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“That lady is as well

As can expected be;
And to your Grace she bid me tell

This gracious message free.

“That offspring of our race,

Whom yesterday you see, To show our honour for your Grace,

Prince Arthur he shall be.

“That name it rhymes to fame;

All Europe knows the sound : And I couldn't find a better name

If you'd give me twenty pound.

“ King Arthur had his knights

That girt his table round, But you have won a hundred fights,

Will match 'em I'll be bound.

“You fought with Bonypart,

And likewise Tippoo Saib ; I name you then with all my heart

The Godsire of this babe.”

That Prince his leave was took,

His hinterview was done.
So let us give the good old Duke

Good luck of his god-son.

And wish him years of joy

In this our time of Schism, And hope he'll hear the royal boy

His little catechism.'

And my pooty little Prince

That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince

A welcomin of you ere.

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,

I think, in some respex,
Egstremely shootable might be found

For honest Pleaseman X.


GALLIANT gents and lovely ladies,

List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty,

At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,

Vere the little children sings : (Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies

Them there pooty little things !).

In this street there lived a housemaid,

If you particklarly ask me whereVy, it yas at four and tventy,

Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.

Vich her name was Eliza Davis,

And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party

As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor,

For to judge him by his look : Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies,

Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes

Of this hinnocent young gal— Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom,

You're so like my Sister Sal!

You're so like my Sister Sally,

Both in valk and face and size ; Miss, that-dang my old lee scuppers,

It brings tears into my heyes !

I'm a mate on board a wessel,

I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers,

Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me ?

And she faintly hansers, “ Lore, Sir, my name's Eliza Davis,

And I live at tventy-four.”

Hofttimes came this British seaman,

This deluded gal to meet:
And at tventy-four was welcome,

Tventy-four in Guilford Street.

And Eliza told her Master,

(Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her,

Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him,

(Vich vas all his hartful plan), And she told how Charley Thompson

Reely vas a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in

Many years of union sweet, Vith a gent she met promiskous,

Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them,

And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin,

Hand the clergyman jine their ands. And he ast about the lodgers,

(Vich her master let some rooms), Likevise vere they kep their things, and

Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson

Came on Sundy veek to see her, And he sent Eliza Davis

Hout to fetch a pint of beer.

Hand while pore Eliza vent to

Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson

Let his wile accomplish hin.

To the lodgers, their apartments,

This abandingd female goes, Prigs their shirts and umberellas :

Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes,

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson,

Lest his wictim should escape, Hocust her vith rum and vater,

Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em

Vich these raskles little sore ; Namely, Mr. Hide the landlord,

Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden,

Just afore he vent to sup; And on looking up he sór the

Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;

Something's going wrong, he said ; And he caught the vicked voman

Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman,

Vich vas passing on his beat; Like a true and galliant feller,

Hup and down in Guilford Street,

And that Pleaseman able-bodied

Took this voman to the cell ;
To the cell vere she was quodded,

In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson

Boulted like a miscrant base, Presently another Pleaseman

Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles

Tuesday last came up for doom ; By the beak they was committed,

Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davis,

Simple gurl of tventy-four, She, I ope, vill never listen

In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art,

(Vich most every gurl expex,) Let her take a jolly pleaseman;

Vich is name peraps is—X.

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