em and pickle ’em,
The curing’s a pain and expence we all know.
Two fam’d learned sages, both birds of a feather,
This odd fish to see, left their pigs, plants, and land,
And tho’ they both clubb’d their wise noddles together,
The devil a one did the fish understand;
Yes, M⸺by and B⸺s, who so solemn and grave is,
Knew not, till PAT told ’em, from whence the fish came,
’Tis Ireland that boasts it, their sea-_rara avis_,
Caught wild in a net, and by stroking made tame.
Star-gazing H⸺l, a knowing old fellow,
As e’er peep’d at bodies above or below,
This man o’-the moon, by strong stingo made mellow,
Thro’ glass microscopic can miracles show;
He call’d it a satellite of Venus centre,
That ⸺ had seen by command of the ⸺,
And that Mercury into its system would enter,
If e’er it were station’d in Saturn’s foul ring.
The B⸺ of King’s place, call’d old wicked-eye’d W⸺,
Who lives upon gudgeons, young ling, and crimp’d cod,
When she saw these odd fish, she took hold of their fins, sir,
And stole off, unnotic’d, two dozen and odd;
For the fish-kettle Windsor had long in possession,
In spite of two leaks, as TARS say, fore and aft,
I’m sure ’twou’d have held, (pray excuse my digression)
The whole of Saint Peter’s miraculous draft.
The news of this fish reach’d ⸺, a bishop,
His chaplain, obedient, was posted away,
And brought from the ferry this odd-looking fish up,
Bound down with a cord in a butcher’s big tray;
When the female fat cooky, of flesh and blood frail, sir,
Took hold of its gills to the ⸺ surprise,
It, Kangaroo like, took a spring from its tail, sir,
And stuck itself fast ’twixt the cooky’s round thighs.
Away, in a fright, flew the ⸺ and ladies,
The folks in the kitchen were put to the rout,
“’Tis the devil,” said ⸺, “and as preaching your trade is,
“Do, good Mister Chaplin, exorcise the scout;”
Said the Chaplin, “Indeed ⸺, begging your pardon,
“Such doctrine is rash, and to danger may tend,
“For why would your ⸺ wish to bear hard on on
“The devil, who always has been our best friend!”
Lord ⸺, large man, whom the women well know, sir,
Examin’d this fish from the root to the snout,
With both hands was seen to take hold of it so, sir,
To keep it from hopping and skipping about;
“Faith it is a large fish,” said the ⸺ in lewd plight, sir,
“I ne’er in my life saw its fellow before,
“Pull out,” said a friend, “all the ladies’ delight, sir,”
He did, and exhibited two inches more.
Girls, take my advice; let this odd fish before you
Be first skinn’d alive, and then dress’d to your taste,
As a standing dish dainty, dear souls, I implore you,
Take in all you can, but let none run to waste;
Old Jonah, who lay in the whale’s blubber’d belly,
Came out weak and feeble, went in strong and stout,
So into your bellies, this fish, need I tell ye,
As stoutly goes in, as he feebly slips out.
LLANDISILIO HOTEL, SOUTH WALES.
Fam’d ancient South Britain gave birth
To the story my muse means to tell,
Hear it, neighbours, who live on this earth,
And in snug habitations do dwell;
A parson, his wife, son, and Jew,
Drove in by disastrous weather,
A poet pedestrian too,
Pig’d in a mud hut all together.
To supper the quizzes sat down,
The parson eat rabbits, sans legs,
The poet mus’d over bread brown,
The Jew bolted bacon and eggs;
Hot and new from the tub came their ale,
As to spirits they’d none but their own,
Yet each man told his mirth-moving tale,
And the parson’s wife sung _Bobbing Joan_.
A cradle constructed of wood,
Was prepar’d for the poet to rest,
When the man of mosaical blood
Petition’d to have half the nest;
But Smouch was no chum to his mind,
So the poet said “Smouch, d’ye see,
“Two cocks of a different kind
“In the same roost can never agree.”
First the parson’s wife got into bed,
And close to the wall plac’d her side,
Then the parson, by jealousy led,
Laid his hand o’er the quim of his bride;
But fearing a cross o’ the breed,
The son kept apart th’ unbeliever,
Lest the tube which pass’d Abraham’s seed,
Shou’d enter his MOTHER’S receiver.
Now it seems in the dead of the night,
The parson libidinous grew,
So he nudg’d his fond wife to lie right,
That he might have a family screw;
First having before meat said grace,
He fell too with an appetite craving,
Soon he wriggl’d the Jew from his place,
And bare-bum’d on the floor laid him raving.
“By the coming Messiah,” said Smouch,
“What is all this disturbance about?
“As I was asleep in my couch,
“For what reason I was now kick’d out?
“Master Parson, pray how cou’d you rob
“A poor pedlar of rest and repose?
“You knew there won’t room for the job,
“Yet must do it plump under my nose.”
Tag, the Poet, heard all that had pass’d,
Found the Parson was winding his clock,
There lay he like a sheep when ’tis cast,
While with laughter his cradle did rock;
“Have you broke,” said he, “Smouchy, your bones?
“Do you oft get such damnable knocks?”
“No,” said Smouch, “but the case for my stones
“Is very much _pruised_ by my _pox_.[3]”
When for room roar’d out Moses in vain,
All the family sham’d fast asleep,
So up the starv’d Jew got again,
And took thro’ the bed-curtains a peep;
The Parson was on his gray mare,
Smouch saw his a—e nod, wag, and waddle,
“Master Parson,” said he, “have a care,
“Or, by G-d, you’ll be thrown off the “saddle.”
While the Parson did Scripture fulfil,
For his text was increase, multiply,
The Poet lay silent and still,
Full of vigour, and ready to fly;
Then his line Alexandrin of love
He put into his hostess’s hand,
Which she willingly straight did remove
To the spot where ’twas properly scan’d.
By swarms of black jumpers, call’d fleas,
All this party were damnably bit,
The priest’s shirt, and his wife’s clean chemise,
The filthy black jumpers b-s—t;
And pending the Parson’s embrace,
Till the critical minute had come,
The fleas were not shook from their place,
Till they’d taken blood tythe of his bum.
Aurora, at dawning of day,
Peep’d into the mansion of mud,
Asses set up their ominous bray,
Ducks and geese quack’d and cackl’d for food;
The cock crow’d and treaded the hen,
The boar got a-back of the sow,
Lewd goats shag’d again and again,
And the bull stuck it into the cow.
Then the Jew, with his box, did depart,
And the Poet took leave of his crib,
But the Parson, unwilling to start,
Took another sly st—ke at his rib;
If you think, then, my tale worth a toast,
As we’ve here no parsonical prig,
I’ll bumper life’s pleasure, and boast
The Parson, his wife, the goat’s fig.
[3] The box he carried was half pushed under the bed, on the corner of
which he fell.
THE B⸺’s BUGBEAR.
A proud pamper’d P⸺e, to hypocrites dear,
With an income, from tythes, of twelve thousand a year,
Hath furnish’d the nation with novel alarms,
’Bout the legs of the French, for he fears not their arms;
He tells us he’s heard, tho’ he’s not seen the truth,
That the minds of our _modest ingenuous_ youth
Are debauch’d by French dancers, who riot young blood
With the sight of that _niche_, wherein B⸺s have stood.
But how came a B⸺p, ’bove all men, to know
That dancers teetotum themselves on the toe?
Was he seated, disguis’d, in the front of the stage,
To peep at what put his priestcraft in a rage?
No! his female observer went oft to the play,
And told him th’ effect of this am’rous display,
In language so glowing, that D⸺m, amaz’d,
Beheld from his belly the dead she had rais’d.
At his time of life, and grim death near at hand,
’Twas vicious enough, in his crozier to stand,
So thought the still husband, but not so the w—e,
For she yet had a taste for the _arbor_ of life;
Cock-sure of a taste when she told the lewd tale
Of Parisot’s pranks, which prov’d piety frail,
To rouse thus the tail of a head of the c⸺h,
Were better than _banging_ the bottom _with Birch_!
Now the B⸺p, in senate, his brethren met,
To discuss this affair, youthful morals beset,
He said, “the five daring Directors of France
“Smuggl’d treason in hornpipe and country-dance;”
But he told not their Lordships, for decency sake,
That Parisot’s postures had made him a rake,
That his old _’piscopari_ up frisky and fresh,
A translation had had to the lust of the flesh.
But Parisot sets up a scriptural plea,
For showing what B⸺s would willingly see!
She proves that King David—(libidinous spark,)
Danc’d naked to all sorts of tunes ’fore the ark;
And when Michal, Saul’s daughter, saw Majesty’s part,
From her window, (’tis said) it revolted her heart;
Tho’ she frown’d at the Monarch, she smil’d at the farce,
A King cutting capers, _sans_ robes to his a—e.
Nay, didn’t King David, proud p⸺e, I pray,
Spy Bathsheba’s bum on a sun-shiny day?
And has Parisot, yet, to so vile a pass come,
As to shew our King, what! what! her uncover’d bum?
Has K⸺n, _crim. con. ’em_, (chaste man o’-the law,)
Heard she cocks up one leg, and exhibits her _flaw_?
Let her cock up one leg as she stands, quoth old Q.,
When she’s down to please me, she must cock up her two.
T⸺w growl’d, knit his brows, bit his lip in a rage,
When he heard of the B⸺s reforming the stage
“Old D⸺m,” he cried, “poh! poh! stick to your shop,
“And mind not how foreigners jump, skip, or hop;
“I know ye all, d—n ye! not one of your Bench
“Would privately turn from a plump naked wench,
“You go to the play slyly, see what you’ve _felt_,
“If you like it not, b—st ye! go home and be gelt!”
_Charge to the C⸺y._
Then practice, ye drivelling drones, as you’ve preach’d,
Pray what’s it to you—how a dancer is breech’d?
On the fate of the Pope, pause, and awfully think,
And your mitres will totter, your lawn-sleeves will shrink;
For on beauty and symmetry fancy will feast,
To vigour of body they give mental zest,
Let Parisot’s petticoats beauties disclose,
Ne’er take up such ticklish subjects as those.
BANKING.
Come, I’m prompt for a song on demand,
Of the BANKERS and BANKS of our nation;
I’ll relate how they fall, how they stand,
Their origin from the creation;
This Banking’s no new-fashion’d trade,
For Eve, that libidinous madam,
The moment she ceas’d to be maid,
Kept a running account with old _Adam_.
So the first of all Bankers and Banks,
In the garden of Eden began,
When Belzebub play’d his lewd pranks,
And effected the downfall of man;
Disguis’d as a serpent he flew,
To Eve’s Bank, a large payment consign’d,
But, answering the draft when ’twas due,
She damn’d Adam, herself, and mankind.
_Pudenda_—receiver, cashier,
Always acts upon credit and honor,
And keeps her accounts just and clear,
Of the long and short dates drawn upon her;
Now as Bills of Exchequer must go,
To make paper currency stand,
When her customer’s credits run low,
She takes their affairs in her hand.
PETER PEGO’s the entering clerk,
In this house performs principal duty,
He rises as soon as the lark,
And esteem’d is for vigour and beauty;
His out-door assistant is cod,
Who wakes him whenever he’s drowsy,
He wears his own hair, and, what’s odd,
Was never yet known to be lousy.
These Banks, alike, pay and receive
In metal, not bankrupt sign paper,
And payment ne’er stop’d, (I believe,)
Tho’ oft their finances run taper;
They think flimsy paper a hum,
So Pego and Company scout it,
But their neighbour, next door, _Master Bum_,
Can’t carry on business without it.
’Tis a wonder this Bank isn’t crush’d,
From the numberless drafts it doth take in,
Yet oft as it hath been hard push’d,
It ne’er was in danger of breaking;
Art and nature supply such a store,
Of resources for raising the wind,
That, whenever ’tis close press’d before,
’Tis sure of _relief_ from _behind_.
Mother Bank has declar’d, since her fall,
That the Ministry forc’d her to stop,
Still she’s bullion enough for ’em all
If they’ll let her re-open her shop;
No, they keep fast the key, we perceive,
Of the padlock they’ve clap’d on her door,
So the lady can’t piss without leave,
Nor squat, nor get f⸺d as before.
A bill drawn, presented, accepted,
And not paid when due, “as above,”
Is noted, protested, rejected,
A dry bob in commerce and love;
A short thing’s—no assets in hand,
A long one’s—an over-drawn note,
A discount’s—a f—g at a stand,
An indorser’s—a b—g—r a-float.
POLITICAL.
Tune, _The Vicar of Bray_.
When liberty, serenely bright,
Her beams resplendent darted,
O’er this fam’d land, the sacred light,
Its genial power imparted;
Then thickest clouds, that veil’d her rays,
By liberty were driven,
And Britons saw, in William blaze,
The patriot flame from heav’n.
CHORUS.
Britons, revere! with hearts elate,
The glorious revolution,
That firmly fix’d in church and state,
Your heaven-born constitution.
Fair freedom’s temple tyrant James,
With scepter’d sway invaded,
And conscience with her honest claims,
He scouted and degraded;
But freedom rous’d, her legions led,
And William monarch seated,
Then superstition hid her head,
And faction was defeated.
CHORUS.
On Fame’s unfading record stand,
Immortal made by story,
Illustrious worthies of our land,
Proud martyrs to its glory;
They bravely fought against all laws,
That dare fair freedom fetter,
The constitution was their cause,
The spirit and the letter.
CHORUS.
Could Athens, Greece, or Rome, so fam’d,
Can one surviving nation,
A compact boast, so wisely fram’d,
For freedom’s preservation?
Ah, No! but Britons, brave as free,
Wou’d all rejoice to find, sir,
Their own dear rights of liberty
Secur’d to all mankind, sir.
CHORUS.
The system of our club shall be,
To guard what we inherit,
The sacred dome of liberty,
With firmness, strength, and spirit;
And let the plund’ring patriots know,
Who ’gainst our rights contend, sir,
That he is freedom’s fatal foe,
Who is not George’s friend, sir.
CHORUS.
POLITICAL,
WRITTEN FOR A CLUB IN THE COUNTRY.
I’m a plain, homely, man, and now take up my pen, sir,
To counteract the tenets of Paine’s “Rights of Men,” sir,
Free and happy I enjoy the harvest of my labours,
And never interfere, but to comfort needy neighbours.
CHORUS—Row, row, row,
I’m for peace and quietness,
Not row, row.
I cherish and retain still each old-fashion’d notion,
Of order, freedom, property, security, devotion;
I’d rather have our king, than Tom Paine the lord protector,
And I’ll combat, with my life, ev’ry plund’ring projector.
CHORUS.
Then attend, daring schemers, involv’d in disputation,
Each with plans in your pockets, to renovate the nation,
I’ll oppose to brilliant wit, art, cunning, and sagacity,
Experience the store of my humble mean capacity.
CHORUS.
Liberty we have, tho’ some say it’s farce and fiction,
It’s by law well secur’d, and confirm’d in restriction,
Thus guarded, we are safe from disorder and delusion,
The dogmas of demagogues, and sans-culotte confusion.
CHORUS.
Our property’s defence is the law long enacted,
And sacred to it, our obedience is exacted,
Each social gradation, by which we stand or fall, sir,
Is wisely ordain’d for the welfare of all, sir.
CHORUS.
Virtue, innocence, integrity, I know are protected,
Audacity and crime are punish’d when detected,
True freedom gave the pow’r, in hatred and aversion,
To tyranny in all its forms, excesses, and coercion.
CHORUS.
My religion’s purely christian, the law’s establish’d church, sir,
And I never wish to see alma mater in the lurch, sir,
I’d leave to all dissenters what wisdom left before, sir,
For, give them all they ask, restless souls, they’d still ask more,
sir.
CHORUS.
Our compact’s a stranger to violent extremes, sir;
’Tis wisdom and temp’rance; with mildness it teems, sir:
But as old father Time no edifice ere spared, sir,
In due season, when it wants it, let the structure be repair’d, sir.
CHORUS.
I worship no idol when I say that I’m devoted,
To this fabric of Britons, admir’d, esteem’d, and noted;
The blood in these young veins I’d spill in its defence, sir,
And my wish is, May it firmly stand for centuries hence, sir.
CHORUS.
POLITICAL,
_Written in the Reign of Robespierre_.
Tune, _The Roast Beef of Old England_.
When the honor of Briton imperiously calls
For her cannons’ loud thunder and death-dealing balls,
Hear Victory shout from her fam’d wooden walls.
CHORUS.
The King and Old England for ever,
True liberty, order, and law.
Shall we who for ages have freedom defended,
With jacobin ruffians and cut-throats be blended;
Kiss, embrace, and shake hands with the devil’s intended?
CHORUS.
See Gallia polluted with crimes past all counting,
Of mercy and justice dried up is the fountain,
There Virtue’s a mole-hill, and Vice is a mountain.
CHORUS.
Religion abandon’d, morality dead,
Worth, honor, and honesty, from the land fled,
And eternity term’d only going to bed.
CHORUS.
Shall we follow France in each social band-breaking,
Eat bread bad and black of old Belzebub’s baking,
And sleep on French litter all quiv’ring and shaking?
CHORUS.
No, we’ve bread white and good, and fam’d English roast-beef,
On the beds we repose, Nature finds sound relief,
Such comforts deserve not each jacobin thief.
CHORUS.
’Tis French Anarchy’s plan all the world to subdue,
O’er each fair peaceful land blood and bodies to strew,
If you don’t conquer them, John, by G—d they will you.
CHORUS.
May the sharp sword of justice then fatally strike,
And each jacobin’s head be transferr’d to his pike,
Such Gallic equality John Bull would like.
CHORUS.
To our brothers in arms for fair freedom’s cause fighting,
And each hero of honour and spirit uniting,
True to their King, in their Country delighting.
CHORUS.
The Glory and Laurels of War.
CONSTITUTIONAL SONG OF THE “VIVE LE ROI CLUB!”
When the radiant rob’d Goddess of liberty shed
Her influence divine o’er our isle,
From her power omnipotent—tyranny fled,
And Britannia, _long griev’d_, wore a smile.
CHORUS.
Vive le Roi, Huzza, Huzza, Vive le Roi!
The _soldier_, the _sailor_, the _people_, impell’d
By freedom’s celestial flame,
King William enthron’d, in whose worth was beheld
Each virtue true freedom cou’d claim:
Vive le Roi, &c.
The vet’ran high soaring on Victory’s wing,
Whose motto is “Conquer or Die!”
To meet the reward of his country and king,
On Hope’s full-plum’d pinion shall fly.
Vive le Roi, &c.
Ne’er shall lawless ambition maintain its career,
Nor shall faction with freedom contend;
For the rights of the Crown we, as FREEMEN, revere,
And as BRITONS are bound to defend.
Vive le Roi, &c.
Tho’ foes to the Crown, our mild Monarch’s fair fame
May with envy envenom’d decry;
Yet, such poisonous darts of detraction’s foul aim,
Both his courage and virtue defy.
Vive le Roi, &c.
Each heart then, enliven’d by loyalty’s cause,
Push the soul-stirring wine swiftly round;
Exclaim in a volley of joy and applause,
For the nation re-echoes the sound.
Vive le Roi, &c.
_LADY H⸺ to Mrs. P⸺._
Said old Lady H⸺, once a blooming young wench,
But whose head’s now adorn’d with gray hairs,
“I admire the great comfort and taste which the French
Combine in their fashion of chairs;
For English, our frames are both simple and neat;
Yet the French in past times were so puff’d,
That our _bottoms_ were never consider’d complete,
Until sent o’er to France _to be stuff’d_.”
LINES
_Written at BEAUMARIS, NORTH WALES, on a JAILOR’S DAUGHTER, distinguished
for her Beauty._
Cupid, thou gay and mighty God,
SUMMON all thy magic pow’r,
And in the arms of KITTY QUOD,
LOCK me for one happy hour.
FETTER’D is my VAGRANT heart,
By her CAPTIVATING face;
Haste, thou God of am’rous dart,
FIX her in my fond embrace.
Cupid’s decree was thus reported:
Kitty and you shall be TRANSPORTED.
BOBBY BIRCH’s EPIGRAM,
_On the Westminster Boys damning “The Westminster Boy,” a Farce, by
Edward Topham, Esq. Author of “The Fool,” and several other Things,
produced for the Benefit of Mrs. Wells._
Shrink from satire, O shame! what, shall Westminster school
Stand in awe of that pen which gave birth to “The Fool?”
Is’t liberal, rude boys, thus by anticipation,
Untry’d, to consign any piece to damnation?
Oh! had BUSBY been living, for damning of farces,
I’ll be damn’d if he wou’d not have tickl’d your ⸺.