| Citation |
VGW(PA.737.018
4-11 Feb 1737:42 (28)
A NEW SONG.
[1]
How hard is my fate!---to be over match'd,
O good sir, forbear! let me not be dispatch'd;
Have pitty on me, -----or at least on your self,
Your writing as yet, has but prov'd you an elf.
Derry down, &c.
[2]
Tho'your numbers are sweet, ---your musick smells rank,
And by fatal mistake, -----she has play'd you a prank:
At once take advice, and pray try her no more,
She only design'd it to play you the wh----.
Derry down, &c.
[3]
Take this for a truth, you must pick well your ears,
Nay syringe them too, e'er your song teach the spheres;
The tune you will leave to some other, if wise,
Or Midas's lugs, will be thought your just prize.
Derry down, &c.
[4]
The sublime! I well know, you fain wou'd essay,
But grub, a pox on it, still comes in the way;
Bombast stands for wit, and low thoughts for a jest,
Like an unseason'd dish, ----without the least zest.
Derry Down, &c.
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