We ha' cheated the Parson, we'll cheat him agen, For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten: One in Ten, One in Ten, For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten, _One in Ten_, &c.

For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot, 'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot: Burnt to Pot, Burnt to Pot, 'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot.

_Burnt to Pot_, &c.

We'll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand, And hey for the Honour of old _England_; Old _England_, Old _England_, And hey for the Honour of old _England_, _Old_ England, _&c._

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

I prithee send me back my Heart, Since I cannot have thine: For if from yours you will not part, Why then should you have mine.

Yet now I think on't, let it be, To send it me is vain; Thou hast a Thief in either Eye, Will steal it back again.

Why should two Hearts in one Breast be, And yet not be together; Or Love, where is thy Sympathy, If thou our Hearts do sever?

But Love is such a Mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I am best resolv'd, Then I am most in Doubt.

Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe, I will no longer pine; But I'll believe I have her Heart, As well as she hath mine.

BACCHUS _turn'd Doctor. The Words by_ BEN. JOHNSON.

[Music]

Let Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise, And Money be Misers wish; Poor Scholars study all their Days, And Gluttons glory in their Dish: _'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_ _Therefore give us chearing Bowls._

Let Minions marshal in their Hair, And in a Lover's lock delight; And artificial Colours wear, We have the Native Red and White.

_'Tis Wine_, &c.

Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon, And how to please your Palates think: Give us a salt _Westphalia-Gammon_, Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.

_'Tis Wine_, &c.

It makes the backward Spirits brave, That lively, that before was dull; Those grow good Fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from Cups brim full, _'Tis Wine_, &c.

Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume, Some have the Palsie, some the Gout; Some swell with Fat, and some consume, But they are sound that drink all out.

_'Tis Wine_, &c.

Some Men want Youth, and some want Health, Some want a Wife, and some a Punk; Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth, But he wants nothing that is drunk.

_'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_ _Therefore give us chearing Bowls._

JENNY _making Hay._

[Music]

Poor _Jenny_ and I we toiled, In a long Summer's Day; Till we were almost foiled, With making of the Hay; Her Kerchief was of Holland clear, Bound low upon her Brow; Ise whisper'd something in her Ear, _But what's that to you?_

Her Stockings were of Kersey green, Well st.i.tcht with yellow Silk; Oh! sike a Leg was never seen, Her Skin as white as Milk: Her Hair as black as any Crow, And sweet her Mouth was too; Oh _Jenny_ daintily can mow, _But_, &c.

Her Petticoats were not so low, As Ladies they do wear them; She needed not a Page I trow, For I was by to bear them: Ise took them up all in my Hand, And I think her Linnen too; Which made me for to make a stand; _But_, &c.

King _Solomon_ had Wives enough, And Concubines a Number; Yet Ise possess more happiness, And he had more of c.u.mber; My Joys surmount a wedded Life, With fear she lets me mow her; A Wench is better than a Wife, _But_, &c.

The Lilly and the Rose combine, To make my _Jenny_ fair; There's no Contentment sike as mine; I'm almost void of Care: But yet I fear my _Jenny's_ Face, Will cause more Men to woe; Which if she should, as I do fear, _Still, what is that to you?_

_The Knotting_ SONG. _The Words by Sir_ CHARLES SYDNEY.

[Music]

Hears not my _Phillis_ how the Birds, Their feather'd Mates salute: They tell their Pa.s.sion in their Words, Must I alone, must I alone be mute: Phillis _without a frown or smile,_ _Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._

The G.o.d of Love in thy bright Eyes, Does like a Tyrant Reign; But in thy Heart a Child he lies, Without a Dart or Flame.

_Phillis_, &c.

So many Months in silence past, And yet in raging Love; Might well deserve one word at last, My Pa.s.sion should approve.

_Phillis_, &c.

Must then your faithful Swain expire, And not one look obtain; Which to sooth his fond desire, Might pleasingly explain.

_Phillis_, &c.

_The_ FRENCH KING _in a foaming Pa.s.sion for the loss of his Potent Army in the_ NETHERLANDS, _which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of_ MARLBOROUGH.

[Music]

Old _Lewis le Grand_, He raves like a Fury, And calls for _Mercury_; Quoth he, if I can, I'll finish my Days; For why should I live?

Since the Fates will not give One affable smile: Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, I'm ruin'd the while.

The Flower of _France_, And Troops of my Palace Which march'd from _Versales_ Who vow'd to Advance, With Conquering Sword, Are cut, hack'd and hew'd, I well may conclude, They're most of them Slain: Oh! what will become of, Oh! what will become of, My Grand-Son in _Spain_.

My fortify'd Throne, Propt up by Oppression, Must yield at Discretion, For needs must I own, My Glory decays: Bold _Marlborough_ comes With ratling Drums, And thundering Shot, He drives all before him, He drives all before him, Oh! Where am I got?