The Sweethearts

SINCE the World is so old, and the Times are so new,
And every thing talk'd of except what is true;
Among other stories my Fable may pass,
Of four or five Sweethearts who courted a Lass.
Derry Down, &c.

The first was from France, a-là mode de Paris,
All fashion, all feather, bien Monsieur poudrie;
He bow'd, he took snuff, cut a caper, and then
He bow'd, cut a caper, and took snuff agen.

A Dutchman advanc'd, when the Lady he saw,
He dropp'd down his pipe, and he waddl'd yaw;
With hands hid in pocket, and unpolish'd leer,
As frogs sing in courtship, so croak'd out Mynheer.

From Connaught, itself, another Beau came,
Macfinnin Macgragh Ballinbrough was his name;
He bow'd to the Lass, and he star'd at Mounseer,
Clapp'd hand on his sword, and said, Ah!—Arrah, my Dear!

The next a Mess John, of rank Methodist Taint,
Who thought like a sinner, but look'd like a saint,
Clos'd hands, twirl'd his thumbs, moving muckle his face,
Then turn'd up his eyes as about to say grace.

A neat English Sailor in holiday trim,
Who long lov'd the Lass, and the Lass had lov'd him,
Athawrt them all stept, under arm toss'd his switch,
Squar'd his hat, op'd his pouch, gave his trowsers a hitch.

He along-side her fell, and he grappl'd on board,
She struck the first broadside of kisses he pour'd;
Then he tow'd her to church, and as to the rest,
What afterwards follow'd is easily guess'd.
Derry Down, &c.