The Universal Songster, Or, Museum of Mirth: Forming the Most Complete ...

Navigators, novices, the poor, the peer, the lily white,

The single-hearted waterman, and double-fisted

gas,

All are so busy at it, each man gets his share of his

Next-door-neighbour's knuckles, and a handsome face and pair of eyes.

A man is morning, noon, and night, with Belcher, at his sporting-house;

While sweet attractive attitudes are striking us and courting us.

Oh, what a sight is a dainty bit of pugilism!

All mankind are tucking-up their fingers for a fight.

Rings now are made at Moulsey-Hurst and Twickenham,

At Crawley-Downs, at Teddington, at Shepperton,

and there

Skulls get of pepper-mint a dose enough to sicken

em;

Collar-bones and claret-mugs are worse for wear; Stakes, ropes, and water-bottles, saw-dust, seconds, fighting-men,

Tradesfolk, and showfolk, London-men, and Brighton-men,

Waggons, whips, and gin, and bets, with some to lose, and some to win 'em, Nonpariels, and brandy, nuts, and carts, with twoand-twenty in 'em.

Oh, what a sight is a dainty, &c. Whips are at work, sticks follow, legs and all annoys,

Silence is entreated, with an oath or knock; "Pray, who is that?"" That's Randall, in the corderoys;"

"And that is Mr. Richmond, in the white smockfrock."

Sights to astonish us! there, that young man a dicer is;

Hush! or else he'll rattle out his bones upon your

ivories!

White feathers waving, when courage has evaporated,

Men with heads beneath their arms, like walking Charles decapitated.

Oh, what a sight is a dainty, &c. Such is the rage for squaring now in rounds, that all Walk about in gouty gloves, in striking streets; Sparring's grown so impudent, she really knows no bounds at all,

But thrusts her leathern knuckles into every face she meets;

Little ragged boys, in courts, are flushing it, and flooring it;

Brothers and their sisters' heads are fibbing it, and

boring it;

Clerks in public offices, assail with fist the first

Was formed, in a frolic, by old Madam Nature.
Now mark, if the sexes in number agree,
As some queer philosophers think;
(Full many a damsel's heart, I foresee,
At this part of my story will sink,)
As two wives at once men are not allowed,
Except their suit parliament aids,

And as bachelors, stupid, our streets daily crowd,
It follows, there must be old maids.
Thus we get from the smoke neatly into the smo-
ther,

For one evil treads fast on the heels of another.
O, fie on old bachelors,
All flinty-hearted bachelors!
What is an old bachelor like?
A bell without a clapper,
A door without a rapper,
A drum without a fife,
Butcher without a knife,
A sun without a moon,
A dish without a spoon.
Thus, you see, my good friends, what a whimsical
creature,

Was formed, in a frolic, by old Madam Nature.

I SING OF MIRTH-AND JOLLITY'S MY
THEME.

WHEN fumes of wine ascend into my brain,
Care sleeps-and I the bustling world disdain;
Nor all the wealth of Croesus I.esteem,
I sing of Mirth-and Jollity's my theme.
With garlands I my ruby temples crown,
Keeping rebellious thoughts of business down;
In broils and wars, while others take delight,
I, with choice friends, indulge my appetite.
Drink, then, my boys, and let us quench the fire,
Which the pure calentures of love inspire;
For, when too high his beams begin to shine,
We find the best extinguisher is-wine.

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FROM Brighton two Paddies walk'd under the cliff, For pebbles and shells to explore;

When, lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skiff, Which floated at length to the shore.

Says Dermot to Pat, we the owner will bilk,
To-night we'll be merry and frisky,

I know it as well as my own mother's milk,
Dear joy! 'tis a barrel of whisky.

Says Pat. I'll soon broach it, O fortunate lot!
(Now Pat, you must know, was a joker)
I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,
And borrow his kitchen hot poker.

"Twas said, and 'twas done-the barrel was bor'd,
(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,)
When Paddy found out a small error on board-
The whisky, alas! was gunpowder!

With sudden explosion, he flew o'er the ocean,
And high in air sported a leg;

Yet instinct prevails, when philosophy fails,
So he kept a tight hold of the keg.

But Dermot bawl'd out, with a terrible shout,
I'm not to be chous'd, Master Wiseman;

If you do not come down, I'll run into the town,
And, by Jasus! I'll tell the exciseman.

OH! be some signal vengeance found,
The caitiff wretch to blast,

Who dares his fellow man around
The chains of slavery cast!

Who, with remorseless bosom, parts
The links that friendship wove!

Who breaks, between two faithful hearts,
The bonds entwined by love.

His country's scorn, in lasting shame,Oh! let the demon dwell,

Who thus, degrading manhood's name, Would turn our earth to hell!

THE VILLAGE CRIM. CON.
OR, SNOB versus SNIP.
(Frome.)

OH! ye lads and ye laddesses gay,
Come bear with my rhyming a bob;
'Bout a crim. con. I've something to say,
Twixt a Dairy-maid, Tailor, and Snob.
This Snob was the boast of the town,

The envy and pride of the lads;
The girls never gave him a frown,

Though some said 'twas 'cause of the brads. Now, once for all, Snob thought to marry, And having seen plenty of life, Not wanting the stuff, would not tarry, But heel-piece his cares with a wife; He met with a damsel named Nancy, Who lived at a dairy hard by, And being the cream of his fancy,

He met of a night on the sly.

Her love Snob thought firm as lump butter,
That the breath of her lips were as fresh,
And said things no cobbler could utter,

As he press'd the doe-skin of her flesh.
Soon the maid felt the butter-milk passion,
Her bosom it heav'd like a churn,
While her heart curdled o'er with compassion,
Her eyes from the Snob ceas'd to turn.

The day when the license was bought,
A tailor, who knew Nance a child,
Approach'd with the superfine thought,
Her heart might, perhaps, be beguil'd.

He had just taken measure of Snob,
To make him a new suit of pie-bald,
And had said, any little odd job

He would any time do, if Snob called.
Now Nancy, beloved by the tailor,

Soon proved that the spirit was frail;
When Snip dared with kisses assail her,
She gently confessed he'd prevail.
So Snip got a license and married

This dairy-maid, buxom and fair,
While Snob all the time at home tarried,

Thinking next day the fond bliss to share.

But finding her not come to meet him,
Poor Snob being left in the lurch,
Went out-when the first who should greet him,
Was Mrs. Snip walking from church.
Cries she, My dear Snob, I'm just married
To Snip, who is a little
way on.
Replied Snob, Into court shall be carried
This conduct, d-n me, it's crim, con.'

Yet quickly thought Snob, since the license
I've got to kiss Nance when I will,
Why, as to the rest, it's all nonsense,
So let them be married who will.'
Then if the good-humoured somehow
Can take but the cream of the jest,
The critics, no doubt, will allow

There's skim-milk enough for the rest.

LOVE AND LAURA.
(T. W. Kelly.)

ON a bank, where circling trees
Kindly form'd a verdant shade,
Laura lay, the noontide breeze
Had lull'd asleep the gentle maid.
Love, on sportive wing, there flying,
Seeking objects for his skill,
Eyed the fair one, and while eyeing,
Wished her subject to his will.
His keenest dart then carefully

The archer chose, and laugh'd the while;
But when aiming at her, she

Awoke and saw the urchin's guile.
In vain, she cried, is all your skill,
Compared with mine, to touch the heart;
One look of mine, blind urchin, will
Wound surer than your keenest dart.

THE NAVAL SUBALTERN.

(Collins.)

BEN BLOCK was a vet'ran of naval renown,

And renown was his only reward;

For the Board still neglected his merits to crown,
As no interest he held with lord!

my
Yet, as brave as old Benbow was sturdy old Ben,
And he'd laugh at the cannons' loud roar!
When the death-dealing broadside made worm's
meat of men,

And the scuppers were streaming with gore!

Nor could a lieutenant's poor stipend provoke
The stanch tar to despise scanty prog;
But his biscuit he'd crack, turn his quid, crack his
joke,

And drown care in a jorum of grog.

Thus

year,

in a subaltern state,

year after Poor Ben for his king fought and bled;

When, on humbly saluting, with sinciput bare,
The first Lord of the Admiralty once;
Quoth his Lordship," Lieutenant, you've lost all
your hair,

Since I last had a peep at your sconce."
"Why, my lord!" replied Ben, "it with truth
may be said,

While a bald pate I long have stood under, There have so many captains walk'd over my head, That to see me quite scalp'd 'twere no wonder."

THE PRIEST OF BALLINACASEY.
Air-" Garry Owen."-(Beular.)

IN Ireland, the dear land, when I was a boy,
With the girls of the place would I prattle and toy;
And as I grew big was the only true joy
Of the lasses of Ballinacasey.

I tumbled, and touzled, and pull'd them about;
I was sure invited to every rout;
Of not one good thing was I ever left out

By the fair sex of Ballinacasey.
Now in these good things I'd a rival and grudge,
One for whom all the folks of the village would
drudge,

For he was the doctor, schoolmaster, and judge,
And priest, too, of Ballinacasey.
When any thing nice but once met his eye,
Whether pratee, or pudding, or pig in a sty,
To have, sure, a finger and hand in the pie
Was the priest of Ballinacasey.

'Gainst my manifold sins would he preach and
would swear,

About tumbling, and pulling, and teazing the fair,
Whene'er I came near the confessional chair
In the chapel of Ballinacasey.
It chanced young Norah got loose in her dress,
For love of me, so a decent mess
Did I get in when I went to confess

To the priest of Ballinacasey.
"Och!" said he, "by St. Patrick! you are a big
sinner,

And so is that Norah-why didn't you bring her?"
I've brought something better,-it is a good dinner,
Sweet father of Ballinacasey.
"You're a very great sinner-it smells very nice-
'Long with old Nick-is't pig?-you'll be burnt up
to ice-

You can't be forgiven, but-bring one more slice-
For the priest of Ballinacasey."

snout;

He suspected my faith, so had followed me out
From the chapel of Ballinacasey.
"What," said he, " you're beginning again,
And I've caught you out in the middle of sin,
I've found you out when you thought I was in
The chapel of Ballinacasey."

Then he preach'd of Beelzebub, devils, and flames;
Of Satan, and all such outlandish names,
And said I had brought now a thousand of shames
On the priest of Ballinacasey.
When he had done he gave a long groan,
And said he ne'er saw such a sinner of stone,

Till time had unroofed all the thatch from his pate, And must excommunicate me, skin and bone,
And the hair from his temples had fled.

From the chapel of Ballinacasey.

Hear me she's a Protestant, father, said I,
And her faith to convert now I piously try:
Is that it? said he, then I'll bid you good bye
For the chapel of Ballinacasey.

Och! St. Roke assist your holy plan,
Try to convert her the best way you can,
Then bring her to me, a good catholic man,
At the chapel of Ballinacasey.

Och! bring her to me in the morning to mass,
And then I will, when I've examined her close,
Give to the new convert the sign of the cross,

In the chapel of Ballinacasey.

The place that I'd got, I detarmined to keep,
But, odzookers! they were all so drollish!
Kings, cobblers, and tailors! a prince or a sweep
And jawed so at I, I looked foolish!
Their daggers and swords, cod! they handled s
'cute,

And their ladies were all so bewitching! When I thought to be droll, I was always struc: mute,

As the bacon-rack hangs in our kitchen; They axed me to say how the coach was at the door,'

When were seated above and below folk!

Now work her conversion, and mind what I've Feggs! I was so sheamfaced, I flopped on the

spoke, Then bring her to me and I will, by St. Roke! Give to her salvation a finishing stroke In the chapel of Ballinacasey.

HAIL, BACCHUS, HAIL! FAREWELL TO

LOVE.

A PARODY.

(W. H. Ireland.)

BEGONE, I'll hear no more of love,
Its galling pangs no more I'll prove,
But range o'er hills, o'er dales, and fields,
And taste those joys which freedom yields.

There will I climb amongst the rocks,
Or with the shepherds feed their flocks;
Or angle near the water-falls,
And hear the birds' sweet madrigals.

No more I'll weave thee wreaths of roses,
No more remember fragrant posies,
No more cull flowers to deck thy kirtle,
Entwined with sprigs of blooming myrtle.

I will not pluck the lamb's soft wool;
The vine's enlivening fruit I'll pull,
And then defy the winter's cold,
Thy charms, and man's dear idol, gold.

Away, straw-belts and ivy-buds;
Away with clasps and amber-studs:
Nor these nor thou again shalt move
My stubborn heart to melt with love.
From dawn till eve I'll drink and sing,
And toast with wine each May morning;
These are the joys my mind shall move,
Hail, Bacchus, hail! farewell to love!

KNOWING JOEY.

(Cross.)

I WAS called knowing Joe by the boys of our town, Old dad taught me wisely to know folk;

Cod! I was so sharp, when they laughing came down,

I axed how do'st do?' to the show-folk;

I could chaunt a good stave, that I knowed very well

No boy of my age could talk louder, Crack a joke, tip the wink, or a droll story tell; Of my cleverness, too, none were prouder; So, thinks I, it's better nor following the plough, To try with these youths to queer low folk; Their master I met, so I made best bow, my SPOKEN.] How do ye do, sir? says I, I'ze a mighty notion of turning actor-man; I be main lissome-boxes and wrestles vary pretty-dances a good jig—and can play-the vary devil!

Axed a place, and so joined with the show-folk.

floor!

SPOKEN.] A kind of a sort of giddiness seized me all over the candles danced the hays!'twere as dimmish as a Scotch mist! I dropp'd down dead as a shot!

And swounded away 'mong the show-folk.

They laughed so, and jeered me, as never wur seen!

All manner of fancies were playing; One night I was sent for to wait on a queen, SPOKEN.] I believes it were Queen Hamlet of Dunkirk !

(Not thinking the plan they were laying.). My leady she died on a chair next her spouse, While with pins me behind they were pricking; All at once I screamed out; lent her grace such a douse!

That alive she was soon-aye, and kicking! The people all laughed at, and hooted poor I, And the comical dogs did me so joke! That I made but one step, without bidding good bye

SPOKEN.] From their steage, cod! I never sc much as once looked behind me! tumbled over a barrel of thunder-knocked down a hailstormrolled over the sea-darted like lightning through the infarnal regions.

And so I took my leave of the show-folk.

ONE NATION, ONE PEOPLE; THE BRAVE AND THE FREE. (Captain Morris.)

IT has long been agreed by all persons of learning, Who in stories of old have a ready discerning, That in every country which travellers paint, There has always been found a protector or saint. Derry down, &c.

Saint George for Old England; with target and lance;

Saint Andrew for Scotland; Saint Denis for
France;

Saint David for Wales, who on goats used to ride;
And Patrick Hibernia's patron and pride,
Derry down, &c.

Saint Denis gives soup, and Saint George the Sir
Loin,

While Saint Andrew on oatmeal will frequently dine,

With leeks the fair boards of Saint David are crowned,

And Patrick for rivers of claret's renowned.

United with Britain Hibernia shall be,

One nation, one people, the brave and the free, Then in vain shall the thunders of Denis be hurled, And Saint George and Saint Patrick give laws to the world.

Derry down, &c.

STEADY SHE GOES, ALL'S WELL!

(Morton.)

THE British tar no peril knows,

But, fearless, braves the stormy deep; The ship's his cradle of repose,

And sweetly rocks him to his sleep. He, though the raging surges swell, In his hammock swings,

When the steersman sings, Steady she goes, all's well!

While to the main-top yard he springs, An English vessel heaves in view; He asks but it no letter brings

From bonny Kate or lovely Sue. Then sighs he for his native dell, Yet to hope he clings,

When the steersman sings, Steady she goes, all's well!

WHEN TIME, WHO STEALS OUR YEARS

AWAY. (Moore.)

WHEN time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,

The memory of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower
Shall fill the wint'ry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour
When thou alone wert fair.

Then talk no more of future gloom,
Our joys will always last,

For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past.
Chloe, fill the genial bowl,

drink to love and thee:
Thou never canst decay in soul,
Thou❜lt still be young to me.
And as thy lips the tear-drop chase,
Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace
Which sorrow leaves behind.

Then fill the bowl, away with gloom,
Our joys shall always last;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past.

But mark, at thought of future years,
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,
They mingle with my bowl.

How like this bowl of wine, my fair,

Our loving life shall fleet!

Though tears may sometimes mingle there.
The draught will still be sweet.

Then fill the bowl, &c.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

(Dibdin.)

THE martial pomp, the mournful train,
Bespeak some honoured hero slain :
The obsequies denote him brave;
Hark! the volley o'er his grave:

The awful knell sounds low and lorn,
Yet cease, ye kindred brave, to mourn.
The plaintive fife and muffled drum,
The man may summon to his silent home;
The soldier lives his deeds to trace,
Behold the Seraph Glory place

An ever-living laurel round his sacred tomb.
Nor deem it hard, ye thoughtless gay,
Short's man's longest earthly stay,
Our little hour of life we try,
And then depart-we're born to die.
Then lose no moment dear to fame,
They longest live who live in name.

The plaintive fife, &c.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? Air-"The Sutor's Dochter."—(Burns.) WILT thou be my dearie ?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee?
By the treasure of my soul,
That's the love I bear thee!

swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo’es me;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain,
Say na thou'lt refuse me:
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.

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