VERSE S

ON THE NEW BUILDINGS ERECTING

BLOOMSBURY AND ST. GILES's.

BETWEEN

IN a a doublet of stone, from the top of a steeple,
As Brunfvick look'd down on the dregs of the people,
The handsome new buildings the folks were erecting,
His vanity tickl'd, and set him reflecting,

That foon he should fee, by his Grace's affiftance,
The fcum of the earth ladled off to a distance.
The breed of St. Giles's, plump, tatter'd, and pert,
Understanding his mufings, replied, from the dirt :

"Winds blast your hard phiz, for a weathercock

wizzard,

What is't that you grumble at thus in your gizzard?
Tho' we are so low, and you mounted fo high,
Your horns, you old cuckold, don't reach to the sky :
Then look not, your haughtiness, downward fo glum;
We can't be at once both the dregs and the fcum.
What tho' my Lord Duke, your as hard-hearted
neighbour,

Would starve us with nine-pence a-day for our labour,
Or drive us afield like black cattle, a grazing,
He neither can pound us, nor wall the highways in.

Let his bricklayers and mafons then build till they

burst,

And his streets, and his houses, and chapels be curft ; While pence will, for prog, purchase pudding or pye, As here we've been bred, here we'll live till we die. Your highness may vapour, with arms fet a-kimbo, And your Grace move the Houfe to commit us to limbo;

We tremble as little at you as at him,

At a peace broken peer as a beer brewer's whim.
Had fots been but fober, your worship had ne'er
Been raifed thus aloft, cock-a-hoop in the air;
To mug-house and mobs your high station thus owing,
Keep o'er your own dunghill no longer thus crowing.
Should a storm ever blow that should topple you down,
Who, think you, would plaifter the crack in your

crown?

Your friends, the True Blue, fcour'd and turn'd at the dyer's,

Old Whigs grow new Tories, low churchmen highflyers,

By Dukes, Lords and Knights, you'll be left in the lurch,

As fure as you tumble from Bloomsbury-church.
The State in a ferment, poor Pelham departed,
Your Grandfon, God bless him, much too tender-
hearted;

This ftatue was erected at the expence of his Majefty's brewer.

In Faction's fierce flame Party ftill throwing oil,
'Till her long-fimm'ring pot is just ready to boil,
Should her broth, over-heated, rife up to a brimmer,
And the Devil, to cool it, be fent with a skimmer,
The froth and the bubbles of Fortune and Birth,
From the top he'd take off, as the fcum of the earth;
While we, as he laughs in his fleeve to have got 'em,
The dregs of the people, fink fafe to the bottom."

* *

ON SEEING CAPTAIN A, AT MRS. CORNELY'S, DREST FANTASTICALLY.

'TIS faid, that our foldiers fo lazy are grown, With luxury, plenty, and cafe,

That they more for their carriage than courage are known,

And scarce know the ufe of a piece ;

Let them fay what they will, fince it nobody galls,
And exclaim out still louder and louder;

But there ne'er was more money expended in balls
Or a greater confumption of powder.

THE NORFOLKE TURNIPPE.

AN AUNCIENT TALE.

SOME countyes vaunte themselves in pyes,

And fome in meate excelle;

For Turnippes of enormous fize,

Faire Norfolke beares the belle.

Thilke tale an olde nurfe told to me,

Which I relate to you;

And well I weene what nurfes fay,
Is facred all and true.

At midnighte houre a hardie knighte

*

Was pricking o'er the ley,

The starres and moone had loste their lighte,
And he had lofte his waye.

The winde full loude and sharpe did blowe,

The clouds amaine did poure,

And fuch a night, as ftoryes fhewe,

Was nivir feene before.

* Riding.

Meadow-ground.

1 vaine

I vaine hee faughte full halfe the nighte,
Ne fhelter coulde hee spie :

Pitie it were fo bolde a knighte
Y-fterv'd with cold fholde dye.

Now voices ftraunge affaile his eare,

And yet ne house was nie :

Thoughte hee, the Devil himself is here,

Preferve me God on hie!

Then fummon'd hee his courage hie,

And thus aloud 'gan call;

Fays, gyauntes, demons, come not nie, For I defy you all!

When from a hollow turnippe neare
Out jump'd a living wighte;

With friendly voice, and accent cleare,
He thus addrefs'd the knighte:-

Sir knighte, no demon dwelleth here,
Ne gyaunte keepes his houfe;

But tway poor drovers, goodman Vere,
And honeft Robin Roufe.

We tweyne have taken shelter here,

With oxen ninety-two;

And if you'll enter nivir feare,

There's room enough for you.