To the Wars I must alass, Though I do not like the Game, For I hold him to be an Ass, That will lose his Life for Fame: _For these Guns are such pestilent things, To pat a Pellet in ones Brow; Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._ When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger, Were us'd all in vighting; Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger, That it was but a Flea-biting: _But these Guns_, &c. Ise would vight with the best of our Parish, And play at Whisters with _Mary_; Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie, And box at Visticuffs with any: _But these Guns_, &c. Varewel _Dick_, _Tom_, _Ralph_ and _Hugh_, My Maypoles make all heretofore; Varewel _Doll_, _Kate_, _Zis_ and _Zue_, For I shall never zee you more: _For these Guns are such pestilent things, To pat a Pellet in ones Brow; Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._ _A_ SONG _in Praise of Punch._ [Music] Come fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is, And much more Divine is, Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art, None here can controul: The Vintner despising, tho' Brandy be rising, 'Tis Punch that must chear the Heart: The Lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice, And _Caelia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice, _Come fill up the Bowl_, &c. Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each Lover, When free from all Care you'll quickly find, As Nature intended 'em willing and kind: _Come fill up the Bowl_, &c. _A_ SONG. [Music] Bonny _Peggy Ramsey_ that any Man may see, And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel'd Eye, Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill, And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill: _With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._ _Peggy_ to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault, The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault; Up she pull'd her Petticoats and piss'd into the Dam, For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang; _With a hey_, &c. Some call her _Peggy_, and some call her _Jean_, But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista'en; For _Peggy_ is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill, For she will be Occupied when others they lay still: _With a hey_, &c. _Peg_, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes, Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes; Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still, When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill: _With a hey_, &c. Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn, Betwixt twa rough steans _Peggy_ not to learn; With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still, To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill: _With a hey_, &c.