TWO BLANKS TO A PRIZE. IN this lottery of life should dame Fortune beguile,. If a husband you'd take, Miss, or you, Sir, a wife, Slip your neck from the collar as fast as you can; And if for preferment you're starving at court, Then you're chance is not worth, Sir, three-fourths; of a groat; There are ninety-two blanks to a prize. POOR HARRY. PRAY, ladies, did you ever hear Of a shepherd, whose name was Harry, Who liv'd a bachelor fifty year, Then resolv'd, silly man, to marry?. Who liv'd, &c.. Next morn he early rose, And dress'd in his best cloaths, Determin'd he no more from time to time would dally, But 'twas a luckless day, For all his neighbours say, The first of April 'twas, when a courting he went to Sally. He swore he lov'd her passing well, And fain with her would marry;, And mark, I pray, what now befel Of wealth he had good store, Few shepherds could boast more; For that alone, most maids he thought his wife would gladly be, So he search'd the village round, But no where cou'd be found A lass who any answer made, but fal de ral, lal dal de. So bachelors all take warning I pray, This council I give, now mind what I say; And let all the prime of your life pass away, NOBODY COMING TO MARRY ME. LAST night the dogs did bark, I went to the gate to see; When every lass had her spark, But nobody coming to me; And it's oh dear what will become of me; Nobody coming to marry me, Nobody coming to woo. My father's a hedger and ditcher, My mother does nothing but spin; And I'm a pretty young girl, And it's oh dear, &c, They say I'm beauteous and fair, For, ah, I am growing very old. And it's oh dear, &c. And now I must die an old maid; But I'm sure it is not my fault. And it's oh dear, &c. SONG. TUNE." The Heroes of the British Fleet." STILL Europe hears, from Gallia's shore, Her Nations bend to Slavery's chain: Still Europe sees Imperial Crowns Bow to the haughty Despot's sway: His fiat bleeding Austria owns, O'er realms where rapine mark'd his way; While Britain's sons her rights maintain ; Her charter'd empire o'er the main ! While Britain's sons, &c. The fell Usurper's ruffian boast, Invasion's threat! old Albion hears! Her gallant sons defend her coast ; Still o'er the mighty world of waves Still may it awe old England's foe! Thy genius, PITT! her Senate guide! So shall her power and fame resound, Wide as the Earth's and Ocean's bound. So shall her power, &c. Still George the British sceptre sways, Now shall united Britain sing The strains each British heart reveres; Britannia's Cause--- her State---her King; Her Fleets---her Armies---Volunteers! Her cause, each patriot breast shall fire, Till earth, and seas, and suns expire. Her cause, each patriot's breast, &C. THE WISE IRISHMAN And his Sallad Oil. ONE Patrick O'Blunder just came from Kilkenny, Who e'er he reach'd England had spent his last penny; Was hir'd as a servant to one Sir James Trueland, (I believe no relation to Abraham Newland ;) Who the very next week set off post for town, With the whole of his family and his new Irish clown; When to London they got, the good honest Knight, Thought a dinner would please them, altho' 'twas near night, So the servants prepared a fine piece of roast beef, Which the Knight said he'd dress, but no oil was there, And the servants being busy, he says to his many "Here, Patrick, run off now as fast as you can, "And the first shop you come to enquire for some oil, "And make great haste back or the dinner will spoil." So full drive Pat set off, and soon knock'd down a Quaker, The first shop he came to was kept by a baker; "Sir, I want two quarts of your best eating oil, "And make haste, my dear honey, or the sallad will spoil." "Why man, cries the Baker, we sell it not here," "Arrah, then, cries Pat, you can tell me my dear "Where it is to be got, I hope 'tis not far." "Oh! no, answered he, do you see yonder jar? "A jar! what's a jar " then cries Pat with surprize, "'Tis the brown thing on the post ;--why you've surely no eyes.” Off Pat, quickly sets, to the Oilman's he came, "Pray sir, I've been told Mr. Jar is your name." |