In one room he receives

Beggars, paupers, and thieves,

So of course he's not breathing a very pure air;
Oh! a man has no leisure, &c.

He can no where approach
In his city state coach,

But tag-rag and bob-tail must all have a stare ;
Though a lord he is made,

And has left off his trade.

He still finds the "Compter" is under his care.
He attends Common Halls,

Goes in state to St. Paul's,

And they can't do without him at Bartlemy fair!
He has really no leisure, &c.

He's at Old Bailey Sessions,
And aldermen's sittings,

And all turtle eatings that's done at Guildhall;
All water excursions,
Swan-hopping diversions,

And feasting at Richmond, Gravesend, and Blackwall.
Then, wherever he's dining,

The guests are repining,

If he does not keep "wining" with every soul there. Oh! how can he have leisure, &c.

His duties increasing,

He fags without ceasing,

One night at a banquet-the next at a ball;
Then to all folks appearing,

He must give a hearing,

Though but one year's allowed him for doing it all!
Then the cabmen and drovers-
Omnibuses-turnovers,

All bring to his lordship vexation and care;
And he's really no leisure, &c.

When fishwomen lark it

At Billingsgate market,

;

Or the fish with an improper "scent" are sent there
Ere the boatmen have sold 'em,
They find Mr. Goldham

Takes all kinds of "queer fish" before the Lord Mayor.
Then he's thought such a rare man
For making a chairman,

And helping to carry each weighty affair;
That he finds, 'stead of leisure

For taking his pleasure,

He works like a horse-all the time he's a "

"Mayor!'

THE CABIN BOY.

THE sea was rough, the clouds were dark,
Far distant every joy,

When forc'd, by Fortune, to embark,
I went as cabin boy.

My purse soon fill'd with Frenchmen's gold,
I hasten'd home with joy,

But wreck'd in sight of port behold,
A hapless cabin boy.

SLING THE FLOWING BOWL.

COME, come, my jolly lads, the winds abaft,
Brisk gales our sails shall crowd;

Come, bustle, bustle, bustle, boys, haul the boat,
The boatswain pipes aloud:

The ship's unmoor'd

All hands on board,

The rising gale

Fills every sail,

The ship's well mann'd and stor❜d.

Then sling the flowing bowl:
Fond hopes arise,
The girls we prize
Shall bless each jovial soul;

The can, boys, bring;
We'll drink and sing,

While the foaming billows roll.

Though to the Spanish coast we're bound to steer, We'll still our rights maintain ;

Then bear a hand, be steady, boys; soon we'll see Old England once again,

From shore to shore,

'While cannons roar,
Our tars shall show
The haughty foe,

Britannia rules the main.

Then sling the flowing bowl, &c,

THE ALMANACK MAKER.

OH, father had a jolly knack
Of cooking up an almanack;
He could tell,

Very well,

Of eclipses and wars,
Of Venus and Mars,

When plots were prevented,
Penny posts were invented,
Of Rome's dire reproaches,
And the first hackney coaches:
And he always foresaw
There'd be frost or be thaw;
Much sun or much sleet,

Much rain or much heat
On the fourth or the seventh,
The fifth or eleventh,

The tenth or the fifteenth,
The twentieth or sixteenth,
But to guard against laughter,
He wisely did guess

There'd be more or less
Day before or day after.

Oh, father had a jolly knack,
Of cooking up an Almanack;
He could tell,
Very well,

Of aches and of pains,
In the loins and the reins,
In the hips and the toes,
In the back and the nose;
Of a red letter day,

When school-boys might play;
When tempest would clatter,
When earthquakes would shatter,
When comets would run,

And the world be undone,
But yet still there was laughter:
For people would cry,

Though he says we're to die,
It may be to-day, or day after.
Light and dark, high-water mark,
Signs the skies in, southing rising,
Verse terrific, hieroglyphic,
Astronomical, all so comical.
Oh, father had a jolly knack
Of cooking up an almanack.

THE SPRIGHTLY HORN.

THE sprightly horn awakes the morn, And bids the hunter rise,

The opening hound returns the sound, And Echo fills the skies.

See ruddy health, more dear than wealth,
On yon blue mountain's brow,
The neighing steed invokes our speed,
And reynard trembles now.

In ancient days, as story says,
The woods our fathers sought;
The rustic race adored the chase,
And hunted as they fought.
Come let's away, make no delay,
Enjoy the forest's charms;
Then o'er the bowl expand the soul,
And rest in Chloe's arms.

I LOCK'D UP ALL MY TREASURE.

I LOCK'D up all my treasure,
I journey'd many a mile,
And by my grief did measure
The passing time awhile.
My business done and over,
I hasten'd back amain,
Like an expecting lover,
To view it once again.
But this delight was stifled,
As it began to dawn,
I found the casket rifled,

And all my treasure gone.

FAIR ELLEN.

FAIR Ellen like a lily grew,

Was beauty's fav'rite flow'r,

Till falsehood chang'd her lovely hue, She wither'd in an hour.