Then his arms o'er her shoulder he lovingly pass'd,
And says he, “ my love what is this lump?"
She faulter'd a little-but told him at last,
"Please your holiness, only my hump."

Says the Priest," then we cannot cohabit, d'ye see, "Though I tenderly love you, indeed!

"For I've taken an oath that my children shan't be "Of the camel and buffalo breed."

So he married another, he fancied would fit,
Coming home, in sweet conjugal talk,

She stopp'd the blind Priest, saying "sit down a bit, "For my legs are too bandy to walk."

"Bandy legs," said the Priest, can't be counted for sins,

So sit there as still as a mouse;

"For Mahomet curse me if ever your shins "Shall waddle you into my house."

Then he turn'd up his eyes like the white of boil'd eggs,

And pray'd thus to Mahomet, smack,

"Great Prophet, afford me a wife with good legs, "And with never a hump on her back.”

Then the voice of the Prophet, in thunder, was heard,

And rumbled thus o'er his head,

"A handsome young woman that can't speak a word,

"Shall bless your blind Rev'rence's bed."

The Priest he bow'd low, crying "Mahomet's kind, "Of happiness this is the sum!

"For a handsome young wife likes her old husband blind,

And most men like a wife that is dumb.”

***

THE CHAPTER OF DRIVING.

ood folks what a period of novelty this is,
We all at new fashions are striving;

But the art of all arts, and the bliss of all bliss,
Is the craft and the myst'ry of driving.

By his grace you observe on the driving box seated,
Lady Jane who despises all weather;

Up and down, fore and aft, she scarce needs be entreated

To settle each buckle and leather.

(Speaking.) Do, my lady, couple up the off leaders; see the pole pieces are tight enough, and put your hand to the collars to feel they work easy; that's the thing, my lady-off we go again.

We all at new fashions, new fashions are striving,

But the art of all arts is the myst❜ry of driving. Sir John at his ease then is to go the inside in, Along with her ladyship's maid, sirs;

My lady with John on the dickey likes riding,
She's a whip and she says, "who's afraid, sirs!"
Sir John a kind master has still been accounted,
To the poor little maid he's so civil,

My lady on high is delightfully mounted,
And is driving, some say, to the devil.

(Speaking) Well my lady, how go you on?charmingly, Sir John; I assure you John is a capital driver, and I have a view of every thing. and the maid quite comfortable within? But

We all at new fashions are, striving,

Are you

But the art of all arts is myst'ry of driving. The gouty old peer, in his landaulet snoring, Still wishes his equipage grac'd, sirs!

So he's two pretty maids on the coach-box before

him,

And the chaplain behind him is plac'd, sirs;

Then quick on the rough stoney roads as they jumble,

The chaplain is piously shaking,

And his stomach being large by the rough rumble tumble,

He's not in the very best taking.

(Speaking)-Well Jane and Susan, have you a fine prospect? O yes please your lordship. Well Mr. Stuffin how go you on? May it please your lordship a little quamish or so after dinner, rather land-sick-But

We all at new fashions are striving,

But the art of all arts is the myst'ry of driving. Young Whip the Cantab, whom his father supposes On dull mathematics grown pale, sirs,

In double-box coat buried up to the nose is,

And from Cambridge is driving the mail, sirs: While all these good folks are their pleasures contriving,

May you unite yours, one and all, sirs, And end this delectable chapter of driving, By a general drive to Vauxhall, sirs.

(Speaking.) The gardens look delightfully this season; never more brilliant.-Mrs. Bland is in capital voice; and your old friend Dignum is not much amiss.-But

We all at new fashions are striving,

But the art of all arts is the myst'ry of driving.

THE CORSICAN FROG.

A Corsican frog, sirs, was born near a pool,
With his croak away, high diddle ho,

Says he, to stop here, folks would call me a fool,
So in search of preferment I'll go.

This said, he set out on his chance-begot prance, And mushroom like, somehow took, root sir, in

France,

Where he led all his neighbours a wearisome dance, With his croak away, &c.

Thus swell'd with conceit, and of arrogance full, With his croak away, &c.

He thought, sirs, to swell and look big as a bull, But that plan he was forced to forgo.

Then he hopp'd into Spain, and again 'gan to swell Thinking there that no one, sirs, his pow'r durst repel,

But was ready to burst when he found them rebel, 'Gainst his croak away, &c.

Then he chose for their king, boys, his brother so fine,

With his croak, &c.

But his subjects they wou'dn't be caught in a line, And that, sirs' they soon let him know,

Which made Joey to rail 'gainst his brother begin For getting, him snar'd unawares in a gin,

Said he first catch the bear then dispose of his skin, And his croak, &c.

Thus the French, boys, shall find us the bear and its cubs,

'Gainst their croak, &c.

They'd fain forge us chains, but trumps, sirs, is clubs,

And that, boys, we'll soon let them know; Our country we love, and our king we adore,. Whom soon we'll make France, sirs, be glad to

restore,

We'll rout them or fall to rise never more,
Success to our cause, boys, huzza.

******

SONG.

'Twas at Portsmouth I first saw my Nancy,

Her dad kept the sign of the ship,

When finding she suited my fancy,

I soon set love's anchor atrip;

So I lay-to and hail'd her one morning,
On courtship d'ye mind me agog,

And sailor-like, flattery scorning.

Talk'd of love as she serv'd out the grog.

For a sailor's delight, boys, at home or at sea,
Is, whatever foul weather may pass,

A snug man of war and good sea room d'ye see,
His country, his king, and his lass.

Yeo ho,

His country, &c.

Three more sail were in chace of my frigate:
A French valet, Dutch skipper and Don,
Oh, (said I) boys, I'll soon make you jig it,
Or my name, d'ye mind me, an't John.
So no sooner monsieur tipt his lingo,

Than this fist, damme, settled his jaw,
Then I capsiz'd the Don, sirs, by jingo;

And the Dutchman learnt how to forestaw,
But a sailor, &c.

But avast now in Brazil I'm landed,
Of the past 'tis a folly to prate,
Where, although I was very near stranded,
I had near got a copper-skinn'd mate;
But this vessel belongs to my Nancy,
For her sake I'll go look for a prize,
Though no diamond can shine to my fancy
Half so bright, d'ye mind as her eyes.
Thus true to the compass, at home or at sea,
Let whatever foul weather may pass,
A sailor's sheet anchor is still d'ye see,
His country, his king, and his lass!

BOWLS AND RUBBERS! OR THE HOLIDAY

COBLER.

Tune-Yorkshire Gala.

Oh when single how happy was I,

I sung as I work'd in my stall, sir,

Crack'd jokes on each vone that past by,

Though I oft pierc'd my sole with a awl, sir;

My lapstone I thump'd void of care,