Sung by MªFAWCETT. at Covent Garden, in the Popular Farce of WE FLY BY NIGHT.

A BURLESQUE on Mª & MRS CLARK or the FLITCH of BACON.

The Spruce Mr. Clark¹
Was a young Essex spark,

A Farmer uxurious and rich;
He loved dearly to his life,
Fried bacon, and his wife;

And says he—"My duck well claim the Flitch!"
Mr. Clark, (twas in bed.)
Loved bacon, she said,

But she vow'd she'd no more see it spoil;
Dying—"Clark, you're quite mistaken
If you thinks to fry that bacon,

"I insists' that every bit shall be boil'd."

Mr. Clark tho' 'twas night,
Jump'd in bed bolt upright.

Quite enraged at his rib, by his side;
And says he—"Now madam mark!"
"Tho' I love you, Mr. Clark,

"I'll be damn'd if it shant all be fried!"
The dispute ran so high,

Twixt a boil and a fly,
That Clark, the' he argued it roundly;
Put an end to all turmoiling,

As to frying, or to boiling,
By basting Mr. Clark very soundly.

These turtles, no doubt,
Very soon found out

That their claim to the Flitch must be shaken:
They had children blythe as larks,
But all the little Clarks:

Were mark'd with a rasher of bacon.

Additional Verse,

But night growing long,
Puts an end to my song.

We'll suppose they have finished their rips;
And now this Bacon story,

Leaves them, in all their glory,

A snoring like two little Pigs.

Published April 1, 1866, by LAURIE & WHITTLE, 53 Fleet Street, London.

419