From ''The bacchanalian magazine; and Cyprian enchantress'', pp21-2, 1793. :: listen to the tune (midi file)
'''THE BLADISH BRITON.'''--Tune--Over the Water to Charley.'
Ye Rakehells so jolly, Who hate melancholy, And love a full flask and a doxy; Who ne'er from Love's feats, Like a coward retreats, Afraid that the harlot shall pox ye; While we live till we die. To the Shakespear let's fly, Where we shall find both in great plenty; With the juice of the vine, Our senses refine, And drink till the hogshead is empty.
Now each joyous fellow, While thus we are mellow, And the fumes of the grape does inspire; While that's to be had, Let's be damnably mad, And fling all our calps in the fire: Break bottles and glasses, Bilk landlord and lasses, What rascal our humour dare hinder? If any presume To come into the room, We'll throw the dog out of the window.
Here, waiter, more liquor; Zounds, man! bring it quicker; Champaigne, by all true topers courted; Without these damn'd tricks, French brandy to mix, But genuine neat as imported: While thus cherry merry, Let Harris* and Derry** With faces uncommon supply us: Poll French, and Bett Weeyms, And such batter'd old brims, Ye pimps, let them never come nigh us.
Like Quixote of old, As we have been told, Let's sally in search of adventures; Mother Johnson we'll rout, Kick her bullies about, And knock known the Watch, if he enters. Drink and whore all our lives, Lie with other men's wives, Attempt ev'ry damsel we hit on; D--n and swear, and tell lies, 'Flagellation' despise-- And this is the life of a Briton.
*The Proprietor of 'Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies.' **The Editor of the same Work.
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From ''The bacchanalian magazine; and Cyprian enchantress'', pp41-2, 1793. :: listen to the tune (midi file)
'''THE FASHIONABLE ''THAT''!'''---A New Song.
Tune--A Cobler there was, &c.--See Page 8.
Of a fam'd 'Monysyllable', doubtless, you've heard, That whenever 'tis ripe, is set off by a 'beard'; But, tho' numerous names it is call'd by, 'tis 'flat', That the prop'rest of all is no other than 'That'. Derry down, &c.
The Lover who talks about arrows and flames, And swears 'tis the heart of his Delia he claims; If you go to inspect into what he'd be at, You will find that he lies, and he only means 'That'. Derry down, &c.
'Tis plain in the proof, when with amorous smile, Some old Lecher attempts a young maid to beguile; For tho' he's said to want but a 'bit' for his 'cat'-- Yet every one knows that he only means 'That'. Derry down, &c.
The Tradesman's brisk Widow, who loses her spouse, Against marriage will rail, and a single life vows; But, at length, complains business has gone very flat, And so marries again--for the 'business' is--'That'. Derry down, &c.
And oft before marriage old Grannums will say, 'Why, girls, there's no harm in some innocent play; 'Young fellows may kiss you, your cheeks they may pat, 'But, huzzies, for God sake, don't let them touch 'That'.' Derry down, &c.
The learned Divine, with the Scripture in view, Recommends to our wives, all Benevolence due; But as soon as you smoke him, you'll smell out the rat, And find this 'benevolence' only means 'That'. Derry down, &c.
Then fill up a bumper, and let it go round, While Mirth and Good-humour in concert is found; If we let the glass stand, it will surely grow flat-- So here's good success to all those who love 'That' Derry down, &c.
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From ''The bacchanalian magazine; and Cyprian enchantress'', pp24-5, 1793. :: listen to the tune (midi file)
'''THE NATURAL PLOUGH'''---A New Song.
Tune--And old Woman cloth'd in grey.
Of all the professions in life, Sure ploughing and sowing's the chief; 'Tis perform'd both in peace and in strife, By so many 'twould stagger belief: It is not alone by the clown, That the Plough, which I hint at, is us'd, For with Kings does the practice go down, And Queens are with 'sewing' amus'd. Chorus--Tol de rol, &c.
What a field for these sports is display'd, In the source of each beautiful trait! To our hands are the 'furrows' all made, And the 'ploughs' did Dame Nature create; The 'lands' seem to ask for their feed, And Love their demands will allow, Which, by Fortune and Fate, were decreed To be plough'd by the Natural Plough. Tol de rol, &c.
Each nymph to the 'work' see invite, In the beauty and bloom of her days, Their 'fields' they abound in delight, Which all your 'industry' repays; No season your 'work' can retard, But does all times 'fruition' allow, And if you'd preserve their regard-- 'Drive' away with the Natural Plough. Tol de rol, &c.
Ne'er thin, like an idler, to stop, You ne'er need to 'fallow' the 'ground', You may every year have a 'crop', In you 'seed' falls but clean in the 'pound'; Then by 'ploughing' and 'sowing' your care, Good premiums the Fair do allow, If you rid them of sorrow and care, By 'driving' the Natural Plough. Tol de rol, &c.
But still shun another man's 'ground'; 'Tis often encumber'd with thorns, And tho' barren to you it be found, For him it will surely bear 'horns': And, besides, if you're catch'd in his 'trap', The Law no excuse will allow, But ease you of some of your 'sap', For 'driving' the Natural Plough. Tol de rol, &c.
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From ''The bacchanalian magazine; and Cyprian enchantress'', pp22-3, 1793. :: listen to the tune (midi file)
'''THE OYSTER GIRL.'''---A New Song.
Written by R. RUSTED.
Thro' Fleet-street I my oysters cry, You've heard of Saucy Sall; A lass of spunk, with learing eye; For rigs, I am the girl: Game to the spine, with Jolly Dick I take my ev'ning rounds; And many a watchman's lanthorn kick; I hate those sleepy hounds, I hate those sleepy hounds, I hate those sleepy hounds, And many a watchman's lanthorn kick; I hate those sleepy hounds.
Sweet Sir, D'ye want any oysters then, For natives, I'm your sort. My 'warehouse' is op'n from two to ten, For gentlemen to resort; Your different palates I can please, Ye Bucks, come here and taste: Here's Meltons, and Rocks of all degrees, And a girl with a slender waist.
When in the Garden I could shine, And like my betters dress, The Bankrupt, and the grave Divine, Wou'd Saucy Sall caress: The Squire, and the lordling Cit, With me would cut a dash; But I, with brilliancy of wit-- Could ease 'em of their cash.
But now, ye gods, the change how great! How has the mighty fell! Just so, with Ministers of State, The 'ins' and 'outs' can tell: But I thro' life, with Dick, can sport, Despising Fortune's frowns; And like 'some' Ladies, drest at Court-- Can live by 'ups' and 'downs'.