The man of war, the man of the bar,
Physicians, priests, freethinkers,

That rove up and down great London town,
What are they all? but tinkers.

Work for the tinker, &c.

Those among the great, who tinker the State,
And badger the minority;

Pray what's the end of their work, my friend?

But to rivet a good majority.

Work for the tinker, &c.

This mends his name, that cobbles his fame,
That tinkers his reputation;

And thus, had I time, I could prove in my rhime,
Jolly tinkers of all the nation.

Work for the tinker, &c.

THE

SILENCE!

ILENCE! take notice, you are my fon,
Full on your father look, Sir;
This is an oath you may take as you run,
So lay your hand on the horn-book, Sir.
Hornaby, thornaby, Highgate and Horns,
And money by hook or by crook, Sir

1

Spend not with cheaters, or coz'ners, your life,
Nor waste it on profligate beauty;

And when you are married, be kind to your wife,
And true to all petticoat duty!

Dutiful, beautiful, kind to your wife,

And true from the cap to the fhoe-tie."

To drink to a man when a woman is near,
You never fhould hold to be right, Sir;

Nor, unless 'tis your taste, to drink small for strong beer,
Or eat brown bread, when you can get white, Sir.
Mannikin, cannikin, good meat and drink,

Are pleasant at morn, noon, and night, Sir.

To kifs with the maid, when the mistress is kind,
A gentleman ought to be loath, Sir;
But if the maid's faireft, your oath does not bind;
Or you may, if you like it, kifs both, Sir.

Kifs away, both you may, sweetly smack night and day,
If you like it, you're bound by your oath, Sir.

When you travel to Highgate take this oath again,
And again, like a found man and true, Sir;
And if you have with you fome more merry men,
Be fure you make them take it too, Sir.
Blefs you, fon, get you gone, frolic and fun,
Old England and honest true blue, Sir.

( 144 )
(144

SONG.

COMPOSED BY MR. DIBDIN.

HIS, this my lad's a foldier's life,

THIS,

He marches to the fprightly fife, And in each town to fome new wife

Swears he'll be ever true.

He's here, he's there, where is he not?
Variety's his envy'd lot;

He eats, drinks, fleeps, and pays no fhot,
And follows the loud tattoo.

II.

Call'd out to face his country's foes,

The tears of fond, domeftic woes,

He kiffes off, and boldly goes

To earn of fame his due.

Religion, liberty, and laws,

Both his are, and his country's cause,
For these thro' danger, without pause,
He follows the loud tattoo,

III.

And if at laft, in honour's wars,

He earns his fhare of danger's fcars,

Still he feels bold, and thanks his stars
He's no worfe fate to rue.

At Chelsea, free from toil and pain,
He wields his crutch, points out the flain,
And, in fond fancy, once again

Follows the loud tattoo.

SONG.

COMPOSED BY MR. DIBDIN.

WHEN in order drawn up, and adorn'd in his best,

If my foldier appears with more grace than the

reft;

If his gaiters are jet, his accoutrements fine,

If his hair's tied up tight, and his arms brightly fhine, Let him turn, wheel, or face-march, kneel, stoop, or

ftand,

Anxious still to obey ev'ry word of command;

Erect like an arrow, or bending his knee,
'Tis not for the Gen'ral, 'tis all to please me.

II.

If with smoke and with duft cover'd over, by turns,
To gain a fham height, or false bastion, he burns;
If of danger in fpite, and regardless of fear,

He rushes to fight—when there's nobody near.

In fhort, let him turn, wheel, or face-march, kneel, stoop, or stand,

Anxious still to obey ev'ry word of command;

Erect like an arrow, or bending his knee,

"Tis not for the Gen'ral, 'tis all to please me.

Τ

SONG.

POOR VULCAN.

RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.

Vulcan.

HE

ERE, take these fhoes to Farmer Swine.I've heard the folks laugh at my fign;* And one cry'd, boo! another chuckl'd, That's fure the houfe of fome old cuckold. George! go mend Farmer Hedgestake's plough.— I dream'd last night, that on my brow Large horns grew out; and then, to-day, Scarce to the door I'd found my way, But, perch'd upon that tree, my bane, The cuckoo-zounds! he's there again.

AIR.

Tell me, am I laugh'd to fcorn?
Have I on each brow a horn?
This I fufpect, and if 'tis true,

Quickly answer me ?

I have my cue,

Alas! 'tis true;

Hark! the answers me

-Cuckoo!

-Cuckoo !