One whitsuntide Monday he gave up his breath, 'And this was the legacy left at his death:

"To the gay lads and lasses, where'er they come from,

I will them a bumper af Juniper Tom."

Jolly, &c.

His coffin then mark, was a barrel or butt,

And he left in his will that it ne'er should be shut; "Since the dropsy," cried Tom, I was never free from,

They must draw off the water from Juniper Tom."
Jolly, &c.

In a barrel so round then a cock was put in,
And some have since call'd the contents of it gin;
But this we know, the liquid therefrom

Is that cure for the cholic, the juice of Old Tom!
Jolly, &c.

THE GRAND JOKE, OR, GREAT BRITAIN BLOCKADED.

SAYS Jack to his messmate, I'll tell you a tale, That BONY, the Bouncer, set forth t'other day, And if to divert you that story should fail,

Not one spark of mirth, Pat, enlivens your clay. You must know, having got near "the length of

his tether,"

Robb'd Hamburgh-kill'd Lubeck-torn Prussia to bitts,

BONY Vows that Great Britain and Ireland together, He'll next turn his thumb on, and crack them like-nits.

So he issues a terrible fierce proclamation

(Here the cream of the jest comes-Pat, don't be afraid,)

Wherein he declares that the whole British Nation Are," Prisoners of War-in a state of Blockade!!*

That is, Pat, without any fighting at all,

He will shut up our ports-no more vessels must sail

Or if they attempt it, his fleet will them maul,

Sink or send the poor crews to go starve in a jail.

Now this is a bounce, sure! that ne'er was surpass'd In the annals of French Gasconading before ! 'Tis a jump o'er the moon-an Imperial blast!

A Royal Republican-Corsican bore!

For ev'ry one knows-but a French slave, or fool, Not a ship dare move out of the harbours of France But snug under batt'ries they all lie as cool

As cockle-shells, when the winds pipe and waves dance.

THE IRISHMAN'S COMICAL STORY.

COME, listen my honies, awhile you shall hear ! Soon a comical story I'll tell ye,

How Europe's got humbugg'd; how France is enslav'd,

And the Dutchmen are ground to a jelly. By St. Patrick, its true; they all richly deserve To be gibbetted first, and hung after,

For lending a hand to enslave their own land,
And for making this cut-throat their master.
Brother Joey the essence of rascals has got
Of Italia a precious good slice :

While the poor King of Naples was soon sent to pot,
And his capital robb'd in a trice.

And the Viceroy Beauharnois, Madame Josephine's brat,

Has got a fine country to plunder;

But to to give him a crown, Sirs, instead of a halter,

Oh, what a tremendous great blunder!

And now to complete this division of spoil,
These highwaymen held consultation;

To secure their booty, Brother Louis they make
The King of the Great-breeches nation.
While the sons of brave Tell, who for ages
have stood

Unconquer'd their freedom defending.

Are cut out for the jackall, the cuckold Murat;
And their necks to this monster are bending.

Arrah, faith; there is one more of this hopeful branch;

And his name it is Admiral Jerry,

Who intends Daddy Neptune's firm throne to upset
And in England to reign free and merry.
Ye winds be auspicious! don't blow him to port,
Till the jack-tars of Britain shall meet him,
And then, with the honours of powder and ball,
His new subjects will heartily greet him.

But before we'll submit to receive terms of peace,
Or compromise Britain's proud charter,
In rivers of blood we'll wipe off such disgrace,
Or to freedom we'll each fall a martyr.

No! we'd rather in battle resign our best blood,
Sooner plunge in old Ocean's salt waves,

Than desert those white cliffs where our brave fathers stood,

Or submit to a Nation of Slaves.

********

A TRIP TO LANCASTER RACES.

Addressed to a Friend.

YOU know my dear friend that I've spent all my life

In reading and writing and without a wife,

Have travell'd thus far on the journey alone,
Till I've seen, you must know, summers thirty and

one.

And yet in this period I never durst venture
The grand rendezvous of the world once to enter;
To the Ball, or assembly, the play, or the fair,
I'd a huge mind to go, but yet never was there ;
But at last being weary of country and tillage,
And asham'd to immure myself up in a village,
I firmly resolv'd to see some new faces,

And make my debut at the Lancaster Races:
I therefore now give you without more preamble.
A succinct account of this wonderful ramble.

I rose in the morning, and dress'd myself neatly In a suit of new cloaths that were made by Will Wheatley;

And that nought might be wanting, without more demur,

I put on my boots, and a family-spur;

Then mounting my gelding, we ambled along,
Till a jovial old beggar came humming a song;
My horse sorely frighten'd 'gan caper and flounce,
And three miles on the road I came off with a
bounce;

I remounted unhurt, and without more disaster,
Arriv'd in good time at the town of Lancaster.
There a glass of brisk wine soon my spirits renew'd
And I walk'd to the Course in a merry tun'd mood;
The crowd was so vast, and the weather so fair,
Lord bless me! thought I, all the world sure is
here!

Astonished, confounded, I gap'd and I star'd,
At a sight, which so strange and so novel appear'd,
In the Indian fashion here houses arose,

Where folks sat at ease in their holiday clothes;
There gamester's presided at O and E Tables,
And told you bad luck and misfortune were fables,
While a round-a-bout horse to some youngsters of
spirit,

In a circle display'd his most wonderful merit.
I was musing on these, when a trumpet's shrill
sound

Proclaim'd that the coursers were pacing the ground Now quickly they start, and as quickly they run,

While my ears were astonish'd with "Done, Sir!

and Done!"

Transported I eagerly cry'd, "White a guinea!" "Done, Sir!" says another! thought I thou'rt a ninny;

But it quickly appear'd that my judgement was sleeping,

For the red won the race, and I paid for my peeping.
However, well pleas'd with the sports of the day,
I thought I'd e'en venture to go to the play;
So muster'd up spirits to purchase admission,
And sat down in the Pit with amazing precision:
You'll believe me, my friend, when I tell you that

never

Was my heart so enraptur'd at actions so clever;
So real all appear'd, that I made myself certain
Of being in spain, when-down fell the curtain.
The Honey-moon finish'd-a farce claim'd attention,
When Jermy Didler shew'd wond'rous invention:-
In short, I was pleas'd in the highest degree,
And, trust me, ere long, at another I'll be.

So closes my ramble; the race the next year
Is for a gold cup, and again I'll be there,
Provided this pocket a tester or groat has,
I the mean time I am, with respect, yours
PHILOTAS.

July 9th. 1810.

EVERY DAY IN THE WEEK.
WHICH is the properest day to drink?
Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
Each is the properest day I think,
Why should we name but one day!
Bravo! bravo! each is my day,

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,
Sunday, Monday.'