To The Tune Of "Nottingham Ale."

1

My Brothers of this world, of ev'ry Nation, Some maxims of prudence the Muse would inspire. Now restlessness reigns throughout every station; The low would be high, and the high would be higher; Now Freedom's the word, That unsheaths ev'ry sword, But don't be deceiv'd by such pretexts as these: 'Tis not Freedom, nor Slavery, That calls for your Bravery; 'Tis, only a Scramble for more Bread and Cheese.

2

When others some party are venting their rage on, Inflam'd by the news from Versailles or the Hague, Let Mum be your maxim ... beware of contagion ... For Anger is catching as Fever or Plague: Now Victuals is scanty, And Eaters are plenty, The former must rise, or the latter decrease; If in War they're employ'd, Till one half are destroy'd, The few that are left will have more Bread and Cheese.

3

Think not that Employment's the grand requisition; That if men had work it would make the times good; No man would want work if he lack'd not provision; The cry for Employ is the cry for more Food. Now every Trade, From the Gown to the Spade, Oppress'd by it's numbers feels Scarcity's squeeze; From the Prince to the Peasant, 'Tis true, tho' unpleasant, There must be fewer mouths, or else more Bread and Cheese.

4

Now our Hive is so pinch'd, both for room and for honey, The industrious Bees would fain kick out the Drones: But expose not your Life, for victuals nor money; 'Tis better you supperless sleep with whole bones, Then shuffle, and hustle, Keep clear of the bustle, Step out of the way-when they kick up a breeze: Preserve your own Life, Till the end of the strife: Then the few that are left will have more Bread and Cheese.

5

Think not Hell is let loose with a terrible mission, To punish a world for incor'gible Sin. Not from angry Gods, nor from deep Politicians, War nat'rally springs from the Passions of Men: 'Tis for room and for food, That Men fight and shed blood; When sufficiently thinn'd the inducement will cease: There'll be room for us all, When our numbers are small: And the few that are left will have more Bread and Cheese.

* * * * *

LYRIC ADDRESS TO DR. JENNER.

[Vaccine Inoculation.--Distress and Terrors of the Small Pox.--Dangers of Delay.]

* * * * *

1

Rejoice, rejoice, Humanity! The fell, destructive, sore Disease, The pest of ages, now can be, Repell'd with safety and with ease.

2

He well deserves his Country's Meed, By whom the peerless blessing came; And thousands from destruction freed, Shall raptur'd speak of JENNER'S name.

3

Yes, JENNER'S vigilance is crown'd; A sovereign antidote is given: The Blessing flows the Nations round; Free he diffus'd the gift of Heaven.

4

So well approv'd it's sure effect, To turn aside the' impending harm; And shall parental Love neglect To minister the precious balm?

5

Oh! no; beware of dire Delay, Ye, who caress your Infants dear: Defer it not from day to day, From month to month, from year to year:

6

Lest you, like me, too late lament, Your Life bereft of all it's joy; Clasp now the Gift so kindly sent, Lest you behold your dying Boy!

7

Lest you see with trembling Fear, With inexpressible Distress; The purple spots of Death appear, To blast your Hopes and Happiness:

8

Lest your keenest grief to wake, Like mine your suffering prattler say, 'Go, bid my Father come and take 'These frightful Spots and Sores away.'

9

Quickly from such fears be free: Oh! there is Danger in Delay! Say not to-morrow it shall be: ... To-morrow! no; to-day, to-day.

10

Embrace the Blessing Heaven hath sent; So shall you ne'er such pangs endure: Oh! give a Trifle to prevent, What you would give a World to cure.