He popp'd in by chance at the China-shop door,
Where they very soon found that the bull was a bore
The shopman to drive him out try'd with much care,
The floor being cover'd with crockery ware,
And among it resenting the shopnian's taunt,
The Buil began dancing the Cow's Carrant,

With his right leg, &c.
Whate'er with his feet he couldn't assail,
He made ducks and drakes with his horns and tail ;
So frišky he was with his downs and his ups,
Each tea service prov'd he was quite in his cups;
He play'd magis diversion among all the crates,
He splinier'd the dishes, and dish'd all the plaies.

With his right leg, &c. The China-shop master, a little fat man, Porp'd in, and the Bull at him furiously ran, Caught him up by the waistband without more ado, And toss'd him completely the shop window thro'; The poor little fat man flew up like a dart, And doan he came plumpin a scavenger's cart,

With his right leg, &c. The poor Chiria-sc]ler retriev'd this affray, But his neighbours laugh at him to this very day; He has a nick-name, for derision a mark, Por they, one and all, call him the little Mud-lark; While the joke he enjoys, grateful for the relief, But from that day to this he can't stomach Bull beef.

With his right leg, &c.

OLD TOM.

OLD Tom was a toper of no little credit,
And his mother, Peg Juniper, fam'd for her spirit;
And both, as we're told, sirs, the berry came from,
So what d'ye think now of Juniper Tom?

Jolly Old Tom, big-bellied Tom,
Success io Old England and jolly Old Tumo

One whitsuntide Monday he gave up his breatii, "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 of 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. I'n a barrel so round then a cock was put in, And some have since callid the contents of it gin; But this we know, the liquid therefrom Is that cure for the cholic, the juice of old I om!

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-killid 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

Aré, “ 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 feet 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, au hile you shall hear!

Soon a conical 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 Jose

phine's brát, Has got a fine country to plunder; But to to give hiin 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 hope

ful 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

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 night be wanting, without morë

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 stard, At a sight, which so strange and so novel appeard, 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,