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But if she believe him, the false-hearted swain,
Will leave her, and then she with me may complain;
For nought is more certain, believe silly Sue,
Who once has been faithless can never be true.
She finish'd her song, and rose up to be gone,
When over the meadow came jolly young John,
Who told her that she was the joy of his life,
And if she'd consent he wou'd make her his wife;
She cou'd not refuse him, so to church they went;
Young Willy's forgot, and young Susan's content,
Most men are like Willy, most women like Sue:
If men will be false, why shou'd women be true?
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THE CORK RUMP.
Tune———There was an old Woman at Cranston.
GIVE Betsy a bushel of horse hair and wool,
of paste and pometum a pound;
Ten yards of gay ribbon to deck her sweet skull,
and gauze to encompass it round.
Of all the gay colours the rainbow displays
are these ribbons which hang from her head,
And her flounces adapted to make the folks gaze,
for around the whole work are they spread.
Her flaps fly behind for a yard at the least
and her curls meet under the chin;
And those curls are supported, to keep up the jest,
with an hundred instead of one pin.
Her gown is tuck'd up to the hip on each side,
Shoes too high for to walk or to jump,
And to deck the sweet creature compleat for a bride,
the Cork-cutter has made her a rump.
