THE
New-Market SONG.
To the Tune of, Old Symon the King.
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I.
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THe Golden Age is come,
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The Winter storms are gone,
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The Flowers do spread, and Bloom,
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And smile to see the Sun;
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Who daily gilds each Grove,
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And calms the angry Seas,
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Dame Nature seems in Love,
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And all the World's at ease:
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You Rogue go saddle Ball,
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I'll to New-market scour,
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You never mind when I call,
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I shou'd have been there this hour;
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For there is all Sporting and Game,
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Without any Plotting of State;
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From Whigs, and another such Sham,
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Deliver us, deliver us, O Fate!
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Let's be to each other a Prey,
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To be cheated by ev'ry ones Lot;
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Or chous'd any sort of a way,
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But by another Damn'd Plot.
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Let Cullies that lose at the Race
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Go venture at Hazard, and win;
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And he that is bubbl'd at Dice,
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Recover't at Cocking again:
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Let Jades that are founder'd be bought,
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Let Jockeys play Crimp to make sport;
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For 'faith it was strange, methought,
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To see Vintner beat the Court.
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II.
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Each corner of the Town
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Rings with perpetual noise,
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The Oyster bawling Clown
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Joyns with hot Pudding-pies;
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And both in Consort keep,
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To vend their stinking Ware,
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The drowzy God of Sleep
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Hath no Dominion there.
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Hey boys! the Jockeys roar,
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If the Mare and the Gelding run,
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I'll hold you Five Guineys to Four
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He beats her, and gives half a stone.
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God d---me, quoth Bully, done,
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Or else I'm a Son of a Whore;
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And fain wou'd I meet with the man
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Would offer it, would offer it once more.
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See, see the damn'd Fate of the Town!
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A Fop that was starving of late,
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And scarcely cou'd borrow a Crown,
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Puts in to run for the Plate.
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Another makes chousing a Trade,
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And dreams of his Projects to come,
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And many a Crimp-match has made,
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By bribing another man's Groom.
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The Towns-men are Whigish, G. rot 'em,
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Their hearts are but Loyal by fits;
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For, shou'd you search to the bottom,
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They're as nasty as their Streets.
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III.
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But now all hearts beware;
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See, see on yonder Downs!
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Beauty now tryumphs there,
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And at this distance wounds:
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In the Amazonian Wars
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Thus all the Virgins shone,
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And, like the glittering Stars,
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Paid homage to the Moon.
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Love proves a Tyrant now,
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And there doth proudly dwell;
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For each stubborn heart must bow,
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He has found a new way to kill:
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For ne'r was invented before
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Such Charms of additional Grace,
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Nor has Divine Beauty such Pow'r
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In ev'ry, in ev'ry fair Face.
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Ods bud, cries my Countrey-man John,
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Was ever the like before seen?
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By Hats and by Feathers they've on,
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Ise took 'em e'n all for men:
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Embroider'd and fine as the Sun,
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Their Horses and Trappings of Gold;
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Such a sight I shall ne'r see again,
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If I live to a hundred years old.
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This, this is the Countreys discourse,
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All wondring at this rare sight:
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Then Roger go saddle my Horse,
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For I will be there tonight.
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