A SONG.
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SLaves to London I’ll deceive you,
For the Country now I leave you:
Who can bear, and not be Mad,
Wine so dear, and yet so bad:
Such a Noise and Air so smoaky,
That to stun, this to choak ye;
Men so selfish, false and rude,
Nymphs so young and yet so lew’d.
Quiet harmless Country Pleasure,
Shall at home engross my Leisure;
Farewel London, I’ll repair,
To my Native Country Air:
I leave all thy Pleasures behind me,
But at home my Wife will find me;
Oh the Gods! ’tis ten times worse,
London is a milder Curse.
The Duke of ORMOND’S March.
Set by Mr. Church.
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