Air.—Cotillon.
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish’d eye;
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho,
Da Capo.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit:
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell’d tribe, ye maccaroni train,
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a year,
To dress and look like awkward Frenchmen here;
Lend me your hands.—O, fatal news to tell!
Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.[54]
MISS CATLEY.
Ay, take your travellers—travellers, indeed!
Give me the bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels? Ah! ah! I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.
Air.—A bonnie young Lad is my Jockey.
I’ll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away,
With Sandie, and Sawnie, and Jockey,
With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one va toute:
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few—
“I hold the odds—done, done, with you, with you:”
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace—
“My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case:”
Doctors, who cough, and answer every misfortuner—
“I wish I’d been call’d in a little sooner:”
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty;
Come, end the contest here, and aid my party.