This friend (in friendship there's no saying
What things may happen) told the maid
That Tom had been her love betraying,
And kindly thus his friend betray'd.
The lass, indignant, left her lover,

The faithful friend supplied his place,
Nor yet did hapless Tom discover

His loss, rejection, and disgrace, "Till friend and love, from church returning, He met, array'd in gayest pride, He fell to earth, with anguish burning, The neighbours jeered, but Thomas died.

KICKARABOO. (Dibdin.)

ONE negro say one ting, you no take offence,
Black and white be one colour a hundred year
hence;

And when Massa Death kick him into a grave,
He no spare negro, buckra, nor massa, nor slave:
Then dance, and then sing, and a banjer, thrum,
thrum,

He foolish to tink what to-morrow may come,
Lily laugh and be fat, de best ting you can do,
Time enough to be sad when you kickaraboo.
One massa, one slave, high and low of all degrees,
Can be happy, dance, sing, make all pleasure
him please;

One slave be one massa, he good, honest, brave,
One massa bad, wicked, be worse than one slave:
If
your heart tell you good, you all happy, all well;
If bad, he plague, vex you, worse and a hell;
Let your heart make you merry, then honest and
true,
And

you care no one farthing for kickaraboo. One game me see massa him play, call chess, King, queen, bishop, knight, castle, all in a mess; King kill knight, queen, bishop, men, castle throw down,

Like card-soldier him scatter, all lie on a ground.
And when the game over, king, bishop, tag, rag,
Queen, knight, altogether him go in a bag;
So in life's game at chess, when no more we can do,
Massa Death bring one bag, and we kickaraboo.
Then be good, what you am, never mind de degree,
Lily flower good for somewhat, as well as great tree;
You one slave, he no use to be sulky and sly,
Worky, worky, perhaps you one massa by'm by.
Savee good and be poor, maka you act better part,
Than be rich in a pocket, and poor in a heart;
Though ever so low, do your duty, for true,
Ali your friend drop one tear when you kickaraboo.

It made daughters 'gainst parents declare open war, As Miss thought the age a most monstrous flaw, And cried, "I shall lose all the prime of my life, Twenty-one! I'm sixteen-quite enough for a wife. Tol lol, &c.

oung boarding-schoo. misses, those innocent tits, Throughout the whole nation were thrown into fits; And dreadful to tell you, though much has been done,

Not a sentence escaped them, but, "Oh! twentyone!" Tol lol, &c.

"Tis a glorious thing that this act was repealed,
Or petticoat soldiers had been in the field;
Nay, ladies, I'm told, had invented a scheme
To be courted by gas and be married by steam.

Tol lol, &c. Had it lasted much longer I'm certain I'm right, That some thousands of maids would have died out of spite,

And you bachelors might have been bearing the pall,

Instead of now treating them here at Vauxhall. Tol lol, &c.

But my song's getting long, and the subject's gone by,

So I'll end it, but first give a hint, by the by,—..
That all maids up to forty for ministers pray,
Who have granted them wedlock the old fashioned
way.
Tol lol, &c.

....

COME, SHINING FORTH, MY DEAREST.

(Morton.)

COME, shining forth, my dearest, With looks of warm delight; Shed joy as thou appearest,

Like morning beams of light. Like morning's beam of light, love, Mild shines thine azure eye; Thine absence is a night, love,

In which I droop and die.
Oh, let me hear that tongue, love,
Whose music thrills my heart,
Like notes by angels sung, love.
When souls in bliss depart.
And at thy casement rising,

Illume my ravished sight,
Like day the world surprising,
With morning's beam of light.

You must buy what they sell, and they'll sell what

they please,

or they would, if they could, sell the moon for green cheese.

Sing, tantarantara, what terrible rogues. Imitation, 'tis well known, is now all the rage; Every thing imitated is in this rare age; Tea, coffee, beer, butter, gin, milk-and, in brief, No doubt they'll soon imitate mutton and beef. Sing, tantarantara, &c.

The grocer sells ash leaves and sloe leaves for tea, Ting'd with Dutch pink and verdigris, just like Bohea;

What sloe poison means you'll be slow finding out, We shall all to a T soon be poison'd, no doubt. Sing, tantarantara, &c.

Other grocers for pepper sell trash call'd P.D. And burnt horse-beans for coffee-how can such things be?

Now, I really do think those who make such a slip,

And treat us like horses, deserve a horsewhip. Sing, tantarantara, &c.

The milkman, although he is honest he vows, Milks his pump night and morn, quite as oft as his

COWS;

Claps you plenty of chalk in your score-what a bilk!

And, egad, claps you plenty of chalk in your milk. Sing, tantarantara, &c.

The baker will swear all his bread's made of flour; But just mention alum, you'll make him turn sour; His ground bones and pebbles turn men skin and bone;

We ask him for bread, and he gives us a stone. Sing, tantarantara, &c. The butcher puffs up his tough mutton 'ike lamb, And oft for South Down sells an old mountain ram;

Bleeds poor worn-out cows to pass off for white veal,

For which he deserves to die by his own steel.
Sing, tantarantara, &c.
A slippery rogue is the cheesemonger, zounds!
For with kitchen-stuff oft he his butter compounds;
His fresh eggs are laid over the water, we know,
For which, faith! he over the water should go.
Sing, tantarantara, &c.

'he brewer a chymist is, that is quite clear,
For we soon find no hops have hopp'd into his beer;
'Stead of malt, he from drugs brews his porter

and swipes,

So no wonder that we have so oft the drug-gripes. Sing, tantarantara, &c. The tobacconist smokes us with short cut of weeds, And finds his returns of such trash still succeeds With snuff of ground glass and dust oft we're gull'd,

And for serving our noses so his should be pull'd. Sing, tantarantara, &c. The wine-merchant, that we abroad may not roam, With sloe-juice and brandy makes our port at home.

The distillers their gin have with vitriol filled, So 'tis clear they're in roguery double distilled. Sing, tantarantara, &c.

Thus we rogues have in grain, and in tea, too, that's clear,

But don't think, I suppose, we have any rogue;

here;

Present company's always excepted, you know, So wishing all rogues their deserts, I must go. Sing, tantarantara, &c.

THE LAND WE LIVE IN.
THE sparkling liquor fills the glass,
And briskly round the board it goes;
The toast, of course, our favourite lass,
We'l arink confusion to our foes.
Then each in turn, the catch, the glee,
The song, the toast, is given;
And ever as it comes to me,

I give,
"The land we live in."
Then let us all throughout agree,
With a loud huzza and three times three,

Huzza! I gave, "The land we live in.”
The captain always gives "The King;"
His bosom burns with loyal flame;
And as the decks with praises ring

Of valiant Smith and Nelson's fame. "God bless the royal family,"

This toast in turn is given;
And ever as it comes to me,
I give, "The land we live in."

Then let us all, &c.

ADOO and farewell to this wile smoky town,
Vere not nothing but rioting never goes down;
In a little small cottage, that's not wery big,
I'll live all the rest of my life-Dash my vig!
Tol de rol, &c.

I fell deep in love with a ravishing maid,
And she was a straw bonnet builder by trade;
Her name it was Mary Ann Dorothy Twig,
But she used me shamefully bad-Dash my vig!
Tol de rol, &c.

At half-arter-eight every night I did meet her,
And then at half-price to the play I did treat her;
Sometimes, too, ve vent quite full drest to a jig,
And valtz'd till the morning ve did-Dash my vig.
Tol de rol, &c.

I ax'd her to marry-she scornfully said,
She wonder'd how such a thought com❜d in my
head;

For a journeyman-grocer she loved-Mr. Figg, And he was the man she should ved-Dash my vig! Tol de rol, &c.

She married the grocer, and soon I could see, She cock'd up her nose half a yard above me; And her husband himself behaved just like a For he told me to valk myself off-Dash my vig! Tol de rol, &c.

pig,

I'd a good mind to challenge him, pistols I'd got,
But I did not at all like the thoughts of a shot;
I couldn't say nothing, my heart was so big,
So I syth'd, and I then valk'd avay-Dash my vig'
Tol de rol, &c.

Your poets and authors they say love is blind,
And 'tis true, sure and certain, and that I did find,
Or it never could be she could choose such a prig,
Instead of a young man like me-Dash my vig!
Tol de rol, &c.

Adoo and farewell, I retires to the glades

Of forests and woods, and their sweet wernal shades Where in my own garden I'll plant, and I'll dig And I von't come to Lunnun no more-Dash my vig Tol de rol, &c.

Dear as my life, with which I'd sooner part,
Than forget to thee the gratitude I owe.
Unvarying with the varied change,
Through coast or climate as we range;
No, no, no, no, no, no, mother, no,

I'll ne'er forget the love-the gratitude I owe.
Blithe as the rays that cheer the blushing morn,
Puls'd in this heart, dear sister, dost thou move,
Blest with each charm that can thy sex adorn,
Yet, sister, oh, dear sister, beware of love!
Unvarying with the varied change,
Through coast or climate as we range;
Yes, yes, yes, yes; oh, sister, yes,
Beware of love! oh, sister, beware of love!

TURN THE NIGHT TO DAY.
Air-" Fly not yet.”—(Bryant.)
WOULD you know my chief delight?
"Tis to enjoy a moonlight night,—
To sit and count the stars above,
And talk to one that's fair, of love,
And pass the hours away.
If you'd know what I most prize,
"Tis life that springs from woman's eyes,--
At night to hear the watch-dog bark,-
To seek the owl,-outlive the lark,-
And turn the night to day.
To day, to day, &c.

Would you know what makes me mourn,
"Tis watching day for night's return,
To meet in shades, where no control
Can check the inward flow of soul,
Which dreams not of dismay.
Then if you'd know the joy of life,
'Tis woman, who can check all strife;
Her voice, her eyes, her every grace,
Her waving tresses, lovely face,
All turn the night to day.

To day, to day, &c.

YORKSHIRE TOO.

By the side o' a brig that stands over a brook,
I were sent betimes to school,

I went wi' the stream, as I studied by book,
And was thought to be no small fool:
I ne'er yet bought a pig in a poke,
To gi' old Nick his due,

Yet I ha' dealt wi' Yorkshire folk,
But I wur Yorkshire too.

I wur pratty well liked by each village maid,
At races, wake, or fair,

For my feyther had addled a vast in trade,
And I wur his son to hair;

And seeing I did not want for brass,
Gay maidens came to woo,

But, though I lik'd a Yorkshire lass,
Yet I wur Yorkshire too.

Then to Lunnun by feyther I were sent,
Genteeler manners to see;

But fashion's so dear-I came back as I went,
And so they made nothing o' me;

My kind relations would soon ha' found out
What 'twur best wi' my money to do,
But, says I, my dear cousins, I thank ye
I's not to be cozen'd by you.

for naught,

THE IRISHMAN IN ENGLAND.
WHEN I from dear Ireland first took my leave,
I was told that in England the people believe
That Irishmen's mouths are with blunders chuck
full,

But I wasn't a calf to be cowed by a bull;
For soon I parsaved it was nonsense and stuff,
For in England, by Pat, they've bulls enough,
Which I soon on arrival began to remark,
When I landed at Parkgate where there is no park.
Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, lol de roi
tol de rol, lol de rol, lol, lol, lol, la.
When to London I came to behold all the sport,
I determined to flash and to live at the Court,
So in Round-court I lodged, 'tis a bull I declare,
For Round-court I found-was an uncourtly square.
However, on Sunday, the very next week,
I went to Hyde-Park, all the fashion to seek,
Some water they showed me, of blunders the

marrow,

'Twas the Serpentine River as strait as an arrow. Tol de rol, &c.

Returning, we passed through a street called Palt Mall,

Where some dandy gentleman makes bulls as well; But in Ireland the smoke comes from fire, but, no joke,

Herc in London they get all their light out of smoke; Then there's Broad-street as narrow as narrow can

be,

And Moorfields there are where no more fields you'll

see.

Golden-square is but built of bricks red and brown, And Cheapside's the dearest of all sides in town. Tol de rol, &c.

Then the beaux, when their persons they've fi nished adorning,

Set out about dusk for a walk in the morning;
And the ladies, with faces as fresh as a rose,
Are always most dressed when they've on the ieas

clothes.

So I'm happy to catch them in blunders so many, Where I thought they were seldomer guilty of any; But to England, in friendship, I owe such a debt, That I'll not make a blunder by leaving it yet.

Tol de rol, &c.

THE LIFE OF AN ACTOR.

Air-" The Leaves so green, O!"-(Moncrieff.)

WHEN first a lively boy,

Ever fond of play and toy,
Some of sister's borrow'd plays

By chance attract my gaze;

I read and I admire,

For stage fame I'm all on fire.

I was dying to become a tragic hero.
My master vowed at school,
I was very far from fool;
And the usher smirk'd about,
When at breaking-up I'd spout;
Pa swore 'twas monstrous fine
Ma vowed it was divine:

1

He born was for an actor, never fear, O.!
SPOKEN.] I think I see myself at school now.
Come here,' says my schoolmaster,' now, sir, put
yourself in an attitude, and recite me Collins's Ode
on the Passions.'-"When Muse's heavenly maid"
-A little higher, sir." When Muses' heavenly
maid"-Zounds, sir, your head, not your voice-
"When Muse's heavenly maid was young, while
yet among the Grease she sung."-Among the
Grease; early Greece you mean, blockhead.-
Well, said my mamma, I thinks its very improper,
Mr. Birching, that he should say any thing
about Grease at all; what, if people do sell tallow
candles, is that any reason that importations should
be cast upon them?-Dear madam, you mistake,
it's an ode! Oh, an odd; very well then, go on,
Billy, my boy. "The Muses oft to hear her spell,"
--Hear her spell, says my mamma, again. Bless
me, hadn't she learnt to spell? but go on-
"would flock around her magic cell."-Bravo, Billy,
here's a halfpenny for you--you does it so well,
with your

Chubby cheek-Voice a squeak,
Squinting eye-Legs awry,
Head like mop-dirty crop.
Hey down, ho down, derry derry down!
This ar Actor's life is-'tis quite clear, 0:
J

As stronger grows the itching,
I descend into the kitchen;
And of success ne'er doubting,
Next try my hand at spouting;
With table-cloth for cloak,
'Gad I prove it is no joke,

That I cut out am to be a tragic hero.
My helmet a dish-cover

I a chieftain look all over;
Armed cap-a-pee as fit,
My spear a kitchen-spit,
My shield the dripping-pan,

'Gad I then am more than man;
More murders I commit than e'er did Nero.

SPOKEN.] Yes, I committed lots of murders; for, in playing Macbeth, I not only murdered Duncan, but Shakspeare into the bargain; and with the self-same weapon Sampson committed his murders, the jaw-bone of an ass; I run the cook through the body with the rolling-pin; poisoned footman John with turtle soup; shot the butler with some forcemeat balls; and starved the rest of the family by taking the pantry by storm. Lard, cries Dolly, our cook-maid, when you sets your one arm so, and your t'other arm so, you puts me in mind of our big tea-pot; and when you makes your fine speeches, you squeaks just like Punch. Avaunt, Cookey, cries I, and quit my sight, thy bones are marrowless; and well they may be, says she, when I made a pudding out of them yesterday. I shall never forget when I caught the fat scullion in my arms, with a huge lump of kitchen stuff in her hands, and squeezing her, exclaimed, "Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt;" down ran the grease all about; poor wench-I killed her with a kiss-shovell'd her into the oven-larded her al over with flour-and sung her dirge to the tune of Cookey fires-with desires;

Melts, while I-with passion fry,
Carving knife-take your life.

Hey down, ho down, derry, derry down!
This an Actor's life is, it is clear, O