Strange and VVonderful News from NEVVBERRY: Concerning a Youth that was Choak'd by Eating of Custard.

Being a New Ballad to that New Tune, called; God Prosper long our Noble King, &c.
LEt Totnam Court and Islington,
and Paddington also,
Attend with Lamentation,
unto a tale of woe.
Although 'tis strange, 'tis true, no doubt,
there's nothing can be newer,
It is into the News-book put,
there's nothing can be truer.
Of many terrible sorts of Death
you have often heard I wiss,
But never heard in all my life,
by such a cause as this.
At Newberry, that fatal place,
where many a man was Mustur'd,
And lost his Life, O there it was
a Youth was choak'd with Custard.
There liv'd this pretty dapper youth,
who was of middle stature;
Chuf was his Name in very truth,
and tender was his nature.
Two pence in Custard did him choak,
and brought his Courage down;
When Death took him, good faith he took
the Cream of all the Town.
He with a Boy a Wager laid
He would a Custard eat,
Before the Boy should run so far,
and back again retreat.
The people all assembled were
to see this piece of Wit,
They both did meet, and started fair,
one stept, the other bit.
The Nimble Lad did run and laugh,
so through the way he scour'd,
That he was coming back e're half
the Custard was devour'd.
The Eating Champion seeing this,
much like Jack Puddings Bastard,
Thrust t'other half into his Throat,
so Choak't himself with Custard.
The suffocating Custard wrought
within his Gullet so,
That to the ground he tumbled down;
a woful overthrow.
A spark of Fire consumes a House,
small Poison makes one saint,
A Sword will mortifie a Whale,
a Mouse, an Elephant.
But never did I know the Chuff
under my Lord Mayors roof,
Unless they brought it scalding hot,
that was not Custard proof.
Let this a Warning be to you
that go to Islington,
Custard will kill, Experience shows,
as quick as any Gun.
Beware you that on Holydays
abroad do feast your Wives,
For you that feed on Custard go
in danger of your Lives.


To the Tune of Whittingtons Bells.
∆≤nder this Stone lyes one
Who wrought his Finis,
And with a Trick of's own
was kill'd with kindness:
He dy'd in such a case,
no Death can match it,
A Custard to him was
Pap with a Hatchet.
He might as well have been
brain'd with a Silk Fan,
As to lose his life in
a little Milk-pan.
Though the great Guns and Pikes
have loudly bluster'd,
There is no Weapon like
Long Spoon and Custard.

LONDON, Printed for Charles Corbet. MDCLXXXIV.

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