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And thus unto the youth she said
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
But not performing what he meant,
Away went Gilpin, and away
Six gentlemen upon the road
Stop thief, stop thief-a highwayman!
And now the turnpike gates again
And so he did and won it too,
For he got first to town,
Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And when he next doth ride abroad,
THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;
LABOUR IN VAIN.
An excellent New Song, to a Tune never sung before.
I SING of a journey to Clifton,
We would have perform'd if we could, Without cart or barrow to lift on
Poor Mary and me through the mud;
Stuck in the mud,
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!
So away we went, slipping and sliding,
But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout!
Well! now I protest it is charming;
Pshaw! never mind;
'Tis not in the wind;
We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind.
I am glad we are come for an airing,
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end.
The longer we stay,
The longer we may;
It's a folly to think about weather or way.
But now I begin to be frighted:
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
Nay, never care!
'Tis a common affair;
You'll not be the last that will set a foot there.
Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
That terrible lane, I see yonder,
I think we shall never get through!
So think I;
But, by the bye,
We never shall know, if we never should try.
But should we get there, how shall we get home?
To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last.
That struggling and striving is labour in vain.
Stick fast there, while I
Don't go away, for fear I should fall!
I have examined it every nook,
And what you have here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round;
The dirt we have found
Would be an estate at a farthing a pound.
Now, Sister Anne, the guitar you must take;
Which critics won't blame,
For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the
FOUNDED ON A FACT, WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779.
WHERE Humber pours his rich commercial stream, There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme. In subterraneous caves his life he led,
Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread.
A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!)
To buy a cock-whose blood might win him more;
Were but for battle and for death design'd;
It chanced, (such chances Providence obey,)