He.

She.

He.

O'

Fall Comforts I miscarried,

When I play'd the Sot and married; 'Tis a Trap there's none need doubt on't, Those that are in't will fain get out on't: She. Fye, my Dear, pray come to bed,

That Napkin take and bind your Head,
Too much drink your Brain has dos'd,
You'll be quite alter'd when repos'd.

He. Oons, tis all one, if I'm up or lye down,
For as soon as the Cock crows I'll be gone,
She. 'Tis to grieve me, thus you leave me,
Was I, was I made a Wife to lye alone.

He. From your Arms my self divorcing,
I this Morn must ride a Coursing,
Sport that far excels a Madam,
Or all Wives have been since Adam.

She. I, when thus I've lost my due,
Must hug my Pillow wanting you,
And whilst you tope all the Day,
Regale in Cups of harmless Tea.

He. Pox what care I, drink your Slops 'till you dye,

Yonder's Brandy will keep me a Month from home, She. If thus parted, I'm broken hearted,

When I, when I send for you, my dear pray come.

He. E're I'll be from rambling hindred,

I'll renounce my Spouse and Kindred,
To be sober I have no leasure,
What's a Man without his Pleasure.
She. To my Grief then I must see,

Strong Ale and Nantz my Rivals be,
Whilst you tope it with your Blades,
Poor I sit stitching with my Maids.

He. Oons you may go to your Gossips you know,
And there if you can meet a Friend, pray do ;

She. Go you Joker, go Provoker,

Never, never shall I meet a Man like you.

A

A Royal SONG.

On the King of Great Britian's going: In

two Movements.

Tune of my own.

S

The Words Set to a

Teer, steer the Yacht to reach the strand,
Since Cæsar will be gone;

And proclaims our cloudy Land,
So long to lose the Sun.

Now, now Great Wallia brightly shine,

And with sole order sway;

To shew with Royalty divine,

What comes another day.

Whilst Royal GEORGE on foaming Seas,
To give his harrass'd Empire ease,

Consulting Foreign Kings,

Will do us Glorious things,

Which timely shall appear,

As well abroad as here,

When Hanover regales this happy Year.

[Second Movement.]

Whilst the gay Summer cloys us with Roses,
Woodbine and Jessamine feast the Sence;
Whilst the Rebellion's gone, each supposes,
Tho' some Scotch Loons they say make pretence ?
Mackintosh, Mackintosh, Rebel and Looby,
Bring again home again, Foster the Booby;
Think there's a Season,

Once to do reason,

Then for your sakes, we'll clear the rest.

The

DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD

The Authentick Letter of Marshal de Boufflers, to the French King, on the late unfortunate, but glorious Battle (as he calls it) near Mons, paraphrastically done into Metre in broken English. Set to a famous Tune on the Welch Harp.

M

E send you, Sir, one Letter,
Me vish it were a better,

And here me write
Of our last Fight,

And who vas Conquest getter.

Dame