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Nstead of our Buildings and Castles so brave,

Into our Caverns we're forc'd for to crave,
When we are driven along the Bogs,
We root up Putatoes like the wild Hogs.

Instead of their Beavers, and Castors so good,
In their picked Caps they are forc'd to the Wood:
And when they are driven along the Passes,
They've nothing but Tatters to hang on their Arses.

Instead of their Mantles lined with Plush :
They're forc'd to seek Rags off every Bush ;
When they have gotten a very good Cantle,
They go to the Botchers and there make a Mantle.

Instead of their Boots with Tops so large,
I'm sure they are rid of that same Charge ;
Now they have gotten a thin pair of Brogues,
And into the Woods among the wild Rogues.
Their Mutton and Beef they are all wild Runts,
Their Wives are all nasty, and so are their
But I'll keep my Fiddle-stick out of their Cases,
They stink like Privies, a Pox of their A-ses.

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Omen are wanton, yet cunningly Coy;

Lascivious, yet Crafty, to make us obey : When once they have Noos'd us, triumphant they ride, And trample down Man, that was made for their Guide. Cho. But let them remember their Grannum Eve's Fate, Lest they smart for their Folly, repenting too late,

This Creature was made a Help-meet for the Man,

And so he approv'd her, deny it who can; But surely poor Adam was soundly asleep, Whilst out of his Side this dear Blessing did creep.

Cho. But let them remember, &c.

Old Painters did from them resembling the Snail,
Their House on their Backs was, and in it their Tail,
Implying that Modesty kept something in,
Tho' now they'll expose all from Tail up to Chin.
Cho. But let them remember their Grannum Eve's Fate,

Lest they smart for their Folly, repenting too late.

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Hat if Betty grows old,

and her Features decay; She's Young while she Drinks,

'tis the Grape makes her gay: See how her Eyes shine,

: they sparkle with Drink, Such a Lustre has Wine,

they never can sink, Such a Lustre has Wine they never can sink. Let the Fops doat on Faces,

her Soul's my delight, She can't want for Graces,

Who Tipples all Night.

Long Marches o'er Furrows,

no place can her find, In spite of Camp sorrows,

poor Betty will be kind


Boy fill up our Glasses,

not a Wrinkle will stand, They're Fools who use Washes,

when Claret's at hand.

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