A Pox on _T----l_ for a Son of a W----, He was the cause of our coming o'er; And when to _Dublin_ we came to put on our Coats, He told us his business was cutting of Throats. _Ah hone_, &c. Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch, A Plague light upon the _Protestant_ C---- If _P----s_ had let but the Bishops alone, O then the Nation had all been our own. _Ah hone_, &c. And I wish other Measures had been taken, For now I fear we shan't save our Bacon; Now _Orange_ to _London_ is coming down-right, And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight _Ah hone_, &c. What we shall do, the Lord himself knows, Our Army is beaten without any blows; Our M----r begins to feel some remorse, For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse. _Ah hone_, &c. If the _French_ do but come, which is all our Hopes, We'll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes; If _London_ stands to us as _Bristol_ has done, We need not fear but _Orange_ must run. _Ah hone_, &c. But if they prove false, and to _Orange_ they scower, By G---- all the M---- shall play from the _Tower_; Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown, The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down. _A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree._ _The Character of a_ Seat's-man; _written by one of the_ CRAFT: _To be Sung on_ CRISPIN-Night. _Tune_ Packington's Pound. [Music] I am one in whom Nature has fix'd a Decree, Ordaining my Life to happy and free; With no Cares of the World I am never perplex'd, And never depending, I never am vex'd: I'm neither of so high nor so low a degree, But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me; My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease, I go where I will, and I work when I please: I live above Envy, and yet above Spight, And have Judgment enough for to do my self right; Some greater and richer I own there may be, Yet as many live worse, as live better than me, And few that from Cares live so quiet and free. When Money comes in I live well 'till it's gone, So with it I'm happy, Content when I've none: I spend it Genteelly, and never repent, If I lose it at Play, why I count it but Lent: For that which at one time I Lose among Friends, Another Night's Winnings still makes me amends: And though I'm without the first Day of the Week, I still make it out by Shift or by Tick: In Mirth at my Work the swift Hours do pass, And by _Saturday_ Night, I'm as rich as I was. Then let Masters drudge on, and be Slaves to their Trade, Let their Hours of Pleasure by Business be stay'd; Let them venture their Stocks to be ruin'd by Trust, Let Clickers bark on the whole Day at their Post: Let 'em tire all that pass with their rotified Cant, "Will you buy any Shoes, pray see what you want"; Let the rest of the World still contend to be great, Let some by their Losses repine at their Fate: Let others that Thrive, not content with their store, Be plagu'd with the Trouble and Thoughts to get more.