500

You poll'd both horfe-guards and foot;
The fcullions and pimps of the Court;
Every ftall from the mews fent a vote;

Oh! was not this very fine fport:
E'en Jack Wilkes, that wicked blafphemer,
And Juftice their benches forfook,
All running with Bond at their head,

By command of Northumberland's Duke,
Fal, de ral, &c.

While Devon's bright Duchefs fupports us,

The Waldegraves and all the fair tribe;
We have nothing to fear from Dame H-t,
For faith he has nothing to bribe,
Her cheeks are blown up like a Bacchus,
Encrufted with plaifter and paint,

Her breath is high fcented with garlick;

Oh! ye Gods, how her ftinks make me faint.
Fal, de ral, &c.

Here's a health to the fair British dames,

Who fo nobly Charles Fox have supported,

He is now at the head of the poll,

And Sir Cecil is fairly outvoted;

Let Portland the Minifter be,

And fo all the Tories be bit,

Huzza! for the MAN of the PEOPLE,
And down with prerogative Pitt.

Fal, de ral, &c.

The TRIUMPH of FREEDO M.

To the Tune of-Ceafe, rude Boreas, bluffring 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

Wray fubmits 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 fubmit to Freedom's thunder,
Freedom's Sons will ne'er give way,
Till the Courtiers all knock under,
And to freedom yield the day.

Fill the Glafs; I'll give the toast, boys!
Hang the wretch, whofe feciet views
Point against our country's boast, boys,
Fox, the man that freemen choose.

All fhall yield to Freedom's thunder;
Traitors, like Sir Judas Wray,
Ever forc'd to truckle under,
Shall to freedom yield the day.

To the PATRIOTIC CHURCHILL!!!!

THE Committee's fo grip'd at a certain Hotel,

That 'tis thought there will foon be no Jalap to fell:
And if they don't quickly decamp from that station,

'Tis judg'd it will end in a mortification!

Then good Mafter Churchill, come down from your chair,
For your infamy fwells by continuing there!

Your raving and ranting, will never prevail;

You are too far behind, to catch Fox by the tail.

Your triumph was fhort, and your laurels are faded,
Your forces are spent, and your tarriers jaded:
Reynard he is too old, and too wife to be caught,
By prerogative hounds which a junto has bought.

Our Westminster, London, and Norwich fucceffes,
Are a glorious comment on your boasted Addreffes;
The turns of thefe cities muft dreadfully fting,
A young Pitt, an old Bute, and an obftinate K

PADDY'S

Lord Pompey Mountmorres! what brought you from Dublin?
Your arrand at Wistmifter no crater knows!
Sure you try'd once before here the town to make troubl'in,
Ah now make no difturbance-but pace and repofe!
Fa ra lal, &c.

The Ladies fo fwate and fo pritty in London,
Bedizen'd with ribbands like any fine Jay,
They'll confent (will they fo?) that the town fhall be undone,
By choofing a Mimbir like Sir Cecil Wray.

Fa ra lal, &c.

They fays Moder Hobart fhe loves a fhelelagh,
An Irifh fhelelagh that's fit for the fair;
Oh! tunder aud ouns! what the Divil could ail her,
To vote for a baift that creaps up the Back Stair?
Fa ra lal, &c.

'Tis ftrange that fo ould fhe would be fo miftaken,
Her years fhould have learnt her more cunning than that,
Hellish like, when the pretty young maids he's forsaken,
He'll put up at laft with a fufty ould cat.

Fa ra lal, &c.

Ah now! pray let no jontleman priffent take this ill,
By my truth, Pat fhall niver ufe unfhivil wards;
But my varfe fure muft plaife, which the name of Sir Cecil
Hands down to oblivion's lateft recards.

Fa ra lal, &c.

If myfhelf with the tongue of a Prophet is gifted,
Oh! I fees in a twinkling the Knight's latter ind!
Tow'rds the varge of his life dev'lifh high he'll be lifted
And after his death, never fear, he'll defcind.

Fa ra lal, &c.

SONG.

Tune-Come then all ye focial powers.

COME each free-born Briton, come
Exercife your Charter;

Strike each lordly tyrant dumb,

Who would your freedoms barter.
CHORU S.

To FOX our votes we'll freely give,
True friends he'll ever find us;
Whilft Wray, who lives but to deceive,
We'll kick and caft behind us.

See the Judas, how he droops!

Tho' Kings and Lords befriend him.

Home let him go to fup his foups,
And may Starvation end him!
CHORUS.

To FOX our votes we'll freely give
True friends he'll ever find us
Whilft Wray, who lives but to deceive,
We'll kick and caft behind us.

To Hood we nothing do object,
He fought to fave the nation;
And ftill we wish him to protect
His well-earn'd reputation.
CHORU S.

But this his Lordfhip cannot keep,
Unless he quits his crony;

For thofe who herd with fcabbed fheep,
Muft catch infection-ee.

See Northumbria's crambling Lord,
Go fneaking to the Court, Sir,
Where he to Cafar gives his word,
That Wray he will fupport, Sir.
CHORUS.

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 reinftate,
We vote him in again, Sir.

CHORUS.

To him our fuffrages we'll give,

'Tis FOX again we'll chair, Sir;

Your Grace fhall ne'er make us deceive

The man who acts fo fair, Sir.

Aftonifhed

Aftonifhed Newcastle ftares,
To find his plans mifcarry;
At Fackfon now he ftamps and wears,
And damns him to Old Harry.

CHORUS.

But who the devil cares, good Duke,
For you 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 fwine

Of his Election capers.

CHORU S.

Let Wray and him on fpiders live,
With beer that's mall and flat, Sir;
Ought elfe Sir Cecil ne'er will give
To make his fervants fat, Sir.

Then fing to FOX, that jolly dog,
Who ever will be giving
Beef and pudding, ale and grog,
Or fome fuch damn'd good living.
CHORUS.

In bumpers full come drink his health,
"Tis noble to fupport him;
He's honeft tho' he has not wealth,
And thus I do report him.

Fair DEVONSHIRE be next our toast,
That beft of human creatures,

Of ENGLAND'S FAIR, the pride and boaft!
For virtue, form, and features.
CHORU S.

To her the fong exalted raise!
Be it like her divine Sirs!

Each BRITON join to fing her praise!
"Twill fanctify our wine Sirs!

"Tho' flander, malice, envy ftrive,
To wound this boast of nature;

Her innocence fhall e'er furvive,

And virtue e'er await her.

CHORU S.

Th' envenom'd fhaft in vain fhall fly,

Fair virtue will protect her;

The field of TRUTH fhall blunt each lie,

And foil each base detractor.

J. H.

A NEW