Sir Cecil's the foe of all true English fpirit,
He'd ftarve the old foldier, and tax the young maid;
For he hates that true honour fhould now be thought merit,
And fwears all our debts on our girls fhould be laid.
Since thus then he's trimming
Old men and young women,
Let no honeft heart to his standard refort:
Come, vote boldly for liberty! FREEDOM and FOX we'll for ever fupport.
To the Tune of-The Maid of the Mill for me.
TWO Members for Westminster, boys, we must chufe,
And to chufe we have Candidates three;
There's Hood and there's Wray, whom we well could excufe,
And Fox, who's the man for me.
Aye Fox is the man, Charles Fox is the man,
Charles Fox with a plumper for me.
AND will you turn us out of doors,
In age, to want, a prey;
When cold winds blow, and tempeft roars,
O! hard Sir Cecil Wray?
This houfe our haven is and port,
After a ftormy fea;
Then fhall it be caft down in fport,
By hard Sir Cecil Wray?
We've fought our country's battles well,
And now our locks are grey,
"Tis hard we mayn't our dangers tell
Here, fafe from Cecil Wray.
"Twill break our hearts these scenes to leave,
But foldiers must obey,
Yet in my confcience I believe
You're mad, Sir Cecil Wray.
For who will fee us poor and lame,
Expos'd on the highway,
And not with curfes load the name
Of thee, Sir Cecil Wray?
3 P.
You ought to try to be belov'd
On the Election day;
But you afide will far be fhov'd,
O! foolish Cecil Wray.
This bench on which I fit and write,
Thefe trees thro' which I ftray,
Are all old friends, and dear to fight;
O! part us not, Sir Wray.
Thefe walls can talk of Minden's plain,
Of England's proudest day;
I think I hear thefe walls complain
Of thee, Sir Cecil Wray.
If thou art bent the poor to harm,
Attack the young and gay
Girls both in health and beauty warm;
But we are old, Sir Wray.
Tho' those with mops and dish-clouts dare
To pelt thee on thy way,
Yet P-fhall praife, who hates the fair,
Thy tax, Sir Cecil Wray.
The Duchefs of DEVONSHIRE in Blue-VERSUS Mrs. HOBART in Green.
SINCE England was England, I never yet knew
A colour fo lafting, fo trufty as Blue;
Court Ladies wear Green, but the popular voice
Is in favour of Blue, the Devonshire choice.
When a Lady her Garter firft dropt in a ring,
The lovely bright Blue won the heart of a King:
He gave it his Knights, and he bade them all wear
A Garter the fame as had fall'n from his Fair.
All Green is a changeable colour, we know;
Ev'n the course of the feafons this clearly must show.
Thus the Daughter of Freedom difdains to be seen
In a colour fo tranfient, fo fading as Green.
Then put off that verdure, dear Hobart, 'tis clear
It looks not on you like the Spring of the year;
The Earth a green livery wears, it is true,
But the Heavens are clad, with our Devonshire, BLUE.
THE first of all Statesmen is fweet Charly O!
The firft of all Statefmen is fweet Charly O!
With a true honeft heart
He will act the just part,
No fhuffling you'll find in my fweet Charly O!
A brave gallant lad is my fweet Charly O!
A brave gallant lad is my fweet Charly O!
Not a wench in the place
But admires his black face,
For a fharp roguish eye has my sweet Charly O!
The firmeft of friends is my fweet Charly O!
The firmeft of friends is my fweet Charly O!
With his girl and his friend,
The last guinea he'll spend,
No churl, or back-ftairs man, is fweeet Charly O!
The Man of the People is fweet Charly O!
The Man of the People is fweet Charly O!
With heart and with voice
Freely make him your choice,
For the trueft of patriots is fweet Charly O!
The rights of the Commons is fweet Charly O!
The rights of the Commons is fweet Charly O!
No maid to perplex.
But guard and protect them will fweet Charly O!
The FAVOURITE of LIBERTY.
WHAT a noise and a bustle prevails through the town,
That Ladies of rank fhould canvafs for voices;
But their merit and beauty each railer muft own,
While FREEDOM the heart of a Briton rejoices.
Fill a bumper my hoft, I'll give you a toaft,
The Favourite of Liberty every one knows;
Fill it up to the top, and drink every drop,
Here's, Devon's fair Duchess wherever she goes.
Your high-founding titles, that Kings can create,
Derive all their luftre and weight from the donor,
But her Grace can defpife all this mock'ry of state,
And ftoops, void of pride, each Elector to honour..
She dignifies life with the rank of a wife,
Unmov'd by the flander of Printers and Beaux;
A foe to deceit, with good-nature replete :
Here's, Devon's fair Duchefs wherever the goes.
3 P 2
Though the beauties of Britain, in Henr'etta-firect,
In honour of Fox each day hold their levee,
How faint is their fplendor, but foon how complete,
When the Duchefs arrives, and adds charms to the bevy:
Her affable finiles, each fpectator beguiles,
At her prefence each bofom with Liberty glows;
Nothing nature can boaft, can rival the toaft,
Of, Devon's fair Duchefs wherever the goes.
Venus, lately, the Loves and the Graces conven'd
To chufe a directrefs, their cuftom and duty;
But not one could be found, like her Grace fo esteem'd,
For good fenfe, condefcenfion, wit, virtue, and beauty:
This mortal fo rare then was plac'd in the chair,
Her, with pleasure, the charming affembly enclofe,
And the goddefs in glee, this toaft gave with three,
Here's, Devon's fair Duchefs wherever fhe goes.
Both Germans and Ruffians to glory lay claim,
And each a Sov'reign renowned make most of;
Since to them it's fuch honour, to us it's the fame
To have, in her Grace, a protectrefs to boast of.
Then away, O ye fair! and, like Devonshire, dare
The invaders of Freedom, with ardour, oppofe :
An example fo bright, all the world muft deem right,
Here's, her Grace, in a bumper, wherever fhe goes.
EPIGRAM on the Duchefs of DEVONSHIRE.
Written in confequence of her Grace's Canvas in fupport of Mr. FOX.
ARRAY'D in matchlefs beauty, Devon's fair?
In Fox's favour takes a zealous part?
But, Oh! where'er the pilferer comes-beware!
She fupplicates a vote, and fteals a heart.
PARLIAMENTARY REFORM. Question and Anfwer.
9. REFORM the Parliament! pray tell me how?
A. Make men a-new: No other way I know.
DIALOGUE between NED and NELL.
"FOR Pitt fo young," cries Ned, " juft twenty-five," "Why don't the women make a fufs ?"
"A fufs for him!" quoth Nell; "why, man alive, "He never fure ftands up for us."
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