Hilaria. The Festive Board

by Unknown

GOODY BURTON’s ALE.

Tune, The Dusty Miller.

Goody Burton’s ale

Gets into my noddle,

’Tis so stout and pale,

It makes me widdle waddle;

When I came to ask,

Who the brewing taught her,

I found out each cask

Was brew’d by—Goody’s daughter.

Now I long’d to see

Goody’s buxom brewer,

Hoping I should be

The only one to woe her;

When I spoke her soft,

I meant not to fool her,

So I went aloft,

And warm’d her in the cooler.

Oh! what flesh and blood!

Malt, and hop, and water,

Are not near so good

As Goody Burton’s daughter;

I made her heart right glad,

For till I came across it,

She had never had

A spigot in her fauset.

Nightly at my door

Comes a gentle rapping,

’Tis Miss Burton sure,

Who wants her barrel tapping;

When her barrel’s tapp’d,

She with art and cunning,

Turns the patent cock,

And sets the liquor running.

Other folks I hear,

Pant for Betsy Burton,

But I’ve nought to fear,

So I let her flirt on;

If her cask runs low,

Slowly comes the liquor,

Betsy tilts it so,

And makes it come the quicker.

Mellow up and ripe,

I and Parson Cottle,

Sit behind a pipe,

And quaff the ale in bottle;

Goody Burton bye,

Sings to please the parson,

While Miss B. and I

Carry Nature’s—farce on.

By the yeast I swear,

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.