Hilaria. The Festive Board — Key Ideas to Explore

Then a breeze springing up, down the RED STRAITS he ran, And, o’erjoy’d with his voyage, he fir’d off a GREAT GUN. Toll de roll, &c.

High from the MAST HEAD, by the help of ONE EYE, The HEART of the BAY did old Adam espy; And, alarm’d at a noise—to him Nature did say, That it was the TRADE WIND, which blows always ONE WAY. Toll de roll, &c.

So transported was Adam in BOTANY BAY, He dame Nature implor’d to SPEND there night and day, And curious he try’d the BAY’S bottom to sound, But his LINE was too short by a YARD from the ground. Toll de roll, &c.

The time being out, Nature’s sentence had pass’d, Adam humbly a favour of her bounty ask’d, That when stock’d with provisions, and ev’ry thing sound, To BOTANY BAY he again might be bound. Toll de roll, &c.

Nature granted the boon both to him and his race, And said, oft I’ll transport you to that charming place; But never, cry’d she, as you honour my word, Set sail with a Clap, Pox, or Famine on board. Toll de roll, &c.

Then this BOTANY BAY, or whate’er be the name, I have prov’d is the spot from whence all of us came; May we there be transported, like Adam our sire, And never _return ’fore the time shall expire_. Toll de roll, &c.

THE NEWLY-DUBB’D JEW.

My muse, t’other day, having laughter in view, Selected George Gordon, the now no more Jew, Resolving to state, with Mosaic precision, What befel poor Crop’s P⸺ on the late circumcision.

The Rabbi appear’d, and the Christian’s foreskin Was about to be banish’d, to cleanse Crop of sin; But Gentiles and Jews, mark the cream of the joke, By Prometheus inspir’d, his P⸺ suddenly spoke.

Tho’ with fear first poor P⸺o had prudently shrunk, And, like snail in its shell, snugly hid lay his trunk; To the Priest then he cry’d, put your knife in its case, Or, you terrible Cut P⸺k, I’ll piss in your face.

My Lord stood amaz’d, and the Rabbi was mum, To hear a thing talk that had ever been dumb; Tho’ Crop said his P⸺ ne’er obey’d his command, But always _lay down_ when he wish’d him to _stand_.

This damnable riot in Crop’s private part, Baffl’d the Priest and resisted his art, So he swore, if P⸺ did not cease making a route, He’d pull out his c—d—m, and muffle his snout.

Not a crab-louse car’d P⸺ for the Priest and his laws; He stood up for his _prepuce_, and spoke to the cause; His language was nervous, his reasoning clear, And he spoke full as well as the _Members_ elsewhere.

Your life, cry’d he, Crop’s a mere mock of devotion; Well spoken, said Cods, who was backing each motion; Such conduct, he said, combin’d madness and sin; And Cods swore his friend P⸺ should sleep in a whole skin.

Now in Akerman’s synagogue Crop’s got a place, A beard like a Jew doth his pious front grace; In time ’tis to grow so enormously big, As to make TOMMY ERSKINE a full-bottom’d wig.

Mr. P⸺, said Crop, to turn Turk I intend, And ’mongst smack and smooth eunuchs my days will I end; Poor P⸺ took the hint, and did woefully weep, Till his _flesh cap_ flipp’d o’er him, then he fell asleep.

_The FLATS and the SHARPS of the NATION._

Of Handel’s fam’d Commemoration, And what was let loose there, I sing, When the Flats and the Sharps of our nation Assembled along with their King. Madam Mara (now mark what will follow) Her ravishing sounds was imparting; Momus play’d off a trick on Apollo, And set the sweet lady a f—t—g.

At Sowgelders’ Hall, rural scene, The seat of a Knight and his swine, The musical Madam had been Invited by Mawbey to dine: So the cause of this windy commotion Was owing, if we’re not mistaken, To her bolting too great a proportion Of pease-pudding and gammon of bacon.

Sir John Hawky, the musical Knight, Who in wit all the Quorum surpasses, And to whom, if we judge of him right, The wise men of Greece were mere asses, Has defin’d Antient Music to be What sprung from the bottom of Madam, And that under the wisdom-fraught tree Eve f—t—d in concert with Adam.

Now those sages renown’d in our nation, The fam’d F.R.S.es, do tell us, That to blow up the coals of creation, The bum is a species of bellows. But Priestley, who loves to oppose, Doth a different system insist on, And swears that he’s led by the nose To pronounce it a Cask of Phlogiston.

The moment the Lady let fly, Billington, Storacci, and Kelly, With laughter were ready to die At the pickle of poor Rubinelli; For Rubi, the father of screeches, In laughing at Mara, so strain’d it, That his PIPE let the piss in his breeches, For no CISTERN has he to retain it.

Hurlowe Thrumbo, your wonder ’twill raise, Is of catgut so charming a scraper, That, old Orpheus-like, when he plays, The trees and the brutes round him caper. He blasted the Thing I won’t name, Hop’d she’d burst on the rock of damnation; But he stopp’d when the Bishop cry’d “Shame, “Brother, think of the late proclamation.”

That famous reformist, Jack Wilkes, Martin Luther the Second now deem’d, Sat in converse with Lawn Sleeves and Silks, And declar’d Sacred Music blasphem’d; But Jack turning round to Jem Twitch, Swore ’twas like the affair on the Terrace, When Bethsheba, impudent bitch, Shew’d bollocking David her bare arse.

Now Sir Watkin ap Williams ap Wynne, Who came from whence came John ap Morgan, Roar’d out to the band-leading Bates, To drown the FOUL NOISE with _bur_ organ: So Bates, by a blast of the bellows, Made peace and sweet sounds rule the roast; Then drink about, laughing fellows— For f⸺g and fiddling’s my toast.

Air, _I can’t for my Life guess the Cause of this Fuss_.

To celebrate deeds of renown, ’tis agreed That a pillar on fam’d Runnymede be erected: MEN of PARTS of all parties then here may proceed, To relate how this wonderful work is effected. The pillar’s to stand in Middlesex land, BUSHY PARK’S CENTRE’S the sweet pleasure ground; A strong-fenc’d retreat, well water’d and sweet, Where Adam first FELL, Runnymede’s to be found.

Rare Runnymede such pleasures producing, No language of mortals is equal to tell; Tho’ Moses declines it, my Muse thus defines it: The paradise where our progenitors FELL.

When the midwife, our welcome deliverer, came, Runnymede witness’d a great revolution; From bondage she brought us, and Nature, dear dame, To Britain’s brave sons gave their good Constitution: For blessings like these, let gratitude seize The CRITICAL MINUTE its ardour to shew; The STONES first prepare the PILLAR to rear, Then DISCHARGE in this MEDE the just debt that we owe. Rare Runnymede, &c.

When Eve, with a mixture of fear and surprise, Beheld the HUGE PILLAR of Adam erected, Her bare bosom heav’d, and gave vent to soft sighs, While with curious eye she the structure inspected. O’erjoy’d did she trace the MOSS round its base, But its altitude did her chaste senses appal; Eve fainted away, and Moses doth say, That her apron of fig-leaves flew up in the fall. Rare Runnymede, &c.

Adam’s instinct divine display’d powers that prove, Mighty man most sagacious of Nature’s creation; Eve’s distress he beheld, and, in pity, Love His COLUMN convey’d to its dear destination. What follow’d, you’ll find, is wisely design’d, And the Hercules’ Pillar of Pagan renown Ne’er long could stand in Middlesex land, Adam’s BASIS gave way, so the Pillar fell down. Rare Runnymede, &c.

By the magical touch of his heaven-tun’d lyre, Amphion, the Theban King, wonders effected; Stones erst in confusion his sounds did inspire, They danc’d, and we’re told tow’ring walls were erected. Such harmonic sway this Mede doth display, And from chaos, thus transient, can order restore; A quick resurrection succeeds the defection, To meet the same fate that befel it before. Rare Runnymede, &c.

That architect, old Mother Phillips I mean, Doth cases prepare of a curious constructure, From the fury of fire _standing Pillars_ to screen, As light’ning’s disarm’d by th’ _attractive Conductor_: But curst be her traffic for THINGS POLYGRAPHIC; To vend for original, Pillars she plann’d; Monuments base usurping the place, Where alone the PROUD PILLAR of Nature should stand. Rare Runnymede, &c.

Tho’ partisans differ, in this all agree, From Reason’s clear light, and from Nature’s dictation, That THE MEDE, at this moment, my mind’s eye doth see, Is alone the sweet spot for the PROUD PILLAR’S station. There stout may it stand, resisting Time’s hand: And, Nature, great architect, as thee we prize! From fire protect it, when down don’t neglect it, Let it RISE but to FALL, let it FALL but to RISE. Rare Runnymede, &c.

Tune, _Vicar of Bray_.

Near Jermyn-street a BAWD did trade, In credit, style, and splendor, Well known to ev’ry _high-bred_ blade, And those of _doubtful_ gender: How Nature once, in _marring_ mood, Her body form’d, I’ll tell ye, Upon her back a _swelling stood_, To mock her _barren belly_.

For some succeed, and others fail, That into commerce enter, So sew are chaste, and many frail, In this _great trading Center_.

In _coney skins_ her _commerce_ lay, A charming stock she’d laid in; She ne’er to _smugglers_ fell a prey, Her practice was _fair trading_: These skins when _dress’d_ were _red_ and _white_, The _fur_ of each _fair creature_, Of diff’rent hues, hath day and night Kept warm man’s _naked nature_. For some succeed, &c.

The trading stock of this OLD BAWD A _vital stab_ sustain’d, sir; The news like _wild-fire_ flew abroad, Each customer _complain’d_, sir; Some _coney-skins_ lay with a lot, By caution uninspected; So _quarantine_, alas! forgot, _Foul plague_ the whole infected. For some succeed, &c.

Now OLD and YOUNG her shop forsook, Insolvent was her plight, sir, When _Habeas Corpus_ Catchpole took Her body off by night, sir; From _Banco Regis_ civil law, To liquidate her debt, sir, Between _the sheets_ this OLD BAWD saw _Of London’s fam’d Gazette_, sir. For some succeed, &c.

To give each creditor his due, Three men, _the Lord’s Anointed_, JACK WILKES, LORD SANDWICH, and OLD Q., Were Assignees appointed: But, luckless Bawd! the after day Her stock _on fire_ they found, sir; So ’twas agreed she could not pay A _cundum_ in the pound, sir. For some succeed, &c.

The skin (_her own_) this Bawd had left, Each Assignee did handle; ’Twas found of all its _fur bereft_, By singing flame of candle: Some _butter’d bunns_ conceal’d within, Old Q.’s keen eye beset, sir; So Wilkes defin’d this coney skin A _fund for floating debt_, sir. For some succeed, &c.

By _headlong lust_ her claimants led, They seiz’d her _mortal treasure_; The _furless_ coney skin was spread, A _dividend_ past measure. Now all _came in_, not one _stood out_; THE BAWD was set at large, sir; Her coney skin (of _worth_, no doubt) Did ev’ry MAN _discharge_, sir. For some succeed, &c.

Silence, humbugs all, and I’ll sing you a merry song; Like our lives, ’tis a medley, neither short nor very long; I mean plainly to prove, that in high and low station, Hub, bub, bub, bub, boo, is the business of the nation. Hub, bub, boo, fal, lal, &c.

As late from the hall Hurlow Thrumbo came growling, A carman’s great dog at his coach set up howling; Enrag’d with the brute, Hurlow let down the glass, sir, Cry’d, “whose dog is that?” quoth the carman, “ask his a—, sir.”

The coachman drove on; but ere he’d driven very far, Two wheels were left behind, and snap went the splinter bar; Hurlow roar’d out aloud (tho’ no doubt he did wrong to’t), For he blasted the bar, and all that _belong’d_ to’t.

’Tis not long ago, since poor Jack, the Brighton taylor, For stitching well a _button-hole_, was pinn’d up by the jailor: The trial tells us, by surprise, snip seiz’d an artless lass, sir, And cabbag’d her virginity, the best piece of her a—, sir.

The maiden scream’d, and snip teem’d with love’s delicious liquor; O there never was a taylor that could stitch it nine times quicker; Twas ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, Till he work’d up all the thread, then he ripp’d up the slit O.

“R⸺,” dames cry, “what a ravishing creature! “His pipe! and his shake! and each delicate feature!” But la! what a pity, divine R⸺! Your pipe can but carry the p— from your belly! Bow, wow, wow, &c.

If wedlock’s your plan, ere you scheme to open trenches, Humbugs pray take heed of our modern made-up wenches: Fore and aft they are plump to view, but feel, and you will find, sir, They’ve bubbies like blown bladders, and all is hum behind, sir.

Oh poverty! our purses spare, and pains, do not perplex us, Still the cheerful song we’ll chaunt, nor shall trifles ever vex us; But leave to dreary dull dogs their cheerless hours to spend, sir, Whilst we, in mirthful mood, meet our bottles, c⸺s, and friends, sir.

Now the sequel of my song mark well each humbug brother, Tho’ here we laugh, drink and joke, and humbug one another; When out of wind, Death hums us, and we’re sent the Lord knows where, sir, If we’ve humbugg’d the Devil, I’ll be d⸺d if we need fear, sir.

HUMBUG CLUB CONSTITUTIONAL SONG.

Air, _The Roast Beef of Old England_.

This tastey gay town’s grown of humbug so full, That ev’ry new day starts new matter to gull, Credulity’s known by the name of John Bull. O the humbugs of Old England; How finely Old England’s humbugg’d!

Sham patriots profess, with a plausible grace, The nerves of the nation they shortly could brace, But _pro bono publico_ means a good place. O the humbugs, &c.

Here clergy the minister flatter and fawn, Stick close to his skirts to secure sleeves of lawn, And the curate’s old cassock goes weekly to pawn. O the humbugs, &c.

The dunce is dubb’d doctor, _sans_ sense in his head, And fame unacquir’d is thro’ quackery spread, With cures that are cureless credulity’s fed. O the humbugs, &c.

The captain’s a compound of flash and cockade, Cosmetics, pink powder, with curl carronade, And his feats are confin’d to box-lobby parade. O the humbugs, &c.

Now lawyers are licens’d their clients to cheat, Trading justices equity tread under feet, And rascally runners all rogu’ry greet. O the humbugs, &c.

The stage, to amuse us, sings “Fal de Ral Tit,” With “Che chow cherry chow, and cherry chow chit;” And then, to humbug us, they puff it as wit. O the humbugs, &c.

So now, brother humbugs, you all plainly see, That few modern modes from humbugging are free; Let’s distinguish _our humbug_ with wine, wit, and glee. O the humbugs, &c.

The celebrated patroness of the young Chimney Sweepers, whose hard fate was so often deplored by the late Jonas Hanway, has had fitted up an elegant apartment in her town residence, decorated with Feathers; here follows a description of what is termed “THE FEATHER’D ROOM.”

The blue-stocking club, when abandon’d by fame, On a project resolv’d to revive a lost name, So for each member’s comfort in life’s chilling gloom, Old mother M⸺tague feather’d her room.

Sing a Ballynamona oro, A fine feather’d chamber for me.

Like old mother Philips, tho’ doubtless her betters, These blue-stocking ladies are _ladies of letters_; Not in love, but in learning, their passions prevail, And they _feather the head_ whilst they _moult at the tail_.

An Irish upholsterer Murphy’s the man, Who furnished my muse with a sketch of this plan; To guard off the wind that hard by the spot gathers, He told me she’d _paper’d_ her front room with _feathers_.

By the hair-broom of Nature this room was neglected, Here lay dust undisturbed, and there cobweb collected; Till a lewd son of Adam, a son of a whore, To get into the room had _burst open the door_.

Then wicked wit W⸺ and old lolly-pop Q⸺, This fine feather’d drawing-room hasten’d to view; Old Q⸺ first got in, but he soon turn’d about, For the feathers flew round him and _tickl’d his snout_.

W⸺ stood undismay’d at old Q⸺’s queer mishap, And swore, tho’ the devil should stand in the gap, Into it he’d wriggle; when in it he got, He turn’d pale and fell sick, and dropt dead on the spot.

Birds of passage, alas! all us mortals are here, Exclaim’d Johnny W⸺ when he spent his last tear; In his last dying speech, he declar’d with dejection, He’d not the least hope of a flesh resurrection.

Now ere like Johnny W⸺ my muse gives up the ghost, She leaves, as a legacy, Nature’s first toast; The front room of Eve Adam fill’d full of sin, _Well feather’d_ without, and _well furnish’d within_.

LITTLE PERU, OR THE WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.

My sweet native land, the first place of my birth there, Good luck to you dear if the story be true, In your bowels I’m told on the face of the earth there, Lies Mexico’s wealth, a snug little Peru; Back to Ireland I’ll trot and fall digging for riches, These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold, For a pair I’ll get measur’d of ready-made breeches, And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.

Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters, Leave nothing behind you but what you can take, ’Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull’s rags and tatters, No longer at Pat can he fun and game make. No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies, No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram, As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland’s rich God is, Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.

You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call’d ponies, Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs, You’ll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies, If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares. I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger, With big lumps of nature’s coin’d gold in your hand, When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James’s you stagger, Bid tabbies go carry themselves and be d⸺d.

And you flashy captains who oft go recruiting, ’Mongst England’s brisk widows, fond daughters and wives, Leave war for a peace, and don’t be after shooting Of Frenchmen, to frighten them out of their lives. What’s honour and glory to flush ready rhino, Without which no captain can keep up the ball, Quick march to Peru, the sweet spot you and I know, Fill your bellies with full pay and half-pay and all.

Oh! you my Bath Bobadils hunting for acres, And shaking your elbows, cry seven’s the main, For the bodies of belles you’re the live undertakers, But you take them, it’s true, for no prospect of gain. It’s not for a gold-mine you Bobadils marry, ’Tis all for pure love, beauty, temper, and grace! ’Tis for kindness and tenderness said Captain Larry, Who kill’d his last wife by too tight an embrace.