THE New-Market SONG.

To the Tune of, Old Symon the King.


THe Golden Age is come,
The Winter storms are gone,
The Flowers do spread, and Bloom,
And smile to see the Sun;
Who daily gilds each Grove,
And calms the angry Seas,
Dame Nature seems in Love,
And all the World's at ease:
You Rogue go saddle Ball,
I'll to New-market scour,
You never mind when I call,
I shou'd have been there this hour;
For there is all Sporting and Game,
Without any Plotting of State;
From Whigs, and another such Sham,
Deliver us, deliver us, O Fate!
Let's be to each other a Prey,
To be cheated be ev'ry ones Lot;
Or chous'd any sort of a way,
But by another Damn'd Plot.
Let Cullies that lose at the Race
Go venture at Hazard, and win;
And he that is bubbl'd at Dice
Recover't at Cocking again▪
Let Jades that are founder'd be bought,
Let Jockeys play Crimp to make sport;
For 'faith it was strange, methought,
To see Vintner beat the Court.


Each corner of the Town
Rings with perpetual noise,
The Oyster bawling Clown
Joyns with hot Pudding-pies;
And both in Consort keep,
To vend their stinking Ware,
The drowzy God of Sleep
Hath no Dominion there
Hey boys! the Jockeys roar,
If the Mare and the Gelding run,
I'll hold you Five Guineys to Four
He beats her, and gives half a stone
God d—me, quoth Bully, 'tis done,
Or else I'm a Son of a Whore;
And fain wou'd I meet with the man
Would offer it, would offer it once more.
See, see the damn'd Fate of the Town!
A Fop that was starving of late,
And scarcely cou'd borrow a Crown,
Puts in to run for the Plate.
Another makes chousing a Trade,
And dreams of his Projects to come,
And many a Crimp-match has made,
By bribing another man's Groom.
The Towns-men are Whigish, G. rot 'em,
Their hearts are but Loyal by fits;
For, shou'd you search to the bottom,
They're as nasty as their Streets.


But now all hearts beware;
See, see on yonder Downs!
Beauty now tryumphs there,
And at this distance wounds:
In the Amazonian Wars
Thus all the Virgins shone,
And, like the glittering Stars,
Paid homage to the Moon.
Love proves a Tyrant now,
And there doth proudly dwell;
For each stubborn heart must bow,
He has found a new way to kill:
For ne'r was invented before
Such Charms of additional Grace,
Nor has Divine Beauty such Pow'r
In ev'ry, in ev'ry fair Face.
Ods bud, cries my Countrey-man Iohn,
Was ever the like before seen?
By Hats and by Feathers they've on,
Ise took'em e'n all for men:
Embroider'd and fine as the Sun,
Their Horses and Trappings of Gold;
Such a sight I shall ne'r see again,
If I live to a hundred years old.
This, this is the Countreys discourse,
All wondring at this rare sight:
Then Roger go saddle my Horse,
For I will be there to night.

London, Printed Anno Domini MDCLXXXIV.

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