Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume VI Part 32

I ne'er was afraid of a Traytor bold, Altho' thy Name be _Hugh_ in the _Grime_; I'll make thee repent thy Speeches foul, If Day and Life but give me time.

Then do thy worst, good Lord _Screw_, And deal your blows as fast as you can; It will be try'd between me and you, Which of us two shall be the best Man.

Thus as they dealt their blows so free, And both so b.l.o.o.d.y at that time; Over the Moss ten Yeomen they see, Come for to take Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_.

Sir _Hugh_ set his Back again a Tree, And then the Men compast him round; His mickle Sword from his Hand did flee, And then they brought Sir _Hugh_ to the Ground.

Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_ now taken is, And brought back to _Garland_ Town; Then cry'd the good Wives all in _Garland_ Town, Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_, thou'st ne'er gang down.

The good Lord Bishop is come to Town, And on the Bench is set so high; And every Man was tax'd to his crime, At length he call'd Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_.

Here am I, thou false Bishop, Thy Humours all to fulfil; I do not think my Fact so great, But thou may'st put into thy own Will.

The Quest of Jury-Men was call'd, The best that was in _Garland_ Town; Eleven of them spoke all in a-breast, Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ thou'st ne'er gang down.

Then other Questry-men was call'd, The best that was in _Rumary_; Twelve of them spoke all in a-breast, Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ thou'st now Guilty.

Then came down my good Lord _Boles_, Falling down upon his Knee; Five hundred Pieces of Gold will I give, To grant Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lord _Boles_, And of your Speeches set them by; If there be Eleven _Grimes_ all of a Name, Then by my own Honour they all should dye.

Then came down my good Lady _Ward_, Falling low upon her Knee; Five hundred Measures of Gold I'll give, And grant Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_ to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lady _Ward_, None of your proffers shall him buy, For if there be Twelve _Grimes_ all of a Name, By my own Honour all should dye.

Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime's_ condemn'd to dye, And of his Friends he had no lack; Fourteen Foot he leapt in his Ward, His Hands bound fast upon his Back.

Then he look'd over his left Shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his Father dear, Came tearing his Hair most pitifully.

Peace, peace, my Father dear, And of your Speeches set them by; Tho' they have bereav'd me of my Life, They cannot bereave me of Heaven so high.

He look'd over his right Shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his Mother dear, Came tearing her Hair most pitifully.

Pray have me remember'd to _Peggy_ my Wife, As she and I walk'd over the Moor; She was the cause of the loss of my Life, And with the old Bishop she play'd the Wh.o.r.e.

Here _Johnny Armstrong_, take thou my Sword; That is made of the metal so fine; And when thou com'st to the Border side, Remember the Death of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_.

_The disappointed_ TAYLOR: _Or good Work done for Nothing._

[Music]

A Taylor good Lord, in the Time of Vacation, When Cabbage was scarce and when Pocket was low, For the Sale of good Liquor pretended a Pa.s.sion, To one that sold Ale in a Cuckoldy Row: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a St.i.tch, And sing Cuc.u.mber, Cuc.u.mber ho.

One Day she came up, when at Work in his Garret, To tell what he Ow'd, that his Store he might know; Says he it is all very right I declare it, Says she then I hope you will pay e'er I go?

Now a Louse, _&c._

Says p.r.i.c.k-Louse my Jewel, I love you most dearly, My Breast every Minute still hotter does grow, I'll only says she for the Juice of my Barly, And other good Drink in my Cellar below: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a St.i.tch, And sing Cuc.u.mber, Cuc.u.mber ho.

Says he you mistake, 'tis for something that's better, Which I dare not Name, and you care not to show; Says she I'm afraid you are given to flatter, What is it you Mean, and pray where does it grow: Now a Louse, _&c._

Says he 'tis a Thing that has never a handle, 'Tis hid in the Dark, and it lies pretty low; Says she then I fear that you must have a Candle, Or else the wrong way you may happen to go: Now a Louse, _&c._

Says he was it darker than ever was Charcole, Tho' I never was there, yet the way do I know; Says she if it be such a terrible dark Hole, Don't offer to Grope out your way to it so: Now a Louse, _&c._

Says he you shall see I will quickly be at it, For this is, oh this is the way that I'll go; Says she do not tousle me so for I hate it, I vow by and by you will make me cry oh: So they both went to work, Now a Kiss, then a Jirk, And sing Cuc.u.mber, Cuc.u.mber ho.

The Taylor arose when the business was over, Says he you will rub out the Score e'er you go; Says she I shall not pay so dear for a Lover, I'm not such a Fool I would have you to know: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a St.i.tch, And sing Cuc.u.mber, Cuc.u.mber ho.

_The Penurious_ QUAKER: _Or, the High priz'd_ HARLOT.

[Music]

_Quaker._ My Friend thy Beauty seemeth good, We Righteous have our failings; I'm Flesh and Blood, methinks I cou'd, Wert thou but free from Ailings.

_Harlot._ Believe me Sir I'm newly broach'd, And never have been in yet; I vow and swear I ne'er was touch'd, By Man 'till this day sennight.

_Quaker._ Then prithee Friend, now prithee do, Nay, let us not defer it; And I'll be kind to thee when thou Hast laid the Evil Spirit.

_Harlot._ I vow I won't, indeed I shan't, Unless I've Money first, Sir; For if I ever trust a Saint, I wish I may be curst, Sir.

_Quaker._ I cannot like the Wicked say, I Love thee and Adore thee, And therefore thou wilt make me pay, So here is Six pence for thee.

_Harlot._ Confound you for a stingy WHIG, Do ye think I live by Stealing; Farewel you Puritannick Prig, I scorn to take your s.h.i.+lling.

_A_ SONG. _Tune of the_ Old Rigadoon:

_Lais_ when you Lye wrapp'd in Charms, In your Spouses Arms, How can you deny, The Youth to try, What is his due.

Sure you ne'er have Been touch'd by Man, That you ne'er can, Admit the Slave.

Come let him in, And if he does Not pay what he owes, Ne'er trust the Fool again.

Let another Spark supply his Place, For a Woman should not want; And Nature sure ne'er made a Man so base, But with asking he would grant: But if all Mankind were agreed to spoil your Race, By _Jove_ my Dear they shan't.