Sung before his Majesty at NEW-MARKET.
To the Tune of, Old Simon the King.
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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 should 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 be 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 loose 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 Jockies play Crimp to make sport,
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For 'Faith it was strange methought,
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To see Tinker beat the Court.
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[2]
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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 ye 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 would 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 scarce 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 mans Groom.
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The Towns-men are Whiggish G. rot'em,
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Their Hearts are but Loyal by Fits;
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For should you search to the bottom,
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They're as nasty as their Streets.
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[3]
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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're 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 Country-man John,
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Was ever the like before seen?
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By Hats and by Feather they've on,
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I'se took them 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're 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 to Night.
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