Tune, Derry Down.
I sing not of despots, or slaves who submit,
Not of farmer GEORGE, JENKY, DUNDAS, FOX, or PITT!
My ballad’s the bantling of laughter and gig,
’Tis of an old cock in a c—tified wig.
’Gainst the poll-tax of Pitt this old codger did rave,
Like a felon transported, it forc’d him to shave;
“Tho’ tried for my life,” said th’ old buck, I’ll rob
The tail of some DOLLY to build a brown bob.
Near Somerset House he fell in with a tit,
And he thought, for his purpose, the c—tling was fit;
But, when he examin’d her parts, d’ye see,
All the hair of her c—t would’nt make a toupee.
The same night he pick’d up a merry-ars’d wench,
With hair quantum suff. for the wisdom-wig’d bench;
Whilst on her back sleeping as fast as a top,
He with keen-cutting scissars her c—t made a crop.
Away went the thief, and the barber received
The booty, for which a fine cawl he had weav’d;
But strange! whilst old RAZOR the wig had in hand,
The pole in his breeches did constantly stand.
Well pleas’d with his plight, Razor laid by his work,
And lather’d the beard of his wife like a Turk;
Keep the wig, said she, Love, don’t expose it for sale,
’Tis a bob for your head, and a bob for my tail.
The wig frizz’d and curl’d, closely shav’d Codger’s nob;
Away went the barber to try on the bob;
But the bob waxing warm, Codger’s passions did rise,
Which brought tears in his breeches, instead of his eyes.
In rampant condition he flew to a fair,
And per chance met the Dolly he’d robb’d of her hair,
She whipp’d off the wig, cloath’d his parts with the cawl,
So in went his dry bob, and wet bob, and all.
Now we know to be true what anatomists state,
That the fountain of love is supplied from the pate;
’Twas the jasey provoking,—sirs, mark what I say,—
Made his fountain of love in love’s bason to play.
Then take my advice, ye old cocks of the game,
Whenever you find your wild passions grown tame;
Get a wig made of hair, from the spot ye all prize,
And in spite of your prudence your p—o will rise.