508

Published 15. Aug? 1800 by LAURIE & WHITTLE..53. Fleet Street, London.

JOHN BULL IN TOWN;
OR,
BRITISH WOOL FOR EVER.

(Tune—" Madam Fig's Gala.")

Written and Sung by Mr. EMERY, with unbounded Applause, at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket.

I'LL sing you a bit of a song,
To a very old tune, I confess, sirs,
However, I'll not keep you long,
So, mayhap, you'll not like it the less, sirs:
I sing of the times, which are odd,
In our parts, as well as in London,
And all the way up, as I rode,
The cry was, we're all of us undone.
Rum te oodiddy, oodiddy, rum te
oodiddy, ri do.

The clearness of all things, they said,
Was the cause of their fretting and wailing;
Why, yes, says I, trav'ling's too bad;
But the coachman said, I *wanted* feeling;
The landlords chim'd in with the rest,
And said, meat, drink, and wine, were so
dear, sirs,
But I'm sure of that *joke* they'd the best,
As *my* pockets can prove very clear, sirs.

In town here, I find it's the case,
For *brass* it won't go very far, sirs,
But I'se so much in love with the place,
I'll not mar the sheep for the tar, sirs;
I'll see all the sights as I roam,
The Tower, the wax-work, and wenches,
And when th' money's all gone, I'll go
whoam,
But while it lasts—dang all expenses.
Rum te oodiddy, oodiddy, rum
te oodiddy, ri do.

My days grow as fast as my wheats,
My nights be as slow as the plough, sirs,
I cou'd pass all my time in the streets,
In gaping at pictures and shows, sirs:
And lasses seem all of th' same mind,
For go where ye will, ye see plenty,
And then they're so civil and kind,
I've been *spoke* to, I dare say by twenty.

Then I thought just before I went back,
I were like to see summut of dress, sirs,
For at fashion I'd always a knack,
Tho' that you may pratty well guess, sirs,
So I whips on my new Sunday coat,
And in Bond-street I swagger'd away, sirs,
Where the bucks were *all* *furr'd* to the
throat,
Tho' a beautiful sun-shiny day, sirs.
Rum te oodiddy, oodiddy, rum
te oodiddy, ri do.

The ladies, too, they look'd so comely,
Lord love 'em, they'd no pride at all, sirs,
For they wore their *red cloaks* just as homely,
As mother to market rides Ball, sirs.
Disdaining to wear *muffs* and *tippets*,
Those furbelows certainly once neat,
They've giv'n up them flappity flippers,
To *warm* the *poor beaus* in Bond-street.

Some blades about town, I've heard say,
All their fortunes oft wear on their back,
sirs;
And it's possible, too, that they may,
While wool fetches so much a pack, sirs;
A coat you can't get, if you're nice,
Under five or six pounds, fit to wear, sirs;
But a'fore I'd buy one at that price,
I'll be shot if I wou'dn't go bare, sirs,
Rum te oodiddy, oodiddy, rum
te oodiddy, ri do.

What signifies fine Spanish wool,
Our own makes us very good cloth, sirs,
And while proudly it's worn by John Bull,
There's no fear of the *Corsican moth*, sirs;
Old England's a bee-hive well stor'd,
We're ruled by a merciful king, sirs,
And shou'd France dare attack our rich hoard,
She'll find British bees wear a sting, sirs.