Volume 5 — The Dear Joy’s Lamentation.

[Listen]

HO my dear Joy, now what dost thou think? Hoop by my shoul our Country-men stink; To Ireland they can never return, The Hereticks there our Houses will burn: Ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree. A Pox on T——l for a Son of a W——, He was the cause of our coming o’er; And when to Dublin we came to put on our Coats, He told us his business was cutting of Throats. Ah hone, &c. Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch, A Plague light upon the Protestant C—— If P——s had let but the Bishops alone, O then the Nation had all been our own. Ah hone, &c. And I wish other Measures had been taken, For now I fear we shan’t save our Bacon; Now Orange to London is coming down-right, And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight Ah hone, &c. What we shall do, the Lord himself knows, Our Army is beaten without any blows; Our M——r begins to feel some remorse, For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse. Ah hone, &c. If the French do but come, which is all our Hopes, We’ll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes; If London stands to us as Bristol has done, We need not fear but Orange must run. Ah hone, &c. But if they prove false, and to Orange they scower, By G—— all the M—— shall play from the Tower; Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown, The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down. A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree.

The Character of a Seat’s-man; written by one of the Craft: To be Sung on Crispin-Night. Tune Packington’s Pound.

[Listen]

I Am one in whom Nature has fix’d a Decree, Ordaining my Life to happy and free; With no Cares of the World I am never perplex’d, And never depending, I never am vex’d: I’m neither of so high nor so low a degree, But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me; My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease, I go where I will, and I work when I please: I live above Envy, and yet above Spight, And have Judgment enough for to do my self right; Some greater and richer I own there may be, Yet as many live worse, as live better than me, And few that from Cares live so quiet and free. When Money comes in I live well ’till it’s gone, So with it I’m happy, Content when I’ve none: I spend it Genteelly, and never repent, If I lose it at Play, why I count it but Lent: For that which at one time I Lose among Friends, Another Night’s Winnings still makes me amends: And though I’m without the first Day of the Week, I still make it out by Shift or by Tick: In Mirth at my Work the swift Hours do pass, And by Saturday Night, I’m as rich as I was. Then let Masters drudge on, and be Slaves to their Trade, Let their Hours of Pleasure by Business be stay’d; Let them venture their Stocks to be ruin’d by Trust, Let Clickers bark on the whole Day at their Post: Let ’em tire all that pass with their rotified Cant, “Will you buy any Shoes, pray see what you want”; Let the rest of the World still contend to be great, Let some by their Losses repine at their Fate: Let others that Thrive, not content with their store, Be plagu’d with the Trouble and Thoughts to get more. Let wise Men invent, ’till the World be deceived, Let Fools thrive thro’ Fortune, and Knaves be believed; Let such as are rich know no Want, but Content, Let others be plagu’d to pay Taxes and Rent: With more Freedom and Pleasure my Time I’ll employ, And covet no Blessings but what we enjoy. Then let’s celebrate Crispin with Bumpers and Songs, And they that drink Foul, may it blister their Tongues, Here’s two in a Hand, and let no one deny ’em, Since Crispin in Youth was a Seat’s-man as I am.