Tho' supported by Pitt,

And all froin Buckingham-house;
Yet Pitt and Jack Churchill together,
Is nothing to honeft Sam House.

Fal, de ral, &c.
You started with Hood, the Bombaster,

That man of self-reputation,
Determin’d at once to pull down

Charles For the support of the nation.
With a moh of failors from Wapping,

With Jackson, the scrub of the Duke,
But Paddy foon fent them a packing
With cudgels of Liberty Ook.

Fal, de ral, &c.
You poll'd both horse-guards and foot;

The fcullions and piinps of the Court;
Every stall from the mews lent a vote;

Oh! was not this very fine fport :
E’en Jack Wiikes, that wicked blafphemer,

And Justice their benches forsook,
All running with Bond at their head,
By command of Northumberland's Duke,

Fal, de ral, &c
While Devon's bright Duchess supports us,

The Waldegraves and all the fair tribe;
We have nothing to fear from Dame Ht,

For faith she has nothing to bribe,
Her cheeks are blown up like a Bacchus,

Encrusted with plaister and paint,
Her breath is high scented with garlick;

Gods, how her stinks make me faint.

Fal, de ral, &c.
Here's a health to the fair British dames,

Who so nobly Charles Fox have supported,
He is now at the head of the poll,

And Sir Cecil is fairly outyoted;
Let Portland the Minister be,

And so all the Tories be bit,
Huzza ! for the MAN of the PEOPLE,
And down with prerogative Pitt.

Fal, de ral, &c.


To the Tune of-Cease, rude Boreas, bluflring Railer.
HARK! the joyful news is come, boys,

Now the day is all our own :
Sound the trumpet, beat the drum, boys !

Spread the tidings through the town,


Wray submits to Freedom's thunder,

Secret Influence gives way;
Let it ftrike the world with wonder !

Fox, my lads, now wins the day.
Then let Fox's name resound, boys,

Loud his victory proclaim:
Freedom's Sons all England round, boys,

All revere his honour'd name.
All submit to Freedom's thunder,

Freedom's Sons will ne'er give way,
Till she Courtiers all knock under,

And to freedom yield the day.
Fill the Glass; I'll give the toast, boys !

Hang the wretch, whose feciet views
Point against our country's boast, boys,

Fox, the man that freemen choose.
All shall yield to Freedom's thunder ;

Traitors, like Sir Judas Wray,
Ever forc'd to truckle under,

Shall to freedom yield the day.


THE Committee's fo gripd at a certain Hotel,
That 'tis thought there will soon be no Jalap to sell :
And if they don't quickly decamp from that station,
'Tis judg’d it will end in a mortification !
Then good Master Churchill, come down from your chair,
For your infamy swells by continuing there !
Your raving and ranting, will never prevail;
You are too far behind, to catch Fox by the tail.
Your triumph was short, and your laurels are faded,
Your forces are spent, and your tarricrs jaded :
Reynard he is too old, and too wise to be caught, ,
By prerogative hounds which a junto has bought.
Our Wifiminster, London, and Norwich successes,
Are a glorious comment on your boasted Addresses;
The i turns of these cities must dreadfully fting,
A young Pitt, an old Bure, and an obstinate K


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STR Cecil be aify, I won't be unfhivil,

Now the Vas of the Paple is chose in your stead; 1 rom fwate Covent Garden you're flung to the Divil, By Jaius, Sir Cecil, you've bodder'd your head.

Fa ra lal, &c. To be fure inuch avail to you all your fine fpaiches,

'Tis nought but palaver, my honey, my dear, While all Charly's voters stick to him like laiches, A friend to our liberties and our small beer.

Fa ra lal, etc.
Lord Pompey Mountmorres! what brought you from Dublin?

Your arrand at Wistmister no crater knows !
Sure you try'd once before here the town to make troubl'in,
Ah now! make no disturbance—but pace and repose !

Fa ra lal, &c.
The Ladies so swate and so pritty in London,

Bedizen'd with ribbands like any fine Jay,
They'll consent (will they fo :) that the town shall be undone,
By chooting a Mimbir like Sir Cecil Vray.

Fa ra lal, &c.
They fays Moder Hobart she loves a fhelelagh,

An Irish thelelagh that's fit for the fair;
Oh! tunder aud ouns ! what the Divil could ail her,
To vote for a baist that creaps up the Back Stair ?

Fa ra lal, &c. 'Tis strange that so ould she would be so mistaken,

Her years thould have learnt her more cunning than that, Hellith like, when the pretty young maids he's forsaken, He'll put up at last with a fulty ould cat.

Fa ra lal, &c.
Ah now ! pray let no jontleman priffent take this ill,

By my truth, Pat shall niver use unshivil wards;
But my varse sure must plaise, which the name of Sir Cecil
Hands down to oblivion's latest recards.

Fa ra lal, &c.
If my shelf with the tongue of a Prophet is gifted,

OK! I sees in a twinkling the Knight's latter ind ! Tow'rds the varge of his life dev'lith high he'll be lifted And after his death, never fear, he'll defcind.

Fa ra lal, &c.


Tune--Come then all ye social powers.
COME each free-born Briton, come

Exercise your Charter;
Strike each lordly tyrant dumb,
Who would your freedoms barter.

C H O R U S.
To FOX our votes we'll freely give,

True friends he'll ever find us ;
Whilst Wray, who lives but to deceivi,

We'll kick and cast behind us.
See the Judas, how he droops !

Tho' Kings and Lords b friend him
Home let him go to fup his soups,
And may Starvation end him!

To FOX our votes we'll freely give

True friends he'll ever find us
Whilft Wray, who lives but to deceite,

We'll kick and cast behind us,
To Hood we nothing do object,

He fought to save the nation;
And ftill we with him to protect
His well-earn'd reputation.

But this his Lordship cannot keep,

Unless he quits his crony;
For thofe who herd with scabbed sheep,

Must catch infection-ee.
See Northumbria's crambling Lord,

Go sneaking to the Court, Sir,
Where he to Cæfar gives his word,
That Wray he will support, Sir.

But, O my Duke, you're fadly out,

In all your expectations ;
Much you've put yourself about,

For nought but keen vexations.
Since notwithstanding all your weight,

Your Bailiff and his men, Sir.
Great FOX we nobly reinstate,
We vote him in again, Sir.

To him our fuffrages we'll give,

'Tis FOX again we'll chair, Sir;
Your Grace shall ne'er make us deceive

The man who acts so fair, Sir,


Allonifhed Newcastle ftares,

To find his plans miscarry;
At fackfou now he stamps and firears,
And damins him to Old Harry.

But who the devil cares, good Duke,

For vou or for your Peerage;
Britons will their Kings rebuke,

If Butes fit in the fieerage.
Poor Churchill now on drugs may dine,

They'll keep him from the vapours;
The thief is fick as any swine
Of his Election capers.

Let Wray and him on spiders live,

With bocr that's Imall and flat, Sir;
Ought else Sir Cecil ne'er will give

To make his servants fat, Sir.
Then sing to FOX, that jolly dog,

Who ever will be giving
Beef and pudding, ale and grog,
Or some such damn'd good living.

In bumpers full come drink his health,

'Tis noble to support him;
He's honeft tho' he has not wcalth,

And thus I do report him.
Fair DEVONSHIRE be next our toast,

That best of human creatures,
OF ENGLAND'S FAIR, the pride and boast!
For virtue, form, and features.

To her the song exalted raise !

Be it like her divine Sirs !
Each Briton join to sing her praise !

'Twill fanétify our wine Sirs ! 'Tho' sandor, malice, envy strive,

To wound this boast of nature;
Her innocence fhall e'er survive,
And virtue e'er await her.

Th’envenom’d shaft in vain sall fly,

Fair virtue will protect her;
The field of Truth fhall blunt each lie,

And foil each base detractor.

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