Britains gain new Glory, Joyn like those of Old; 'Tis too plain a story, We are bought and sold; Belgians still uniting, Mighty Sums have won; Whilst pretending Fighting, Friendly Trade goes on: Now to leave off writing, Skellums pine and grieve, When we're next for Fighting, We'll not ask you leave, When in the Hawthorn Tree, Terry, terry rerry rerry, Sings the Blackbird, Hey, terry rerry rerry, Sings the Blackbird, Then Jolly Boys we'll be.
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A Satyr upon London, and in Praise of the Country. The Words made to a pretty New Tune.
WHO in Old Sodom would live a Day,
Grow Deaf with Rattling of Coaches;
Where Folly and noise is call'd brisk and gay,
And Wit lyes in studying Debauches.
With Stinks, which Smoke and rank Foggs display,
Who'd be offending their Noses;
That in the sweet Shades of the Country may,
Sit Cool under Bushes of Roses.
Town Fops in Riot consume every Day,
The Citt will Cheat his own Brother;
And the Ladys haunt the Park and the Play,
To Laugh, and Rail at each other.
