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PROPER TO BE SUNG AT ALL FEASTS AND MERRY MEETINGI.
THERE was a heathen man, sir,
Belonging to a king ;
To covet ev'ry thing.
I'll name him if you please,
''Twas one Squire Damocles.
Must ev'ry joy afford;
While round the festive board.
And feed on fare delicious;
Just like king Dionysius.
Prepar'd a feast so fine,
To see the courtier dine.
And there to tempt his eye, sir,
Was fish, and flesh, and fowl ; And when he was a-dry, sir,
There stood the brimming bowl.
Nor did the king forbid him
From drinking all he could ; The monarch never chid him,
But fill'd him with his food.
O then to see the pleasure
Squire Damocles exprest! "Twas joy beyond all measure,
Was ever man so blest?
With greedy eyes the squire
Devour'd each costly dainty; You'd think he did aspire
To eat as much as twenty.
Of bliss to take a swing;
By this so cruel king!
Lo! just above his head,
All by a single thread.
To wormwood and to gall,
The pointed sword might fall. Then in a moment's time, sir,
He loath'd the luscious feast ; And dreaded as a crime, sir,
The brimming bowl to taste.
Now, if you're for applying
The story I have told,
'Tis worth its weight in gold. Ye gay, who view this stranger,
And pity his sad case ;
In such a fearful place;
minds be stor'd ; To each intemp’rate youth, sir,
Death is that pointed sword. And though you see no reason To check
mirth at all, In some licentious season
The sword on you may fall. So learn, while at your ease, sir,
You drink down draughts delicious ; To think of Damocles, sir,
And old king Dionysius
HACK N E Y
THE WAY TO GET A GOOD FARE.
To the Tune of_“I wish I was a Fisherman."
I AM a bold coachman, and drive a good hack,
When a riotous multitude fills up a street,
Then my glasses are whole, and my coach is so neat,
rare,) Of the coachman that never asks more than his fare.
Though my beasts should be dull, yet I don't use
them ill; Though they stumble 1 swear not, nor cut them up
hill; For I firmly believe there's no charm in an oath, That can make a nag trot, when to walk he is loath.
And though I'm a coachman, I'll freely confess,
labours to bless ; I praise him each morning, and pray evry night, And 'tis this makes my heart feel so cheerful and
When I drive to a funeral I care not for drink,