232

BRANDENBURGH HOUSE.

A French piece, in three acts, written by Mr. Le Texier, entitled Les Poiffardes Anglois, was performed at this place, in which the Margravine, in the character of Poll, a fifhwoman, introduced the following fong, written by herself.

'Ma Billingsgate girl-'tis an odd fort of name,

I'M

And my eyes are as black as a coal; My franknefs of heart gives me looks that are game

But you'll find I'm a good little foul.
Who'll buy ?-who'll buy?

Who'll buy of this good little foul?

Tho' we tip off an oath, as we sip off our gin,

Why you fure cannot think it fo drollFor to fip and to jaw in this land is no fin, If 'tis done with a fweet little foulLike me-d'ye fee

If 'tis done with a fweet little foul.

Ye fine Ladies from courts, and from cities combin'd

In your coaches to us you may roll; 'Mongft fishes pray chufe out a dish to your mind

I'll take care to pick out a good foul.
I'll fhow-I know-

How our laffes pick out a good foul.

If John Bull looks fo gruff when of taxing he'll read,

In his gizzard fhould grumble and growl;

Nay, shed tears when his brethren's vitals may bleed,

Yet John Bull is a very good foul-
He is indeed-

Yes, John Bull is very good foul.

From the sea sprang Dame Venus and our little le

While our feaman, from hence to each pole,

Prove of beauty and graces they merit the fmile ;

For their mercy here* proves they've a foul.

I

SECLUSION,

'BY Mrs. ROBINSON.

LOVE the labyrinth-the filent glade,
For foft repofe and confcious rapture
made-

The melancholy murmurs of the rill,
The moaning zephyrs, and the breezy hill,
The torrent roaring from the flinty fteep,
The morning gales that o'er the landscape
sweep,

The fhade that dufky twilight meekly draws

O'er the calm interval of Nature's paufe; Till the chafte Moon, flow stealing o'er the plain,

Wraps the dark mountain in her filv'ry train,

Soothing with fympathetic tears the breaft That feeks for Solitude, and fighs for Reft!

233

Hark how the vessel shakes-oh, envious wave!

She fevers now-and yields him to a was t'ry grave.

SONNET.

MIRANDA

WRITTEN ON REVISITING FELBRICG, THE SEAT OF WM. WINDHAM, ESQ. IN THE MONTH OF JUME, 1794.

F

ELBRIGG, once more thy beauties [ furvey!

O'er each smooth lawn, and through each verdant grove,

Where in times paft I oft was wont to rove,

Again my once admiring footsteps ftray.

Yet, ah! methinks no more thy groves look gay,

No more thy fmooth fhorn turf's with verdure crown'd!

But fancy pictures as I gaze around, Thy trees and lawns a fanguine hue dif play.

Ah, whence this change!" Alas!" they seem to say,

How can we fill our wonted hues preferve?

Should we not blufh to fee the man we ferve?

A bafe apoftate from fair freedom's (way?

234

Fair magician, by thy art,

Let me ftrain her to my heart! Let, with a fond embrace, Clasp her neck and kiss her face.

Charm'd by vifions, fweet as those,
I regret not loft repose.

While fuch thoughts my mind delight,
Let my life be one long night;
Want of reft fhall give no pain,
Nor fleep be ever fought again.

To the EDITORS of the SPORTING MA

/ Gentlemen,

GAZINE.

MY paffion is as mustard strong,
I fit all fober fad;

Drunk as a piper all day long;

Or like a March hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow,
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For tho' as drunk as David's fow,
I love her fill the better.

Fert as a pearmonger I'd be,
If Nancy were but kind:
Cold as a cucumber could fee
The rest of woman kind.

Like a fuck pig, I gaping stare,

And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with fighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,

And foft as filk my fkin, My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a groat now thin.

I'm melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep; But the, infenfible of that, Sound as a top can fleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,

She laughs to fee me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brifk as bottled ale.

The God of Love, at her approach,
Is bufy as a bee;
Hearts found as any bell or roach,
Are finit and figh like me.

Ab! me, as thick as hops or hail
The fine men croud about her;

But foon as dead as a door nail
Shall I be without her.

W. R.

Straight as my leg, her fhape appears-
Oh! were we joined together;
My heart would be scott free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as a razor keen,
And not the fun is brighter.

As foft as pap her kiffes are,
Methinks I tafte them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As fmooth as glass, as white as curd
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as a needle are her words,

Her wit like pepper bites.

Brifk as a body loufe the trips,

Clean as a penny dreft;

Sweet as a rofe her breath and lips,
Round as a globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king;

Good lord, how all men envy'd me,
She lov'd like any thing.

But falfe as hell, fhe, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her fex must do;
Tho' feeming as the turtle kind,
And like the Gospel true.
If I and Nancy could agree,
Let who would take Peru;
Great as an emp'ror fhould I be,
and richer than a jew.

Till you tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;

Let us like burrs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll find me truer than any die,
And with me better speed;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun fhe'll drop a tear,
And figh, perhaps, and wish;
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fifa.