Hilaria. The Festive Board

by Unknown

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.