J. H.

"He, who can judge of men by nods and fhrugs,
"Can compounds make of fyllables or drugs;
"Can thefe apply in either cafe, as fit
"To make men wifer, or to make men

-t.

"This genius great!-this Efculapian fon!

"Has much approv'd of what your Wray has done:
"Northumbria's Duke most active too has been,

"And wrought his wonders, though he wrought unfeen;
"Nor have we wanted in a defp'rate hour,
"The fove-like mandates of Imperial pow'r !
"Each flave dependent on a royal trade,
"Has voted for me, and his fortune made.
"More have we done, a vict'ry to infure,
"Those who retus'd were bid to feek the door.
"At nought we ftuck-for nothing have we car'd,
"We banifh'd Whitehead, nor was St. John fpar'd!"

To win your hearts in this degen'rate day,
Have I not fhewn how well I can betray!
Need I declare by whom my honours came?
Who gave me public life and patriot fame?
Who firft, to this great city made me known,
And bade my laurels flourish with his own!
His Patriot-worth my friends, you all must know,
The Court perceiv'd it, and became his foe,
Whilft fair Britannia pointing to her fhield,
Bade FOX and LIBERTY ftill keep the field!
This gen'rous man for you have I deceiv'd,
And, Scoundrel-like, have infamy atchiev'd!
My deeds fpeak out-each honest man can say,
There Treach'ry walks-there creeps apoftate Wray!
Such is my merit-fuch I am for you,

Then praife my works, and "give a devil his due,"
Subfcribe-fubfcribe-a Fox to overthrow!

Yourselves make flaves, and yield ye to the foe!

ISCARIOT.

Mr. Whitehead, Yeoman in the Guards, was difmiffed because he voted for Mr. F. x.

The circumftances attending this Gentleman's difmiflion (who would not facrifice his principles to the ty

rannic faction) are in every ones recollection, and will long continue to be execrated!

Dear Cecil, dear Cecil, of what can you boaft?
For Fox, my brave warrior,, has ruled the roaft.
This day in full triumph he bears off the belle,
In three times three bempers his worth we will tell.
Sing Ballynamono, oro,

A good merry dinner for me.

Poor Cecil! he wanders a flow fullen pace,
But he does very right in hiding his face;
For well he remember's his Maid-fervant's Tax,
And for that he deferves to be tax'd with an ax.
Sing Ballynamono oro,

No tax on Maid-fervants for me.

Poor Sir Cecil is full of the vapours and fpleen,
No more he can boaft of three hundred eighteen;
Sir Cecil to Fox was once very kind,

But now Charley Fox has left him behind.
Sing Ballynamono, oro,

No deceivers for Fox or for me.

Let liberty, mirth, and good humour abound,
Let Fox, our brave Champion with laurels be crown'd;
In bumpers of claret the toast fhall go round,
While a Man of the People is still to be found.
Sing Ballynamono, oro,

The real caufe of freedom for me.

A FOX-CHACING SON G.
Tune of--Tally ho! or, The Hounds in full cry.
By Mr. CON WA Y,

HE triumphs! he triumphs! Fox leads them a chace,
O'er head-lands, outflips them, the hounds in full cry.
They've loft him, ftill fcent him, yet flacken apace,
Tho' Sir Cecil, Sir Cecil, avow'd he fhould die.

Hark! the wood-lands and valleys refound Tally-ho!
He's brufh'd 'em, he's brufh'd 'em, efcap'd 'em, and fled-
Too vainly purfue him! He's taught them to know-
That his courage re-doubles! he flies thro' no dread!
Tho' Hood (old re-penfioned) unkennel'd his hounds,
Court-Tarriers unnumber'd, let loofe in the chace,
Rouz'd Churchill-like Patriots, with Fox hunting founds,
To mount for Sir Cecil-with copper dy'd face.
Chafte Devon can thwart 'em! bold Reynard in view!
Triumphantly bounds, o'er their heads in full fpeed.
Waves his trophies, juft laurels, defpifing the crew,
Fox! braves and he conquers-the double fac'd breed.

Fill, fill up your bumpers, the Graces go round,

Devon, Portland, and Spencer a triple huzza!

To Fox, our tried chacer, who's brufh'd each Court hound,
With his tail well befprinkl'd-Huzza! and huzza!

*ELEGY on a LOST ELECTION, by an UNFORTUNATE CANDIDATE.

DÆMONS of hell! and goblins of the night!
Infuriate fiends! and fpectres round me rife!
Pour clouds and darknefs round yon orb of light,
And fhroud his hated beams from mortal eyes.

Let grizly Death impel his iron car,

Array'd in terrors, through the dusky gloom!
Let meagre Famine, and deftructive War,

With plenteous ruin glut th 'infatiate tomb!
Ye Furies, rifing from the drear abodes,

Shed plagues and venom o'er the blafted earth!
Attend! attend! ye dark infernal gods,
That curs'd the fatal hour that gave me birth!
Hurl all your wrath 'gainst that fuccefsful head,
Which late oppos'd me on the huiting'd ftage;
Before whofe voice my better genius fled,

Abafh'd by hiffing, fcorn, and public rage.
Yet why these curfes? Whence this tortur'd mind?
Why in my ears do foul reproaches ring?
Ah me! to friendship, virtue, reafon blind!

'Tis confcience, guilty confcience, points the fting.

Urg'd by fome dæmon, and th' infatiate thirst
Öf fordid gold, I fold my friend and fame;
Deceiv'd-nought gain'd I by the crime accurs'd,
But difappointment and eternal fhame.

No more on Fortune's profp'rous tide afloat,
No royal brow to fmile fhall condefcend,
With glitt'ring bribes, to gain my venal vote,
No more on me the Statesman fhall attend.

For loft to me-ah, cruel lofs-that feat,

From which my voice its confequence obtain'd,
No more with King or Statefinen have I weight,
No poft lucrative, fhall by me be gain'd.

Yet grant one boon, kind Fate; that boon is small-
Though much deferv'd, yet from the halter fhield;
Nor by th' indignant people let me fall,

All elfe into thy hands refign'd I yield.

JÚDAS PENITENS.

The

The FEMALE TRIUMPH: Or, Sir CECIL defeated.

Snng at Mrs. CREWE's FETE.

YE laffes and lads, come drink and be merry,
Your voices tune up to the air of down derry,
For turn coat Sir Cecil is fairly rejected,
And Fox our best friend is by numbers elected.

Derry down, down, down derry down.

Poor Libery blufh'd, and look'd like a fool,
When foldiers fhe faw marching up to the poll;
Since men then, the cry'd, are to bafe and fo blind,
'Tis from fpirited women fupport I must find.
Derry down, &c.

A woman I'll choofe, Freedom's caufe to maintain,
Who knowing her character free from all stain,
Can malice defy and the country fupport,
Against all the bribes and the arts of the Court.
Derry down, &c.

To Devon fhe flies, where fhe's fure of redress,
For fhe wifely put on the air of diftrefs.
The Duchefs takes fire, calls her coach to the door,
And as foon as fhe afks, fhe has votes by the score.
Derry down, &c.

Youth caught by her beauty, and Age by her merit,
All ranks and conditions are charm'd with her spirit;
The cold and luke-warm were all catch'd in the flame,
And by her perfuafion all Foxites became.

Derry down, &c.

E'en coblers fhe canvafs'd, they could not refuse,
But huzza'd for Fox, and no wooden fhoes!

She canvafs'd the taylors, and afk'd for their votes―
They all gave her plumpers, and cry'd no turn-coats.
Derry down, &c.

To all trades and profeffions for votes fhe apply'd,
And found all true Britons on Liberty's fide;
No wonder for Fox they were found all to be,
Their champion he is while they wish to be free.
Down down, &c.

Thus Virtue has triumph'd o'er lies black as hell;
They wou'd have told truths if they had them to tell.
They blacken'd her name up and down the Back Stairs,
But in fpite of the devil the angel appears.

Derry down, &c.

'Tis England's true int'reft Fox's caufe to defend-
To her rights he is firm-he is Liberty's friend-
Three bumbers then drink, to Fox, Devon, and Crew,
Three times let us huzza for buff and the blue.
Derry down, &c.

A NEW

A NEW SONG, entitled

MASTER BILLY's BUDGET: Or, A TOUCH on the TIMES.

To the Tune of-A Cobler there was, &c.

YE boobies of Britain, who lately thought fit

The care of the State to a child to commit,

Pray how do you like your young Minifter's budget?

Should he take your last farthing, you never can grudge it.
Derry down, &c.

A tax on your heads! there'd be juftice in that,

But he only propofes a tax on your hat;

So let every Englishman throw up his beaver,
And holla, Prerogative Billy for ever!

Derry down, &c.`

How oft has he told us his views were upright!
That his actions would all bear the teft of the light!
Yet he fure in the dark muft have fomething to do,
Who fhuts out both day-light and candle-light too.
Derry down, &c.

John Bull's house is tax'd, fo he plays him a trick,
By cunningly laying a duty on brick;
Thus John for his dwelling is forc'd to pay twice,
But Billy hopes John will not fmoke the device.
Derry down, &c.

What little we may have by industry made,
We must pay for a licence to fet up a trade;
So that ev'ry poor devil must now be tax'd more
For dealing in goods that paid taxes before.
Derry down, &c.

The Callico-printers may beg if they please,

As dry as a fponge he their cotton will squeeze;

With their tears let them print their own linens, cries he,
But they never shall make an impreffion on me.

Derry down, &c.

537

The