Hilaria. The Festive Board

by Unknown

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.

This animal (says the learned Zoologist, Mr. Pennant) was esteemed a 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.