"TIS I am a jolly brisk Pedlar, That never yet fawn'd to the great; In politics I am no medler,
my diderum doodle,
Tregidy, negidy, nogidy, mum,
And my goofterum foodle,
Fegidy, higidy, hogidy, rum.
Some folks fight the one 'gainft the other,
They fcramble and make a great rout,
But what is the end of their pother,
'Tis nought but the in and the out,
With their diderum, &c.
My treafury hangs here before me,
No rival to pluck or to pull,
When empty I never deplore me,
For then my exchequer is full.
With my diderum, &c.
I've ribands of ev'ry defeription,
Of ev'ry fine colour and hue;
Come raife me a little fubfcription,
And you fhall have red, green, and blue.
Befides diderum, &c.
Do you want any wash-balls or patches,
Dear ladies, pray, buy them of me;
Or trinkets to hang at your watches,
Or garters to wear at your knee.
With your diderum, &c.
Then hafte to the Pedlar my laffes,
And chufe ev'ry one to your mind;
My ftore-box all ftore-box furpaffes,
Come try me, and so you shall find,
With my diderum, &c.
YOU care of money, ah! care no more,
No tink if you be rich or poor,
My mind employ me, ftay wid you,
No forry no.
And where away my Maffa go,
Go poor black boy,
You good to me dat keepy here,
No Maffa dat you never fear,
Long time destroy me know death kill,
But leave one part,
He never kill the loving heart
Of poor black boy.
As o'er the heath, amid his fteel-clad Thanes,
The royal Duncan rode in martial pride,
Where, full to view, high topp'd with glitt'ring vanes,
Macbeth's ftrong tow'rs o'erhung the mountain's fide:
In dufky mantle wrapp'd, a grifly form
Rush'd with a giant ftride acrofs the way;
And thus, while howl'd around the rifing form,
In hollow thund'ring accents pour'd dismay.
STOP, O king, thy deftin'd courfe,
Furl thy ftandard, turn thy horfe;
Death befets this onward track,
Come no further, quickly back.
Hear't thou not the raven's croak?
Seeft thou not the blafted oak?
Feel't thou not the loaded fky?
Read thy danger, king, and fly.
Lo! yon castle banners glare
Bloody through the troubled air,
Lo! what spectres on the roof,
Frowning bid thee ftand aloof.
Murder, like an eagle, waits
Perch'd above the gloomy gates,
Juft in act to pounce his prey,
Come not near-away, away.
Let not plighted faith beguile Honour's femblance, beauty's fmile; Fierce ambition's venom'd dart Rankles in the feft'ring heart.
Treafon, arm'd against thy life, Points his dagger, whets his knife, Drugs his ftupifying bowl,
Steels his unrelenting foul.
Now 'tis time; ere grisly night
Clofes round thee, speed thy flight;
If the threshold once be croft,
Duncan, thou'rt forever loft.
On he goes! refiftlefs fate
Haftes to fill his mortal date:
Ceafe, ye warnings! vain tho' true,
Murder'd king, adieu! adieu!
WERE I oblig'd to beg my bread,
And had not where to lay my head,
I'd creep where yonder flocks do feed,
And fteal a look at somebody.
My own dear fomebody,
My own dear fomebody.
When I'm laid low, and am at rest,
And may be number'd with the bleft,
Then fhall thy artlefs feeling breast,
Throb with regard for fomebody,
Ah! will you drop one pitying tear,
And figh for the loft fomebody.
But fhould I ever live to fee,
That form fo much admir'd by me,
Then would my conftancy reward,
And make me bleft with fomebody.
Then fhall my tears be dried by thee,
And I'll be bleft with fomebody.
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