Sandgate’s the devil’s besom sure, With which oft times he sweeps the floor; The air’s with glasshouse smoke infected, Confusion of all kinds collected; Nothing but murm’ring, noise, and swearing, Shocks your conscience, grates your hearing. The women black, red, tawny, grey, Who seldom go to church to pray; Who’s sides are ne’er to stays confin’d, To cramp their natural ease behind. Nor modestly do they think shame, To act what I don’t chuse to name; Nor do they stop, when they think meet, To act their lewdness in the street; Whole lots of them do nightly sport, With black and grey, and every sort: Oft in a cannhouse you may view, A gang of this sweet scented crew. Who when they grow a little mellow, Begin to sing and swear and bellow; Like madmen in a rage or fury, Not fearing either judge or jury; Nor do I err much when I tell, They’ve little dread of heav’n or hell. The wife her husband thus addresses, With doubled fist and flowing tresses,-- “Come, Tom, make haste, let us away, The tide flows high, we cannot stay.” “Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart! Let us but have the other quart.” She then begins to sing a song, Would frighten any man but Tom,-- “You idle spendthrift, scant of grace, I wish I ne’er had seen your face; A cleanlier lass was never bred, When I came to your bridal bed. Had fouth of claiths to clead my back, But now I’ve scarce a single plack: You’ve left me bare of bed and claiths, Deel brust you, by your graceless ways; And when you’re drunk as you can see, Come home and curse the bairns and me. Turn topsy turvy all the house, And every thing in it abuse; Throw all the dishes off the shelf, The platters, dubblers, and the delf. And set the plates and spoons, in joke, A flying round the room like smoke: And when your family’s in need, And like to starve for want of breed, You’ll grudge for haver-meal to pay, To make them crowdies once a day. These are your pranks, you murd’ring rogue, That every day you have in vogue; And if you do not mend your course, I must go beg--or else do worse.” Tom out his hand at last did stretch, “What ails you now? you grumbling bitch, Peace! or your hide I’ll soundly switch. Do not I almost ev’ry day, At the _lang hinney’s_ o’er the way, See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you, Drinking clove waters till you spue! Go to the devil with your brats, And vex me not with d----’d pit-rats, That are not all of my begetting, But plants of other people’s setting. Since you have oft, by your confession, From my embraces made digression, Go home, G-d d--n your soul, and spin, Or else, by L--d, I’ll lamb your skin.”