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THE COBBLER'S END.

A COBBLER there was, and he lived in a stall;
Which served him for Parlour, for Kitchen, and Hall.
No coin in his pocket, nor care in his pate;
No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

Contented he worked, and he thought himself happy, If, at night, he could purchase a jug of brown Nappy. He'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing too

sweet,

too most

Saying, 'Just to a hair, I've made both ends meet!' Derry down, down, down, derry down.

But Love, the disturber of high and of low,
That shoots at the Peasant as well as the Beau,
He shot the poor Cobbler quite through the heart!
I wish he had hit some more ignoble part!
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

It was from a cellar this archer did play,
Where a buxom young damsel continually lay.
Her eyes shone so bright, when she rose every day,
That she shot the poor Cobbler, quite over the way.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

He sang her Love Songs, as he sat at his work; But she was as hard as a Jew, or a Turk. Whenever he spake, she would flounce and would fleer; Which put the poor Cobbler quite into despair. Derry down, down, down, derry down.

He took up his awl that he had in the world; And to make away with himself was resolved! He pierced through his body, instead of the sole. So the Cobbler he died; and the bell it did toll. Derry down, down, down, derry down.

And now, in good will, I advise as a friend,
All Cobblers take warning by this Cobbler's end!
Keep your hearts out of love! for we find, by what 's

past,

That love brings us awl to an end at the last.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

THE LONDON LASS.

WHAT though I am a London Dame,
And lofty looks I bear a;

I carry, sure, as good a name

As those who russet wear a!

What though my clothes are rich brocade;
My skin it is more white a

Than any of the Country Maids,

That in the field delight a!

What though I to Assemblies go,
And at the Opera shine a;
It is a thing all Girls must do,
That will be Ladies fine a!
And while I hear FAUSTINA sing
Before the King and Queen a;
My eyes, they are upon the wing,
To see if I am seen a!

My Pekoe and Imperial Tea
Are brought me in the Morn a;
At Noon, Champagne and rich Tokay,
My tables do adorn a;

The Evening then does me invite

To play at dear Quadrille a:

And, sure, in this, there's more delight Than in a purling rill a!

Then, since my fortune does allow
Me to live as I please a;
I'll never milk my father's cow,

Nor press his coming cheese a!

But take my swing, both night and day;
I'm sure it is no sin a!

And as for what the grave ones say,
I value not a pin a!

I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking, 'Thou wild thing! that always art leaping, or aching! What Black, Brown, or Fair, in what clime, in what nation,

By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation?'

Thus accused; the wild thing gave this sober reply:
'See the heart without motion, though CŒLIA pass by!
Not the beauty she has, nor the wit that she borrows,
Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows!

'When our SAPPHO appears, she whose wit so refined
I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind,
Whatever she says is with spirit and fire!
Ev'ry word I attend; but I only admire!

'PRUDENTIA as vainly would put in her claim;
Ever gazing on heaven, though Man is her aim.
'Tis Love, not Devotion, that turns up her eyes!
Those stars of this world are too good for the skies!

'But CLOE So lively, so easy, so fair!

Her wit so genteel, without art, without care! When she comes in my way, the motion, the pain, The leapings, the achings, return all again!'

O, wonderful creature! a woman of reason!

Never grave out of pride; never gay out of season! When so easy to guess, who this angel should be, Would one think Mrs. HOWARD ne'er dreamt it was she?

CONSTANCY.

How firmly fixed, I thought my heart, When PHYLLIS first I knew;

So deep the wound, so sharp the dart, I must be ever true!

Such dazzling charms her glances shot! Her eyes, such pointed rays!

I sighed; and wished it were my lot Eternally to gaze!

Long did I serve the gentle Dame,
Pine, languish, and adore!
Till, on a time, PASTORA came;
And PHYLLIS was no more!

PASTORA seized my heart with joy;
Small cause had she to boast!
For, soon, the restless wand'ring toy
Was to BELINDA lost!

I thought BELINDA was divine,
So fair, so gay, so young!
BELINDA! I had still been thine;
If CHLOE had not sung!

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