# The COURIER so ROUGH, and so HAIRY.
A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SONG.

THE COURIER B—, unequall'd by any,
Who abroad, and at home, hath made sport, Sir,
When he found in our State, the Q— had some weight,
To England he straight did resort, Sir.

From here to MILAN you will not find a man,
With cheeks so befrizzled and hairy,
As the man just come o'er, to his lusty old ——,
The great Courier, Baron B——

When to Dover he came, Mother Wood the old Dame,
Bent to him with servile submission;

In an Alderman's Gown, she convey'd him to town,
To the Nunnery—a wholesome addition;

So much had been said, of this Man's hairy head,—
(Ye Ladies, the men cannot blame ye,)
When to windows you ran, to behold the Q—'s man,
The great Courier, Baron B——

When through Knightsbridge he travell'd the ladies all
gravell'd,

Cried, Lord, what a glorious venture;

I envy the Q— for each Polacco scene—

To practice, again he's sent here;

When up B— lawn, the chariot was drawn,

Maids of Honour, in whom could no shame be,

Cried, bless his sweet mien, he'll still ride for the Q—,

When he knelt to the Q—, Ladies peep'd from the screen,

What a Giant they cried, how divine, Sir;

Fit for R—! Sport—ah! who couldn't Court,

The GRAND MASTER of SAINT CAROLINE, Sir;

They yow'd from their hearts, if men of such parts,
In Italy could be found many;

Like a Q— they would ride, on a Donkey astride,
If mounted by men like B——

The Dames of intrigue, form'd themselves in a league,
To take him in turn as a right, Sir;

BILLY A—N declar'd, that he couldn't be spar'd,
From guarding his M— at night, Sir;

The lame K—P—L C—N, that gouty old Raven,
And others, the Muse thinks would shame ye;

Laid for work of all sort, none so capable for't
As the Courier, Baron B——

Ah! cried an old jade, what a man for a maid,
No wonder a Q—'s heart he reaches;

I envy her itching—when patiently stitching

The rent's in her COURIER's breeches:—

Then Mahomet's dances, obscene, lewd advances,
For which there can never a name be;

I envy the Bath, said a Virgin in wrath,

Which was water'd by COURIER B——

With aspect so bland, the Baron's soft hand,
He could turn to the meanest of uses;

The Fig-leaves would strip, from our first parents' hip,
And remedy household abuses:

At Villa-de-Este—as a Harlequin jest,—

And his Columbine, ah! it would shame ye,

When she shook her fat sides, and took rapid strides,

To disgrace with her COURIER B——

Two Sisters of Fame, unto B— came,
Long noted for very high feeding;

With heads made of W—, before him they stood,
Devoid of good sense, and good breeding:—

One swore "good and gracious," the Baron Mustacio's,
Made his face look so furious and flame'y,

They thought the Q— right, when she chose for her
knight,

The great Courier Baron B——

Reader, look at the plate, of the Baron's estate,

Who late as a Stable-boy shone, Sir,

And the heart of Old Age, has fir'd with love's rage,
And on it erected his throne, Sir:—

Virtue, modesty, grace, shrinks back in disgrace,

In B—D—GH-HOUSE none dare name ye;

Love, and live as you may, is THE RULE OF THE DAY,
Says the Q— and her COURIER B——

That a tit'led old b—, many fools should applaud,
Is a thing which we can't reckon new, Sir;

To the regions of night—if she would take her flight,

The Devil would then get his due, Sir :

With zeal the most fervent, each foul foreign servant,
To Hell would go lies fresh to frame ye;

And the Q—'s interest there, no doubt would take care,
Of her favorite, The COURIER B——

Let that WOODEN SLUGGIST, that old BREWER'S DRUGGIST,
Return to his Business once more, Sir;

In a Politic School, be no longer a fool,

And an advocote for an old W—, Sir:

For I swear by the Gods, the King has the odds

In his favour, for the loyal are many,

And the Q— will at length, have to trust to the strength,
Of her great Mighty COURIER B——