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No more let _Damon's_ Eyes pursue, No more let _Damon's_ Eyes pursue, The bright enchanting Fair; _Almira_ thousands, thousands, thousands can undo, And thousands more, and thousands more, And thousands more may still despair, And thousands more may still despair.

For oh her bright alluring Eyes, And Graces all admire; For her the wounded Lover dies, And ev'ry Breast, and ev'ry Heart, And ev'ry Breast is set on Fire.

Then oh poor _Damon_, see thy Fate, But never more complain; For all a Thousand Hearts will stake, And all may sigh, and all may die, And all may sigh and die in vain.

_The_ DEAR JOY'S _Lamentation._

[Music]

Ho my dear Joy, now what dost thou think?

Hoop by my shoul our Country-men stink; To _Ireland_ they can never return, The Hereticks there our Houses will burn: _Ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree._

A Pox on _T----l_ for a Son of a W----, He was the cause of our coming o'er; And when to _Dublin_ we came to put on our Coats, He told us his business was cutting of Throats.

_Ah hone_, &c.

Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch, A Plague light upon the _Protestant_ C---- If _P----s_ had let but the Bishops alone, O then the Nation had all been our own.

_Ah hone_, &c.

And I wish other Measures had been taken, For now I fear we shan't save our Bacon; Now _Orange_ to _London_ is coming down-right, And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight _Ah hone_, &c.

What we shall do, the Lord himself knows, Our Army is beaten without any blows; Our M----r begins to feel some remorse, For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse.

_Ah hone_, &c.

If the _French_ do but come, which is all our Hopes, We'll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes; If _London_ stands to us as _Bristol_ has done, We need not fear but _Orange_ must run.

_Ah hone_, &c.

But if they prove false, and to _Orange_ they scower, By G---- all the M---- shall play from the _Tower_; Our Ma.s.sacree fresh in their Memories grown, The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down.

_A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree._

_The Character of a_ Seat's-man; _written by one of the_ CRAFT: _To be Sung on_ CRISPIN-Night. _Tune_ Packington's Pound.

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I am one in whom Nature has fix'd a Decree, Ordaining my Life to happy and free; With no Cares of the World I am never perplex'd, And never depending, I never am vex'd: I'm neither of so high nor so low a degree, But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me; My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease, I go where I will, and I work when I please: I live above Envy, and yet above Spight, And have Judgment enough for to do my self right; Some greater and richer I own there may be, Yet as many live worse, as live better than me, And few that from Cares live so quiet and free.

When Money comes in I live well 'till it's gone, So with it I'm happy, Content when I've none: I spend it Genteelly, and never repent, If I lose it at Play, why I count it but Lent: For that which at one time I Lose among Friends, Another Night's Winnings still makes me amends: And though I'm without the first Day of the Week, I still make it out by Shift or by Tick: In Mirth at my Work the swift Hours do pa.s.s, And by _Sat.u.r.day_ Night, I'm as rich as I was.

Then let Masters drudge on, and be Slaves to their Trade, Let their Hours of Pleasure by Business be stay'd; Let them venture their Stocks to be ruin'd by Trust, Let Clickers bark on the whole Day at their Post: Let 'em tire all that pa.s.s with their rotified Cant, "Will you buy any Shoes, pray see what you want"; Let the rest of the World still contend to be great, Let some by their Losses repine at their Fate: Let others that Thrive, not content with their store, Be plagu'd with the Trouble and Thoughts to get more.

Let wise Men invent, 'till the World be deceived, Let Fools thrive thro' Fortune, and Knaves be believed; Let such as are rich know no Want, but Content, Let others be plagu'd to pay Taxes and Rent: With more Freedom and Pleasure my Time I'll employ, And covet no Blessings but what we enjoy.

Then let's celebrate _Crispin_ with b.u.mpers and Songs, And they that drink Foul, may it blister their Tongues, Here's two in a Hand, and let no one deny 'em, Since _Crispin_ in Youth was a _Seat's-man_ as I am.

_The Female Scuffle. To the foregoing Tune._

Of late in the Park a fair Fancy was seen, Betwixt an old _Baud_ and a l.u.s.ty young _Quean_; Their parting of Money began the uproar, I'll have half says the _Baud_, but you shan't says the _Wh.o.r.e_: Why 'tis my own House, I care not a Louse, I'll ha' three parts in four, or you get not a Souse.

'Tis I, says the _Wh.o.r.e_, must take all the Pains, And you shall be d.a.m.n'd e'er you get all the Gains; The _Baud_ being vex'd, straight to her did say, Come off wi' your _Duds_, and I pray pack away, And likewise your _Ribbonds_, your _Gloves_, and your _Hair_, For naked you came, and so out you go bare; Then _b.u.t.tocks_ so bold, Began for to Scold, _Hurrydan_ was not able her _Clack_ for to hold.

Both _Pell-Mell_ fell to't, and made this uproar, With these Compliments, th'art a _Baud_, th'art a _Wh.o.r.e_: The _Bauds_ and the _b.u.t.tocks_ that liv'd there around, Came all to the Case, both _Pockey_ and _Sound_, To see what the reason was of this same Fray, That did so disturb them before it was Day; If I tell you amiss, Let me never more p.i.s.s, This _b.u.t.tocks_ so bold she named was _Siss_.

By _Quiffing_ with _Cullies_ three Pound she had got, And but one part of four must fall to her Lot; Yet all the _Bauds_ cry'd, let us turn her out bare, Unless she will yield to return her half share; If she will not, we'll help to strip off her Cloaths, And turn her abroad with a slit o' the Nose: Who when she did see, There was no Remedy, For her from the Tyranous _Bauds_ to get free; The _Wh.o.r.e_ from the Money was forced to yield, And in the Conclusion the _Baud_ got the Field.

_An Elegy on_ MOUNTFORT. _To the foregoing Tune._

Poor _Mountfort_ is gone, and the Ladies do all Break their Hearts for this Beau, as they did for _Duvall_; And they the two Brats for this Tragedy d.a.m.n At _Kensington_ Court, and the Court of _Bantam_, They all vow and Swear, That if any Peer, Should acquit this young Lord, he shou'd pay very dear; Nor will they be pleased with him who on the Throne is, If he do's not his part to revenge their _Adonis_.

With the Widow their amorous Bowels do yearn, There are divers pretend to an equal Concern; And by her Perswasion their Hearts they reveal, In case if not guilty, to bring an Appeal: They all will unite, The young Blade to indite, And in Prosecution will joyn Day and Night; In the mean time full many a Tear and a Groan is, Wherever they meet, for their departed _Adonis_.

With the Ladies foul Murther's a horrible Sin Of one Handsome without, tho' a c.o.xcomb within; For not being a Beau, the sad Fate of poor _Crab_, Tho' himself hang'd for Love, was a Jest to each Drab; Then may _Jering_ live long, And may _Risby_ among The Fair with _Jack Barkley_, and _Culpepper_ throng: May no Ruffin whose Heart as hard as a Stone is, Kill any of those for a Brother _Adonis_.

No Lady henceforth can be safe with her Beau, They think if this Slaughter unpunish'd should go; Their Gallants, for whose Persons they most are in Pain, Must no sooner be envy'd, but strait must be Slain: For all _B----_ shape, None car'd for the Rape, Nor whether the Virtuous their l.u.s.t did escape; Their Trouble of Mind, and their anguish alone is, For the too sudden Fate of departed _Adonis_.

Let not every vain Spark think that he can engage, The Heart of a Female, like one on the Stage; His Flute, and his Voice, and his Dancing are rare, And wherever they meet, they prevail with the Fair: But no quality Fop, Charms like Mr. _Hop_, Adorn'd on the Stage, and in _East-India_ Shop; So that each from _Miss Felton_, to ancient _Drake Joan_ is, Bemoaning the Death of the Player _Adonis_.

Yet _Adonis_ in spight of this new Abjuration, Did banter the lawful King of this great Nation: Who call'd G.o.d's anointed a foolish old Prig, Was both a base and unmannerly _Whigg_: But since he is Dead No more shall be said, For he in Repentance has laid down his Head; So I wish each Lady, who in mournful Tone is, In Charity Grieve for the Death of _Adonis_.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ JAMES TOWNSHEND, _Organist of_ LYN RIGES. _The Words by_ J.R.

[Music]

Fly _Damon_ fly, 'tis Death to stay, Nor listen to the _Syren's_ Song; Nor hear her warbling Fingers play, That kills in Consort with her Tongue: Oft to despairing Shepherds Verse, Unmov'd she tunes the trembling Strings; Oft does some pitying Words rehea.r.s.e, But little means the thing she Sings.