The Rattle. a Song

I'll sing you a ballad—O, that it were merry, Tho' not of the abbot of Canterbury! Nor yet of those heroes presume I to sing, Who at Windsor once frighten'd the ghost of a king. Derry down, &c.

Nor sing I the fiddle which oft at Longleate Hath charm'd all its hearers with music so sweet; Nor that merry Bard will I mention at all, Who to the same tune took a trip to Down-hall. Derry down, &c.

My ballad is not, full soon you will know it, Of abbot, or hero, or fiddle, or poet, But it is of a sprightly most whimsical Rattle, Who exceeds all us women in chat and in prattle. Derry down, &c.

This Rattle of Rattles, if he is inclin'd, Can suit well his converse to every one's mind, He never is foolish, not wise out of season, To the gay he chats nonsense, to the grave he talks reason. Derry down, &c.

The worst thing I ever observ'd in this Rattle, Is that to the Priesthood he's apt to give battle; I'm quite out of tune when he these makes a farce on, For who knows but I may in time wed a Parson. Derry down, &c.

We women are apt to digress, as I find, When dear self, or a Parson comes into one's mind, May the Reverends in safety, and sanctity rest all, And may I continue at Erthig a Vestal. Derry down, &c.

But as I was saying, this Rattle hath said, If he e'er weds again, he will have an old maid; How happy is he, for old spinsters are plenty, Tho' I'm not of that list, for I never saw twenty. Derry down, &c.

With me his acquaintance may sing and rejoice, That he makes so judicious, so decent a choice; 'Tis so natural too, for we frequently see, That Ivey will cling to an old wither'd tree. Derry down, &c.

Of all sorts of wit, he's most fond of a ballad, So asses eat thistles—instead of a sallad; Tho' he thinks that my innocent pen cannot hurt, He may thank me for making my ballad so short. Derry down, &c.

Tho' short as it is, he will think it too long, Should it chance for awhile to silence his tongue; To be silent he hates, as the De'el holy water, For all his delight is in chat and in laughter. Derry down, &c.

A ballad he ask'd, and a ballad here is; But if he should chance to take something amiss, He must ev'n thank himself for insisting upon it, So here ends my ballad, or for rhyme's sake, my sonnet. Derry down, &c.