MURPHY DELANEY.

With bottles, glasses, wine and beer,
Ye Gods, what pretty picking!

There, too, good lack, between the wheels
Was seen their hapless daughter,
Kicking aloft her lovely heels,

'Midst copious streams of porter!

'I've lost my wig,' poor Drugget roar'd,
Your wig, that's nought,' cry'd Miss,
'Mamma has spoil'd her bran-new gown,
And I my blue pelise.'

The unlucky chaise went quite to pot,
Old Dobbin too was undone ;
At great expense a cart they got,
To take them back to London.

Arriv'd at home, th' enrag'd cit,
With words the most uncivil,
Sent horses, jockies, E. O. too,
All packing to the devil!

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MURPHY DELANEY.

(c. DIBDIN, JUN.)

It was Murphy Delaney, so funny and frisky, Popp'd in a sheebeen shop to get his skin full; And reel'd out again pretty well lin❜d with whiskey As fresh as a shamrock, and blind as a bull; But a trifling accident happen'd our rover,

Who took the quay-side for the floor of his shed And the keel of a coal-barge he just tumbled over And thought all the time he was going to bed; And sing fillalloo, hubbaboo, whack, botheration, Every man in his humour, as Kate kiss'd the pig!

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THE OWL AND THE PARROT.

Some folks passing by, drew him out of the river, And got a horse-doctor his sickness to mend ; Who swore that poor Pat was no longer a liver,

But dead as the devil, and there was an end: So they sent for the coroner's jury to try him, But Pat, not half liking the comical strife, Fell to twisting and turning the while they sat by him,

And came (when he found it convenient) to life; Sing fillalloo, &c.

Says Pat to the jury 'Your worships an't please you
I don't think I'm dead; so what is it you'd do?'
Not dead!' said the foreman, 'you spalpeen, be easy,
Do you think, don't the doctor know better
than you?'

So then they went on in the business further;
Examin'd the doctor about his belief;

Then brought poor Delaney in guilty of murder, And swore they would hang him in spite of his teeth;

Sing fillalloo, &c.

But Paddy click'd hold of a clumsy shelaly,
And laid on the doctor, who, stiff as a post,
Still swore that it cou'd n't be Murphy Delaney,
But was something alive, and so must be his ghost
The jury began then with fear to survey him,

While he like the devil about him did pay;
So they sent out of hand for the clargy to lay him,
But Pat laid the clargy, and then ran away;
Sing fillalloo, &c.

THE OWL AND THE PARROT.

(PINDAR.)

AN Owl fell desp'rately in love, poor soul!
Sighing and hooting in his lonely hole-

THE OWL AND THE PARROT.

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A PARROT the dear object of his wishes,
Who in her cage enjoy'd the loaves and fishes,
In short, had all she wanted-meat and drink,
Washing and lodging—full enough, I think.
'Squire Owl most musically tells his tale;
His oaths, his squeezes, kisses, sighs, prevail:
POLL cannot bear, poor heart, to hear him grieve;
So opes her cage, without a By your leave;'
Are married, go to bed with raptur'd faces,
Rich words, and so forth-usual in such cases.

A day or two pass'd amorously sweet;
Love, kissing, cooing, billing, all their meat:

At length they both felt hungry--' What 's for dinner?

'Pray what have we to eat, my dear?' quoth POLL.Nothing! by all my wisdom,' answer'd OwL; I never thought of that, as I 'm a sinner; But, POLL, on something I shall put my patsWhat say'st thou, deary, to a dish of rats?' 'Rats, Mister Owl! d' ye think that I'll eat rats ? Eat them yourself, or give them to the cats ;'

Whines the poor bride, now bursting into tears.'Well, Polly, would you rather dine on mouse? I'll catch a few, if any in the house;

Thou shalt not starve love, so dispel thy fears.” 'I won't eat rats-I won't eat mice-I won't: Don't tell me of such dirty vermin-do n't:

O that within my cage I had but tarried!' Polly,' quoth Owl,' I'm sorry, I declare,

So delicate, you relish not our fare

You should have thought of that before you married!!

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MODES OF COURTSHIP.

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

(c. DIBDIN, JUN.)

A LAWYER, quite famous for making a bill,
And who in good living delighted,

To dinner one day, with a hearty good will,
Was by a rich client invited!

But he charg'd 6s. and 8d. for going to dine,
Which the client he paid, tho' no ninny;
And in turn charg'd the lawyer for dinner and wine,
One a crown, and the other a guinea!

But gossips, you know have a saying in store, He who matches a lawyer, has only one more. The lawyer he paid it, and took a receipt,

While the client star'd at him with wonder; But gave to his friends, with the produce a treat, Tho' the lawyer soon made him knock under: That his client sold wine, information he laid, Without licence: and in spite of his storming, The client a good thumping penalty paid, And the lawyer got half for informing! But gossips, &c.

MODES OF COURTSHIP.

O LOVE, thy temple is a crowded Inn-
And, ah! how various are thy ways to win!
DEVONSHIRE-HOB'S LOVE.

(PINDAR.)

JOANNY, my dear, wut ha poor Hob?
Vor I'm upon a coortin job-

Gadswunds! Iss leek thee, Joan;
I'd fert for thee-Iss, that Iss wud;
Iss love thee well, as pigs love mud,
Or dogs to gna a bone.

MODES OF COURTSHIP.

What thoff Iss ba n't so hugeous smurt,
Forsooth leek voaks that go to curt;
Voakes zay I'm pretty vitty:
Lord, Joan, a man may be alive,
Ha a long puss, and keep a wive,
That ne'er zeed Lundua zitty.
A man may ha the best o' hearts,
Although no chitterlins to 's sharts ;
And lace that gentry uze;

Thee d'st vend me honest-Iss, rert down,
Altho' thee hads n't got a gown,

Ner stockings vath ner shooze.
Now, Joanny, prithee dant now blish;
Vor zich, Iss wudd'n gee a rish;
Dant copy voakes o' town:

No, Joan, dant gee thy zel an air,
And ren and quat, just leek a hare,
And think I'll hunt thee down.
No, that's dam voalish let me zay;
No--dant ren off, and heed away,
Leek paltriges in stubble:

No, no, the easiest means be best;
Iss can't turmoil and looze one's rest;
Iss can't avoard the trouble.

Now, Joan, beleek, the want'st to know
About my houze-keppin and zo,

Bevore the tak'st the nooze--
Why vlesh an dumplin ev'ry day;
But az vor Zunday, let me zay,
We'll ha a gud vat gooze.

Zumetimes we'll ha a choice squab-pie;
And zum days we wull broil and vry,
And zum days roast, ye slut ;
An az vor zyder, thee shat guzzle,
Zo much, Joan, as will tire thy muzzle,
Enow to splet thy gut.

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