SONG. The BOOKS of BRIGHTON. Tune, Cold and raw the North doth blow

The country is moorish, The natives are boorish, Tho' ignorant, yet they are cunning, These are excellent places, If you're of false faces, With abundance of fleecing and funning.

I wish you much pleasure, And mirth without measure, My wishes, I'm sure they are fervent, You may all believe me, I do not deceive ye, So believe me your most humble servant.