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Then my once single state I sigh for in vain,
O'give me my lonely sky-parlor again!
I'd be blest in that garret, exposed to' the air,
I'd be blest in a cellar, in short-any where!

But Home! home, &c

WIDOW WADDLE. MRS. WADDLE was a widow, and she got no little

gain, She kept a tripe and trotter shop in Chickabiddy Lane; Her next door neighbor, Tommy Tick, a Tallyman was

he, And he ax'd Mrs. Waddle just to take a cup of tea.

With a tick a tee, tick a tee, &c. Mrs. Waddle put her chintz on, and sent for Sammy

Sprig, The titivating barber, to frizify her wig; Tommy Tick he dressed in pompadour, with doubled

channelied pumps, And looked when he'd his jazy on, just like the Jack of Trumps.

With a tick a tee, tick a tee, &c. Mrs. Waddle came in time for tea, and down they sat

together, They talked about the price of things, the fashion and

the weather; She staid to supper too, for Tommy Tick, without a

doubt, Was none of them that axes you to “tea and turn 'em out.'

With a tick a tee, tick a tee, &c. Thus Tommy Tick, he won her heart, and they were

married fast, But all so loving was at first, 'twas thcught it could

not last;

They'd words, and with a large cow-heel she gave him

such a wipe, And he returned the compliment with a half a yard of tripe.

With a tick a tee, tick a tee, &c. She took him to the justice such cruelty to cease, Who bound the parties over to keep the public peace; But Mrs. Tick, one day, inflamed with max and muggy

weather, She with a joint-stool broke the peace and Tommy's

head together. SPOKEN.] There he lay with about a dozen cowa heels about him-singing,

Tick a tee, tick a tee, &c

One morn, whilst I was brewing,
My thoughts each thought pursuing,

First malt and hops, next Molly Popps,
Thinks I, I'll go a wooing,

Indeed I will, O yes, I will,
Tol lol lol, tol lol lol, tol lol lol, lol lol li do.
Chance in my brew-house brought her,
Dame Popps I love your daughter;

And feel inclined, to tell my mind,
And cut my longing shorter.

Indeed I do, &c.
Says she, refrain your twitters,
If your mind does not fit hers-

As like the beer would be your dear-
She sometimes smacks of bitters.

Indeed she does, &c.
My daughter's fair to view, sir,
But she may mischief brew, sir,

And few can vie with her black eye,
But yours may be so too, sir.

Indeed it may, &c.
My Molly dear now came in,
Whilst love my heart inflaming;

Her mother said, the lad's afraid
His passion you'll be blaming.

I'm sure you will, &c.
Cried Moll, you stupid rash cub,
Do you think I'd marry such a serub?

Your hopes desist—and with her fist,
She rolled me in the mash-tub.

Indeed she did! O lord! she did, &c

A STORY there runs of a marvellous well,
Near Florence famed city, (as travellers tell,

To St. Agnes devoted,

And very much noted, For mystical charms in its waters that dwell. With all new married couples, the story thus goes. Whichever drinks first of the spring there that flows,

Be it husband or wife,

That one shall for life
On the other a yoke of subjection impose.
Young Claude led Claudine to church as his bride,
And wedlock's hard knot in a twinkling was tied;

But the clerk's nassal twang,

“ Amen," scarce had rang, When the bridegroom eloped from his good woman's


Away, like a hare from the hounds, started he,
Till reaching the well,-dropping plump on his knee;

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“ Dear Agnes!” cried he,

“Let me drink of thy tide,
And the right to the breeches establish in me.”
He quaffed till nigh bursting,—again turned to quaff,
Till the bride in pursuit reached his side with a laugh:

Lifting briskly his head,

To the lady he said, " I'm first at the well, spouse!so bow to the staff.” The dame to her hubby, replied with a sneer,“ That you're first at the well, after marriage, is clear,

But to save such a task,

I filled a small flask,
And took it to church in my pocket, my dear.'



Who bang’d my eyes and cracked my sn jut,
And tore my hair by handfulls out,
And shoved my togs all up the spout?

My doxy.
Who, when I lets a murmur drop,
Does me into the coal-hole pop,
Or with the poker does me wop?

My doxy
Who daily guzzles rum and gin,
And duns my ears with doleful din,
And beats till black and blue's my skin?

My doxy.
Who pinches me of proper prog,
And calls me devil, dolt, and dog,
While she is fat as any hog?

My doxy

Who makes me often dress the fish,
And skim the milk, and wash each dish,
And do whatever she doth wish!

My doxy.
Who makes me scrub and beat the mat,
And empty pails and comb the cat,
And off the broth to skim the fat?

My doxy. Who beats me often with the birch, And makes me carry clogs to church, And leaves me often in the lurch?

My doxy.
Who makes me slave from morn till night,
To wash her coats and stockings white,
And rub the knives and forks all bright?

My doxy.
Who, while I was at sea, begat,
By that long Irish plasterer Pat,
A little squalling ugly brat?

My doxy.
All ye who wedlock have in view,
May ye be blest, nor have to do
With such a d- -d outrageous shrew

As my doxy


Pat fell sick on a time, and he sent for the Priest,
That, dying, he might have his blessing at least;
And to come with all speed, did humbly implore him,
To fit him out tight for the journey before him,

Derry down, &c.
The good father the summons did quickly obey,
And found Paddy, alas! in a terrible way;

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