He has lunch’d up two large lamb legs, Of our bannocks he’s not left a bit; And has scar’d the old hen off her eggs, And she’s drown’d in the kirn-milk kit. He mucks in our mickle meal-chest, He spews in the cistern of salt; In our kale-pot and cogies he’s piss’d, And he mutes too among the malt. He has drove a scate fish off the bink, Which drop’d in the brimstone kan, And rais’d such a stove and stink As chok’d our old good man. Was it no more damage than that, The brute must be greatly to blame; If you take not care of your tom-cat, He may rely on a lame! A SONG, _Pasted upon the Walls, and scattered about the Town of Rothbury, several Years ago._ Young Solomon, tir’d of a bachelor’s life, Is resolv’d, by report, on a fat greasy wife, Though merit might gain him a good natured girl, Would forfeit his prospect for brazen Miss E---- If he wish to be wedded to folly and dirt, To a lie-loving hussy, and impudent flirt, Let him take what the captains of Alemouth have left, And of comfort I warrant he will be bereft. If a creature he takes who in muslin would shine, Poor Solomon must on a red-herring dine; To buy her fine clothes, and rich tippets of scarlet, And dress the poor beggar in garbs of a harlot. If willing with good cheerful neighbours to spend, Or a convivial hour with some gay social friend; To Bo----m’s would go, and therein not to be check’d, Let him shun the hard fate of a husband hen-peck’d. If he wish not to labour with want and disgrace, Nor to answer demands which will fly in his face, Nor would open his purse for the debts of another, Let him think in due time of the case of Poll’s brother. If children he’d have, with free use of their frame, Let him not take a part’ner stiff-jointed and lame; But let him look out for some wholesome clean girl, And escape from the clutches of shameful Poll E----. _The following ANSWER was handed about at Berwick upon Tweed and the neighbouring Villages._ Ah! pen, ink, and paper, proves pleasing, To pirates who plunder the fame Of females, by lewdness and teasing, Too naughty and nauseous to name. A rector, more rude than the rabble, Compos’d an incendiary song, More base than a Billingsgate bauble, And like his stale strumpet stinks strong. That seat on a summit for cent’ries Assigned to sages and saints, Was kept by those scripture comment’ries From tete-a-tete, tarnish, and taints. But time tells a tragical story, Of truths well attested by some; The term has turn’d out transitory, That bulwarks a brothel become. The mansion (I need not to mention) Affords an affectionate feast, To vassals of vicious invention, A pander, two punks, and a priest. Their pastimes and sports are pollution, Each minx is unmarry’d--each man Prefers to his spouse prostitution Upon a ’postolical plan.