A MAXI M.
OLD Adage says, "the man who digs a Pit
"For others, fhall himself fall into it."
Pfhaw! cries a modern wit, those musty rules,
Inftill'd by Grannams, and enforc'd by schools,
Have nought to do with thefe more polifh'd times,
When moral virtue's deem'd the worst of crimes.
Oh, no! 'tis vice verfa in thefe days,'
For, instead of digging, lo! a Pit we'll raife.
Aye! aye! cry'd Mentor, who was standing by,
He's rais'd, 'tis true, and rais'd by far too high;
But let not the youth defpife the maxim just,
That "none in Kings or Princes put their truft;"
Let him remember Phaeton's fate of old,
Nor ftrive to guide thofe reins he cannot hold,
Left, by ambition fir'd, too high he foar,
Receive a crush, and fall to rife no more;
For British hearts, like Phoebus' courfers ftrong,
Will ne'er fubmit to him who governs wrong,
But champ and foam until they break their reins,
And burl him headlong from his high domains.
On Sir CECIL WRAY's propofing a Tax upon Maid Servants, after having
WHEN Cecil first the plan laid down,
Poor SERVANTS GIRLS to curfe,
-He look'd at home, and took his own,
For better and for worfe.
PIGRAM
On the objection to the Age of the Right Hon. WILL P—TT, Esq.
AS GGE is fagacious, determined, and cool,
What matters the age of his Primo State t--1;
His choice fhows his wifdom, his prudence his skill,
And he long has been wifhing to have his own WILL!
'TIS pity we're fo Pitt-ified.
Bereft of common-fenfe
A Colt, not broke in, to bestride,
O'er-leaping bound and fence.
An Election Squibber,
The GROCER's DELIGHT; or, a SUGAR PLUMB for Maler BILLY.
To the Tune of The ROAST BEEF of OLD ENGLAND.
WHEN good George the Second did fit on the throne,
A Pitt we could boaft, and a Pitt of our own,
A true Whig was he to the very back-bone.
Oh, the true Whigs of Old England,
And Ch, the old English true Whigs.
He went to the City to dine with the Mayor,
The King and the Queen, and the courtiers were there,
The people huzza'd him, which made the King flare.
Oh, the true Whigs, &c.
The feaft of the Grocers is not the fame thing,
His fon, Mafter Billy, is all for the King,
And therefore a different fong we muft fing.
Oh, the back- ftairs of St. James's,
And Oh, the St. James's back-ftairs.
Billy blufter'd and vapour'd, and gave himself airs,
He spoke for the people, and fwore he was theirs,
Till Jenkinfon ufher'd him up the back ftairs.
Oh, the back-ftairs, &c.
Dundas is his counfel, and Thurlow his guide,
The lords of the bed-chamber with him divide,
The bifhops, God mend 'em, are all of his fide.
Oh, the back-ftairs, &c.
He holds his head high, and he talks very big,
For the Commons of England he don't care a fig;
But the House of Lords fwear he's an excellent Whig.
Oh, the poor Whigs of Old England!
And Oh, the poor Old English Whigs!
Since the fortunate days of King William the Third,
When Naffau to Stuart was wifely prefer'd,
Such doctrines as thefe are, fure never were heard,
By the ftaunch Whigs of Old England,
By the Old English ftaunch Whigs.
Then as Billy ftands up for Prerogative ftrong,
If the Father was right, fure the Son must be wrong,
So let every Englifhman join in my fong,
Succefs to the Whigs of Old England!
Succefs to the Old English Whigs!
Great William the Fourth, who moft furely is come,
To deliver us all from our boasted freedom.
Sing Ballynamona Oro,
Such an able reformer is he.
O, Miracle Billy, you're rightly call'd Will!
For your will's all the law that is left to us ftill:
But when refignation is part of the plot,
Then fuddenly Will, he is chang'd to will not.
For Treasurer he must be.
When he speaks from the Throne, in our gracious K-'s name,
I'll defy all the world to tell what is his aim;
And when the good Commons attend his reply.
If to promise he feems, he'll be fure to deny.
Such an Oracle he can be.
Should a very good tax raife a popular cry,
Then he'll fhuffle, affent, and yet feem to deny;
And while honeft Candish and Fox lend their name,
In filence he'll vote, and let them bear the blame.
Ballyn. &c.
Who fo upright or downright as he?
Let M-rt-n the ftarling now chatter no more,
For the true Coalition's Starvation and Gowr ;
With prerogative Billy, and S-dn-y fo ftout,
With the rats and the trimmers, a d-mn-ble rout.
Ballyn. &c.
What a Government we fall fee!
When D-n and H-n, and fuch affes as thefe,
Speak for peerages, penfions, or what elfe you please;
Then he'll cry, my good friends, pri'thee never repine,
For I am your Pricft, and your confcience is mine.
And your Father Confeffor I'll be.
Of Hercles the infant, fo ftout and fo bold,
How he ftrangled two fnakes in his cradle we're told;
But juft out of your cradle, more prowefs you'd fhew,
Could you Fx and N-th, thofe fell Hydras, fubdue.
Ballyn. &c.
O! what a fine child would you be.
But your hellebore powder from hell fure was fent,
For none but Old Nick fuch a fnuff could invent;
Yet beware what you do, and take warning by times,
Or the nation will furely take huff at such crimes.
Then no more fuch devices let's fee.
Now, God bless our good King, on whom all muft depend,
For our laws and our rights, which he's bound to defend ;.
Or elfe, Master Billy, too plainly you've shown,
As you've bully'd the Commons, you'll laugh at the Crown.
Ballyn. &c.
And our Sovereign you will be
The OLD SER JEANTS LAMENTATION; or, The GROANS of a WOODEN. LEG..
NOW ponder well, Sir Cecil Wray,
Oh! be not too fevere;
Nor take an OLD MAN's bread away,
To fave One Pound per year.
While we've fought much, with fire and fword,
At length to gain a wall,
Your Honour, with a fingle word,
Can make our caftle fall.
But tho' you never were in fight,
Sure that's no reason why
You should, with all your pow'r and might,
Poor crippled fouls decry.
Remember that a foldier brave,
As you're confefs'd to be,
May, ere you die, occafion have
Some battle for to fee.
And you, good Sir, do likewife know
The cause of our distress;
As you indeed are in our woe
A fharer more or lefs.
For if you are not doom'd to trudge
On leg of TIMBER made,
Yet of fuch hardships you may judge,
Who have a WOODEN HEAD.
And tho' no hand or arm you scant,,
Which is our piteous cafe,
Yet fure he must SOME member want,
Who'd tax a SERVANT LASS!
If we are driven from thefe walls,
And from the Commons you,
The felf-fame lot us both befals,
-A difmal jail to view!
But 'tis not in our griefs alone,
That you a portion bear,
courage alfo you are known
To have an equal share.
"Tis true, we've often met with glee,
The foes of Old England;
Yet you are brave as any He,
Against her friends to stand.
And if, to serve the man we love,
We'd lose our dear hearts blood,
Yet you an equal fpirit prove,
'Gainft thofe that do you good.
Since thus you all the ftate do know.
Of maimed fouls and poor,
Look with compaffion on our woe,
Nor turn us out of door.
Our aged hearts fhake with alarms,
Tho' fome refistance preach-
But what is all our pow'r of arms,
To your great pow'rs of speech?
Oh! think not that poor foldiers daro
'Gainst you in contest rise;
For well we know, great Sir, you are
As brave as you are wife.
We know our noble KING's your friend-
The LORDS are on your fide-
The COMMONS being at an end,
You must our lot decide.
Then fhorten not the feeble days
Of those who've few to live;
-Let him complain, the coft who pays,
Not you-who nothing give.
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