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A vicked voman of the town, sir,

Hon him cast a vishful eye ;
And she came in the shop one morning
A flannel petticoat to buy.

Fol de riddle, &c.
When she had paid him down the money,

She ge'ed his hand a very hard squeeze,
Vich so frightened Georgy Barnwell,
That together knocked his knees.

Fol de riddle, &c. Then she left her card whereon was written,

Mary Millwood does intreat That Muster Barnwell would call and see her, At No. 2. in Dyott-street.

Fol de riddle, &c.
Now as soon as he had shut the shop up,

He vent to this naughty dicky-bird,
And ven that he vent home next morning,
Blow me if he could speak a vord.

Fol de riddle, &c.
Now soon this voman did persuade him,

Vith her fascinating pipes,
To go down into the country,
And let loose his uncle's tripes.

Fol de riddle, &c.
There he found his uncle in the grove, sir,

Studying hard at his good books,
And Georgy Barnwell vent and stuck him
All among the crows and rooks.

Fol de riddle, &c.
Ven Millwood found he'd got no money,

Not so much as to buy a jewel,
She vent that very day and peach'd him,
Now vas not that hair very cruel ?

Fol de riddle, &c.

Ai bez izte no one laznentei

But every body pitied bist,
Ves ont come the crpel hangosa
To pat the cord about his wisen

Fd de riddle, &c.
The marchants dartez died soon arter,

Tears she shed, but spoke to vords;
So all young men I pray take varning,
Don't go with the naughty dieky-birds.

Fol de riddle, &c.

OH, CRU'EL! Ox, cruel vas my parents that fore'd my love from

me, And cruel vas the press-gang that took him out to And cruel vas the little boat that rowed him from the

strand, And cruel yas the great big ship that sail'd him from the land.

Too rol, too rol, &c. Oh! cruel vas the vater that bore my love from Mary, And cruel vas the fair vind that vouldn't blow con

trary ; And cruel vas the boatswain, the captain and the men, That didn't care a farden if we never met again.

Too rol, too rol, &c Oh! cruel vas the splinter that broke my poor love's

leg, Now he's oblig'd to fiddle fort, and I'm oblig'd to

beg; A vagabonding vagrant, and a rantipoling wife, We fiddles, and we limps it, through the ups and downs of life.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

Oh! cruel vas the engagement, in which my true love

fought, And cruel vas the cannon-ball that knocked his right

eye out; He used to leer and ogle me, with peepers full of fuu, But now he looks askew at me, because he's only one.

Too rol, too rol, &c. My love he plays the fiddle well, and vanders up and

down, And I follows at his helbow through all the streets in

town; We spends our days in harmony, and wery seldom

fights, Except when he's his grog aboard, or I gets queer at nights.

Too rol, too rol, &c. Now, ladies, all take varning, by my true love and me, Though cruel fate should cross you, remember con

stancy. Like me, you'll be revarded, and have all your heart's

delight, With fiddling in the morning, and a drop of max at night.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

O, WHERE is my lover, so fickle and frail !

He'vow'd he'd be constant to me;
Yet haply, now tells to another the tale,

Oft whisper'd near yonder lov'd tree.
Those dew-sprinkled branches by nature must fade,

Those blossoms will soon wither'd be ;
But affection once plighted to man, or to maid,

Should prove firm as the root of a tree.


The rose which you gave me at parting, my fair,

Has withered and faded away,
No longer its odours can perfume the air,

All fragrance was gone in a day ;
But the promise you gave me will never depart,

Its mem'ry still lingers behind ;
And even the life-pulse must cease in my heart,

Ere its soft hues shall fade from my mind.
The rose of affection shall dwell in my breast,

And warmer its bright tints shall glow ;
My solace it proves when by sorrow oppressid,

It blooms in the midst of my woe.
Though perished and faded, the sweet flower you gave,

In my bosom its relics shall lie:
This desolate form shall be sunk in the wave,

Ere the rose of affection shall die.


In storms when clouds obscure the sky,
And thunders roll, and lightnings fly,
In midst of all these dire alarms,
I think, my Sally, on thy charms.

The troubled main,

The wind and rain,
My ardent passion prove ;

Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o'erwhelm,
I'd think on thee, my love.
When rocks appear on ev'ry side,
And art in vain the ship to guide :
In varied shapes when death appears,
The thoughts of thee my bosom cheers.

The troubled main,

The wind and rain,
My ardent passion prove ;

Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o'erwhelm,
I'd think on thee, my love.
But should the gracious pow’rs prove kind,
Dispel the gloom and still the wind,
And waft me to thy arms once more,
Safe to my long-lost native shore ;

No more the main

I'd tempt again,
But tender joys improve ;

I then with thee

Should happy be,
And think on naught but love.


SEE, the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are

begun, What confusion !--but hear !—I'll bet you,-done,

done ;

A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockies, assail the tir'd ear; While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper'd, prancing, his head almost touching his

breast; Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch

rush, Men, horses, and dogs, all hard at his brush ; O'er heath, hill, and moor, led by the sly prey, By scent or by view, cheats a long tedious day; Alike bred for joy in the field or the course, Always sure to come thro'-a starnch and fleet horse ;

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