And now for the Crew that pa.s.s in the Throng, That live by the Gut, or the Pipe, or the Song, And teaze all the Gentry as they pa.s.s along, _There's rare doings_, &c.

First _Corbet_ began my Lord pray your Crown, You'll hear a new Boy I've Just brought to Town, I'm sure he will please you, or else knock me down, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Besides I can boast of my self and two more, And _Leveridge_ the Ba.s.s, that sweetly will roar, 'Till all the whole Audience joins in an ancore, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _H----b L----r_ and _B----r_ too, With Hautboy, one Fidle, and Tenor so bleu, And fusty old Musick, not one Note of New, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Next _Morphew_ the Harper with his Pigg's Face, Lye tickling a Treble and vamping a Ba.s.s, And all he can do 'tis but Musick's disgrace, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Then comes the Eunuch to teaze them the more, Subscribe your two Guineas to make up fourscore, I never Perform'd at so low rate before, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Then come the Strolers among the rest, And little Punch _Powel_ so full of his Jest, With pray Sir, good Madam, it's my Show is best, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Thus being Tormented, and teaz'd to their Souls, They thought the best way to get rid of these Fools, The Case they referr'd to the Master of the R----ls, _There's rare doings_, &c.

Says his Honour, and then he put on a Frown, And since you have left it to my Thoughts alone, I'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the Town, O _rare doings at_ Bath, _Raffling, and Fidling_, &c.

_The Distress'd_ SHEPHERD, _A_ SONG.

[Music]

I am a poor Shepherd undone, And cannot be Cur'd by Art; For a Nymph as bright as the Sun, Has stole away my Heart: And how to get it again, There's none but she can tell; To cure me of my Pain, By saying she loves me well: And ala.s.s poor Shepherd, Alack and a welladay; Before I was in Love, Oh every Month was _May_.

If to Love she cou'd not incline, I told her I'd die in an Hour; To die says she 'tis in thine, But to Love 'tis not in my Power.

I askt her the Reason why, She could not of me approve; She said 'twas a Task too hard, To give any Reason for Love: _And ala.s.s poor Shepherd_, &c.

She ask'd me of my Estate, I told her a Flock of Sheep; The Gra.s.s whereon they Graze, Where she and I might Sleep: Besides a good Ten Pound, In old King _Harry's_ Groats; With Hooks and Crooks abound, And Birds of sundry Notes: _And ala.s.s poor Shepherd_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

I Love to Madness, rave t'enjoy, But heaps of Wealth my Progress bar; Curse on the Load that stops my way, My Love's more Rich and Brighter far: Were I prest under Hills of Gold, My furious Sighs should make my escape; I'd sigh and blow up all the Mould, And throw the Oar in _Caelia's_ Lap.

Were thou some Peasant mean and small, And all the s.p.a.cious Globe were mine; I'd give the World, the Sun and all, For one kind brighter Glance of thine: This Hour let _Caelia_ with me live, And G.o.ds cou'd I but of you borrow, I'd give what only you can give, For that dear Hour, I'd give to morrow.

_The loving Couple: Or the Merry_ WEDDING.

[Music]

A Jolly young _Grocer_ of _London Town_, Fell deeply in Love with his Maid: And often he courted her to lye down, But she told him she was afraid: Sometimes he would struggle, But still she would Boggle, And never consent to his wicked Will; But said he must tarry, Until he would marry, And then he should have his fill.

But when that he found he could not obtain, The Blessing he thus pursu'd; For tho' he had try'd her again and again, She vow'd she would not be leud: At last he submitted, To be so outwitted, As to be catch'd in the Nuptial snare; Altho' the young Hussie, Before had been busie, With one that she lov'd more dear.

The Morning after they marry'd were, The Drums and the Fiddles came; Then oh what a thumping and sc.r.a.ping was there, To please the new marry'd Dame: There was fiddle come fiddle, With hey diddle diddle, And all the time that the Musick play'd; There was Kissing and Loving, And Heaving and Shoving, For fear she should rise a Maid.

But e'er three Months they had marry'd been, A Thumping Boy popp'd out; Ads---- says he you confounded Queen, Why what have you been about?

You're a Strumpet cries he, You're a Cuckold cries she, And when he found he was thus betray'd; There was Fighting and Scratching, And Rogueing and b.i.t.c.hing, Because she had prov'd a Jade.

_A_ SONG, _Tune of Chickens and Sparrow-gra.s.s._

What sayest thou, If one should thrust thee thro'?

What sayest thou, If one shou'd Plough?

I say Sir, you may do what you please, I shall scarce stir, Tho' you ne'er cease, Thro', thro', you may thrust me thro'.

Such Death is a Pleasure, When Life's a Disease.

_The precaution'd_ Nymph, _Set by_ L. Ramondon.

[Music]

Go, go, go, go falsest of thy s.e.x be gone, Leave, leave, oh leave, leave me to my self alone; Why wou'd you strive by fond pretence, Thus to destroy my Innocence.

Know, _Caelia_ you too late betray'd, Then thus you did the Nymph upbraid; Love like a Dream usher'd by night, Flyes the approach of Morning light.

Go falsest of your s.e.x begone, Oh! Leave me to my self alone; She that believes Man when he swears, Or but regards his Oaths or Pray'rs, May she, fond she, be most accurst, Nay more, be subject to his l.u.s.t.

_The Life and Death of Sir_ HUGH _of the_ GRIME. _To the Tune of_ Chevy-chace.

As it befel upon one time, About _Mid-summer_ of the Year; Every Man was taxt of his Crime, For stealing the good Lord Bishop's Mare.

The good Lord _Screw_ sadled a Horse, And rid after the same serime; Before he did get over the Moss, There was he aware of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_.

Turn, O turn, thou false Traytor, Turn and yield thy self unto me; Thou hast stol'n the Lord Bishop's Mare, And now thinkest away to flee.

No, soft Lord _Screw_, that may not be, Here is a broad Sword by my side; And if that thou canst Conquer me, The Victory will soon be try'd.