Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottl'd ale.

The god of Love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;

Hearts sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! I think as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears; O were we join'd together!

My heart would be Scot-free from cares,

And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien,

No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds,

Her pretty hand invites;

Sharp as a needle are her words,

Her wit like pepper bites.

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Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;

Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee,

And happy as a king:

Good L---d! how all men envy'd me!

She lov'd like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her sex must do ;
Tho' seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru!
Great as an emp❜ror should I be,

And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,

I'm dull as any post;

Let us like burs together stick,

And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die,

And wish me better sped;

Flat as a flounder when I lie,

And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she 'll drop a tear
And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.

бо

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NEWGATE'S GARLAND:
BEING A NEW BALLAD,

Shewing bow Mr. JONATHAN WILD's throat was cut from ear to ear with a pen-knife by Mr. BLAKE, alias BLUESKIN, the bold highwayman, as be stood at his trial in the OldBailey, 1725. To the tune of The Cut-purse.

YE

I.

E Gallants of Newgate, whose fingers are nice,
In diving in pockets or cogging of dice;

Ye sharpers so rich, who can buy off the noose,
Ye honester Poor Rogues who die in your shoes:
Attend and draw near,

Good news you shall hear,

How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to ear;

How Blueskin's sharp pen-knife, hath set you at ease, And ev'ry man round me may rob if he please.

11.

When to the Old-Bailey this Blueskin was led,
He held up his hand, his indictment was read,
Loud rattl'd his chains, near him Jonathan stood,
Full forty pounds was the price of his blood.
Then hopeless of life,

He drew his pen-knife,

And made a sad widow of Jonathan's wife:
But forty pounds paid her her grief shall appease,
And ev'ry man round me may rob if he please.

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III.

Some say there are courtiers of highest renown,
Who steal the king's gold and leave but a crown:
Some say there are peers, and some parliament-men,
Who meet once a year to rob courtiers again:
Let them all take their swing,

To pillage the king,

And get a blue ribband instead of a string.

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Now Blueskin's sharp pen-knife hath set you at ease, And ev'ry man round me may rob if he please.

IV.

Knaves of old, to hide guilt by their cunning inventions,
Call'd briberies Grants, and plain robberies Pensions;
Physicians and lawyers (who take their degrees
To be learned rogues) call'd their pilfering Fees;
Since this happy day,

Now ev'ry man may

Rob (as safe as in office) upon the highway:
For Blueskin's sharp pen-knife hath set you at ease,
And ev'ry man round me may rob if he please.

V.

Some cheat in the Customs, some rob the Excise,
But he who robs both is esteemed most wise.

Church-wardens, too prudent to hazard the halter,
As yet only venture to steal from the altar:
But now to get gold,

They may be more bold,

And rob on the highway since Jonathan's cold;

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For Blueskin's sharp pen-knife has set you at ease,
And ev'ry man round me may rob if he please.

A BALLAD.

ON ALE.

I.

WHILST

HILST Some in epic strains delight, Whilst others pastorals invite,

As taste or whim prevail;

Assist me, all ye tuneful Nine!

Support me in the great design,
To sing of nappy Ale.

Some folks of cyder make a rout,
And cyder's well enough no doubt,
When better liquors fail;

But wine, that's richer, better still,
Ev'n wine itself, (deny 't who will)
Must yield to nappy Ale.

III.

Rum, brandy, gin, with choicest smack,
From Holland brought, Batavia 'rack,
All these will nought avail

To cheer a truly British heart,
And lively spirits to impart,

Like humming nappy Ale.

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