Were he twice more thy son than e’er anyone thought him, There are forty and forty good reasons to out him, For he trod on the toe of a gallant young beau, And made it so sore that he hardly could go; And unless for this due correction he feels, Who knows but he soon may tread on thy own heels! Of your heels, oh! take care, let no one abuse ’em, For it may be you’ll soon have occasion to use ’em, For if J—y should land, you’d soon understand That one pair of heels is worth two pair of hands; And then the pert whipster will find, I suppose, Other work for his feet than to tread on folk’s toes. ROBIN JOHN CLARK. Ye true bacchanals come to Ned of the Dales, And there let’s carouse oe’r a butt of strong liquor, Bring with you no shirkers, nor friends to usurpers, But souls that will drink till their pulses beat quicker. May the courtier who snarls at the friend of Prince C—s, And eke who our houses and windows made dark, Ne’er pilfer much treasure, nor taste of such pleasure; Then hark to the chorus of Robin John Clark. May each bung his eye till the vessel’s quite dry, And drink to the low’ring extravagant taxes; For the spirit of Britain, by foreigners spit on, Quite cold by oppression and tyranny waxes. Then here’s to the toast, tho’ the battle was lost, And he who refuses a traytor we’ll mark: Here’s a health to the prince, not meaning from whence, For thus sings the chorus of Robin John Clark. Then fill up another to the good duke his brother, Not meaning that blood-thirsty cruel assassin; May the Scotch partisans recollect their stout clans, Their force, twenty thousand in number surpassing; May they enter Whitehall, old St. James’s, and all, While the troops are for safety encamp’d in the park; May kind heaven inspire each volley and fire, For thus sings the chorus of Robin John Clark. Hand in hand let us joyn against such as combine, And dare to enslave with vile usurpation; Whenever time offers, we’ll open our coffers, And fight to retrieve the bad state of the nation. We’ll not only drink, but we’ll act as we think, We’ll take the brown musket, the sword, and the dirk, Thro’ all sorts of weather, we’ll trade it together, So God bless the chorus of Robin John Clark.