Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume VI Part 6

He is no Mastiff, huge of Lim, Or Water-spaniel, that can Swim, Nor Blood-Hound nor no Setter: No Bob-tail Tyke, or Trundle-tayl, Nor can he Partridge spring or Quail, But yet he is much better.

No Dainty Ladies fisting-Hound, That lives upon our _Britain_ Ground, Nor Mungrel Cur or Shogh: Should Litters or whole Kennels dare, With Honest _Drunkard_ to compare, My Pen writes, _marry fough_.

The Otter-Hound, the Fox-Hound, nor The swift Foot Grey-Hound car'd he for, Nor _Cerberus_ h.e.l.l's Bandogg; His Service proves them Curs and Tikes, And his Renown a Terror strikes, In Water-Dog and Land-Dog.

'Gainst brave _Buquoy_ or stout _Dampiere_, He durst have Bark'd without Fear, Or 'gainst the hot Count _Tilly_: At _Bergen_ Leaguer and _Bredha_, Against the n.o.ble _Spinola_, He shew'd himself not silly.

He serv'd his Master at commands, In the most Warlike _Netherlands_, In _Holland_, _Zeeland_, _Brabant_: He to him still was true and just, And if his fare were but a Crust, He patiently would knab on't.

He durst t have stood Stern _Ajax_ Frown, When Wise _Ulysses_ talk'd him down In grave _Diebus_ _illis_; When he by cunning prating won The Armour from fierce Tellamon, That 'longed to _Achilles_.

Brave _Drunkard_, oft on G.o.d's dear Ground, Took such poor Lodging as he found, In Town, Field, Camp or Cottage; His Bed but cold, his Dyet thin, He oft in that poor case was in, To want both Meat and Pottage.

Two rows of Teeth for Arms he bore, Which in his Mouth he always wore, Which serv'd to fight and feed too: His grumbling for his Drum did pa.s.s, And barking (lowd) his Ordnance was, Which help'd in time of need too.

His Tail his Ensign he did make, Which he would oft display and shake, Fast in his p.o.o.p uprear'd: His Powder hot, but somewhat dank, His Shot in (scent) most dangerous rank, Which sometimes made him feared.

Thus hath he long serv'd near and far, Well known to be a _Dog of War_, Though he ne'er shot with Musket: Yet Cannons roar or Culverings, That whizzing through the welkin sings, He slighted as a Pus-Cat.

For Guns, nor Drums, nor Trumpets clang.

Nor hunger, cold, nor many a pang, Could make him leave his Master: In Joy, and in Adversity, In Plenty, and in Poverty, He often was a Taster.

Thus serv'd he on the _Belgia_ Coast, Yet ne'er was heard to brag or boast, Of Services done by him: He is no Pharisee to blow, A Trumpet, his good Deeds to show, 'Tis pity to bely him.

At last he Home return'd in Peace, Till Wars, and Jars, and Scars increase 'Twixt us, and _France_, in malice: Away went he and crost the Sea, With's Master, to the Isle of _Rhea_, A good way beyond _Callice_.

He was so true, so good, so kind, He scorn'd to stay at Home behind, And leave his Master frustrate; For which could I like _Ovid_ write, Or else like _Virgil_ could indite, I would his Praise ill.u.s.trate.

I wish my Hands could never stir, But I do love a thankful Curr, More than a Man ingrateful: And this poor Dog's Fidelity, May make a thankless Knave descry, How much that Vice is hateful.

For why, of all the Faults of Men, Which they have got from h.e.l.l's black Den, Ingrat.i.tude the worst is: For Treasons, Murders, Incests, Rapes, Nor any Sin in any shapes, So bad, nor so accurst is.

I hope I shall no Anger gain, If I do write a word Or twain, How this Dog was distressed; His Master being wounded dead, Shot, cut and slash'd, from Heel to Head, Think how he was oppressed.

To lose him that he loved most, And be upon a Foreign Coast, Where no Man would relieve him: He lick'd his Masters Wounds in Love, And from his Carka.s.s would not move, Altho' the sight did grieve him.

By chance a Souldier pa.s.sing by, That did his Masters Coat espy, And quick away he took it: But _Drunkard_ followed to a Boat, To have again his Master's Coat, Such Theft he could not brook it.

So after all his wo and wrack, To _Westminster_ he was brought back, A poor half starved Creature; And in remembrance of his cares, Upon his back he closely wears A Mourning Coat by Nature.

Live _Drunkard_, sober _Drunkard_ live, I know thou no offence wilt give, Thou art a harmless Dumb thing; And for thy love I'll freely grant, Rather than thou shouldst ever want, Each Day to give thee something.

Thou shalt be _Stellifide_ by me, I'll make the _Dog-star_ wait on thee, And in his room I'll seat thee: When _Sol_ doth in his Progress swing, And in the Dog-days hotly sing, He shall not over- heat thee.

I lov'd thy Master, so did all That knew him, great and small, And he did well deserve it: For he was Honest, Valiant, Good, And one that Manhood understood, And did till Death preserve it.

For whose sake, I'll his Dog prefer, And at the Dog at _Westminster_, Shall _Drunkard_ be a Bencher; Where I will set a work his Chops, Not with bare Bones, or broken sc.r.a.ps, But Victuals from my Trencher.

So honest _Drunkard_ now adieu, Thy Praise no longer I'll pursue, But still my Love is to thee: And when thy Life is gone and spent, These Lines shall be thy Monument, And shall much Service do thee.

_A_ SONG _Sung by Mrs._ AYLIFF _in the Play call'd_ Love Triumphant: _Or_, Nature will Prevail, _Sett by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.

[Music]

How happy's the Husband, how happy's the Husband, Whose Wife has been try'd, has been try'd, Not d.a.m.n'd to the Bed, not d.a.m.n'd to the Bed of an ignorant Bride; Secure of what's left, secure of what's left, he ne'er misses the rest, But where there's enough, enough, enough, but where there's enough, supposes a Feast: So foreknowing the Cheat, He escapes the Deceit; And in spight of the Curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest.

And in spight of the Curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest.

He resolves to be blest, he resolves, he resolves to be blest.

If Children are blessings, his comfort's the more, Whose Spouse has been known to be fruitful before; And the Boy that she brings ready made to his Hand, May stand him in stead for an Heir to his Land: Shou'd his own prove a Sot, When 'tis lawfully got As when e'er it is so, if it won't I'll be hang'd.

_A New_ SONG, _to the Tune of the Old Batchelor._

[Music]

If ever you mean to be kind, To me the Favour, the Favour allow; For fear that to Morrow should alter my Mind, Oh! let me now, now, now, If in Hand then a Guinea you'll give, And swear by this kind Embrace; That another to Morrow, as you hope to live, Oh! then I will strait unlace: For why should we two disagree, Since we have, we have opportunity.

_A_ SONG, _Set to Musick by Mr._ Will. Richardson.

[Music]

I know her false, I know her base, I know that Gold alone can move; I know she Jilts me to my Face, And yet good G.o.ds, and yet good G.o.ds I know I Love.

I see too plain and yet am Blind, Wou'd think her true, while she forsooth; To me and to my Rival's kind, Courts him, courts me, courts him, courts me, and Jilts us both.

_A_ Scotch SONG.

[Music]

Fye _Jockey_ never prattle more so like a _Loon_, No Rebel e'er shall gar my Heart to Love: _Sawney_ was a Loyal _Scot_ tho' dead and gone, And _Jenny_ in her _Daddy's_ way with muckle Joy shall move: Laugh at the _Kirk-Apostles_ & the Canting swarms, And fight with bonny Lads that love their Monarchy and King, Then _Jenny_ fresh and blith shall take thee in her Arms, And give thee twanty Kisses, and perhaps a better thing.

_A_ SONG _in the_ Fairy Queen. _Sung by Mrs._ Dyer.

[Music]