How happy will the shepherd be, Who calls this nymph his own: -O may her choice be fix'd on me, Mine's fix'd on her alone.
This lass so neat, &c.
JACK Ratlin was the ablest seaman,
None like him could hand, reef, or steer,,
No dang rous toil but he'd encounter,
With skill, and in contempt of fear.
In fight a lion, the battle ended,
Meek as the bleating lamb he'd prove;
Thus Jack had manners, courage, merit,,
Yet did he sigh, and all for love.
The song, the jest; the flowing liquor,-
For none of these had Jack regard;
He, while his messmates were carousing,
High sitting on his pending yard,
Would think upon his fair one's beauties,
Swear never from such charms to rove;;
That truly he'd adore them living,
And, dying, sigh-to end his love.
The same express the crew commanded.
Once more to view their native land,
Amongst the rest brought Jack some tidings;;
Would it had been his love's fair hand!
Oh! Fate! her death defac'd the letter--
Instant his pulse forgot to move!
With quiv'ring lips, and eyes uplifted,
He heav'd a sigh and dy'd for love.
A LANDLORD IS A SUPPLE BLADE.
A LANDLORD is a supple blade,
He bows to all that come, Sir;
And if he well has learnt his trade,
He'll drink wine, beer, or rum, Sir.
On his coming-coming-
When the bell rings.
A landlord's is a sweet employ,
When guests can smart away,
And over measure runs his joy,
If they have cash to pay, Sir.
On his coming-coming, &c.
But bucks will often lay a plot,
plot,
To take poor landlords in, Sir,
For they know they've not the shot,
They fire thro' thick and thin, Sir,
On his coming-coming, &c.
And when they've eat and drank their fill,
They'll damn, and sink, and scoff, Sir;
"Here, scoundrel, waiter; bring a bill;"
And when he's gone, they're off, Sir.
With a going-going
When no bell rings.
With losses great-expences high-
We can't but smartly charge, Sir-
So, gentlefolks, accordingly,
Expect a bill that's large, Sir-
For a coming coming, &c.
And now God bless our King,
And Lords, and Commons, all Sir; We'll cheerful pay each cost, and sing, 'If they'll but sometimes call, Sir. To hear coming-coming, &c.
THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.
WHEN mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food,
It ennobled our veins, and enriched our blood;
Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good:
O the roast beef of Old England!
And O the Old English roast beef!
But since we have learnt, from all-conqu❜ring France,
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance,
We're fed upon nothingbut vain complaisance.
O the roast beef, &c.
Our fathers of old were robust, stout and strong, And kept open house with good cheer all day long, Which made the plump tenants rejoice in this song. O the roast beef, &c.
But now we are dwindled to what shall I name? A sneaking poor race, half begotten-and tame; Who sully those honours that once shone in fame. O the roast beef, &c.
When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
Ere coffee, or tea, or such slip-slops were known,
The world was in terror if e'er she did frown.
O the roast beef, &c.
In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never return'd back again;
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.
O the roast beef, &c.
O then they had courage to eat and to fight,
And when wrongs were a cooking to do themselves right;
But now we're a pack of-I could-but good night.
O the roast beef, &c.
O SANDY, why leav'st thou thy Nelly to mourn,
Thy presence could ease me,
When naithing can please me!
Now dowie I sigh on the banks of the bourn,
Or through the wood, laddie, until thou return.
Tho' woods they are bonny, and mornings are clear,
While lav'rocks are singing,
Yet nane of them pleases mine eye or mine ear,
When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear,
That I am forsaken some spare not to tell,
' I'm fash'd wi' their scorning,
Baith ev'ning and morning,
Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi' a knell,
When thro' the wood, laddie, I wander mysel'.
Then stay, my dear Sandy, no longer away;
But, quick as an arrow,
Haste hence to thy marrow.
Who's living in langour till that happy day;
When thro' the wood, laddie, we'll dance, sing and play..
Written by Mr. T. Dibdin..
AT dawn of day when other folks
In slumber drown their senses,
We milkmen sing, and crack, and joke,
Scale stiles and such like fences;
But when from milking home we're bound, A sight more pleasing than a show, rosy lasses greet the sound,
Of milk, my pretty maids, below.
Milk my pretty maids, &c.
'Tis milkman here, and milkman there,
Lord, how these wenches tease me!
I'm coming, love; how much, my fair?
Cries I," There, now be easy;
So what with toying now and then,
And kissing, too, as on I go,"
I scarce have time, like other men,
To cry, milk, my pretty maids, below.
Milk, my pretty maids, &c.
Tho' twice a day I pay my court
To those that come to meet me,
I please them all, and that's your sort,
There's none can ever beat me;
My walk I never will resign,
A better one I don't know;
Of all the trades let this be n mine,
Of milk, my pretty maids, below.
Milk, my pretty maids, &c.
I SAIL'D FROM THE DOWNS.
I SAIL'D from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib, how she smack'd thro' the breeze, She's a vessel as tight to my fancy,
As ever sail'd on the salt seas.
Then adieu to the white cliffs of Britain,
Our girls, and our dear native shore,
For if some hard rock we should split on,
We ne'er should see them any more.
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