My Mother she killed a good fat Hog, She made such Puddings would choak a Dog; And I shall ne'er forget 'till I dee, What lumps of Pudding my Mother gave me. She hung them up upon a Pin, The Fat run out and the Maggots crept in; If you won't believe me you may go and see, What lumps, _&c._ And every Day my Mother would cry, Come stuff your Belly Girl until you die; 'Twou'd make you to laugh if you were to see, What lumps, _&c._ I no sooner at Night was got into Bed, But she all in kindness would come with speed; She gave me such parcels I thought I should dee, With eating of Pudding, _&c._ At last I Rambled abroad and then, I met in my Frolick an honest Man; Quoth he my dear _Philli_ I'll give unto thee, Such Pudding you never did see. Said I honest Man, I thank thee most kind, And as he told me indeed I did find; He gave me a lump which did so agree, One bit was worth all my Mother gave me. _The_ QUAKER's SONG. [Music] Walk up to Virtue Strait, And from all Vice retire; Turn not on this Hand nor on that, To compass thy Desire. Side not with wicked ones, Nor such as are Prophane; But side with good and goodly ones, That come from _Amsterdam_. Arm not thy self with Pride, That's not the way to Bliss; But Arm thy self with holy Zeal, And take this loving Kiss. _A_ SONG. [Music] _Lorenzo_ you amuse the Town, And with your Charms undo, Sir; _Laurinda_ can resist a Frown, But must not be from you, Sir: You make them all resign their Hearts, And fix their Eyes a gazing; The _Porcupine_ has not more Darts, From every part amazing. You Bill and Cooe when you are kind, And happy's the Nymph believes you; You are true, but you are not Blind, For never a Nymph deceives you; Tho' she were naught, you'll ne'er be caught, But still have your Wits about you; You're a Hero, and you have Fought, There's ne'er a Hector can flout you. You are good, and you are bad, And you can be what you please, Sir; You are an honest trusty Lad, And I'll Wager ne'er had the Disease, Sir: Then here's to you, a Glass or two, For farther I dare not venture; And then my Dear I bid thee adieu, For I must be now a Dissenter. _A_ SONG. _Tune of_ Oh! how happy's he. _Pag._ 104. Ah! how happy's he, Lives from drinking free, Can enjoy his Humour, Paper and his Pen; Nor ensnar'd with Wine, Or some Whores design, But in harmless Sonnets thinking does ever mend; Prigs shall never vex him, Pox shall ne'er perplex him, If his Pocket's full, sits down and counts his Joy; If it be not so, Takes a Tune or two, 'Till by wise Content, his trouble does destroy.