The Crops

Ye nymphs and swains, Attend my strains, Good humour prompts the lay, A lively song, And cheerful throng, Will chace dull care away; The times have been hard I allow; But fate smiles proportionate now, And fashion itself denotes plenty. See all around, What crops abound. For one of last year we have twenty Fine crops, Rich tops, Huzza, huzza, &c. What need we fear, This is the harvest of leap-year, &c.

The ladies too, As patriots true, Flock round the green cloth board, And sitting late, To help the state, Deal out their spousy's hoard, With arms and with elbows all bare, No pains nor expence do they spare, Content to be chain'd round the middle, With gilded head, Like gingerbread, All follow the card and the fiddle, Great haste, No waist, Huzza, &c.

If aid like this, Tho' Ma'ma and Miss From recreation springs, If bucks and fops, Produce such crops, We never can want good things; But should glit'ring belles shine in vain, And cruel informers complain, To stop the fair bank circulation, Our dogs will help, Tax every whelp, And puppies may prop the nation, Bow wow, That's how, Huzza, huzza, &c.