A NEW SONG FO 11 THE SEASON.
s of Brandy.
TUNE-.Droi If yon credit the stm it's Of Whigs or of Torivs, Our riches and glories Are all gone to pot ; Town, county, and village, Are destined four pillage- Good Lord ! what an ill age Is this we have got ! Inat with Tithe and Taxation, Poor-laws, Population, This broken-back'd Nation 31ust give up the ghost; For every spouter Is prating about her, And thinks he's cut out, Sir, For ruling the roast: 0 Johnny ! Johnny! What fright is upon ye?- Look after your money, And fasten your door : Whilst the aim of each faction Is place and exaction, You've the vast satisfaction Of paying the score.
Old CORBETT proposes All manner of doses- Marks each diagnosis, And physics us well But styptic or potion 11. ea't stop the commotion, Whilst in this land of Goshen Rank bondsmen we dwell :
Till the days are quite gone When "THE HOUSE" Can look on
And plunder poor ,Jolm Without fear of control, Won't quiet his soul : For Johnny, fur Johnny Is fond aids nucney; He lays up no honey To fatten a drone ; He knows that each faction Will live by exaction, Till, to his satisffietion,
pursu is his own.
If Johnny's best breeches Were crammed full of riches, Our Treasury speeches Would prove it a sin ; For they swear that the Nation Is nearest salvation, Which in debt and taxation Is up to the chin: And then, if one mentions Grants, places, or pensions, Or doubts their pretensions Who live by our gains, COOKER gives himself airs, C7FARLEV WETHERELL Swears,
And Sir Roam- declares
We are fiuols for our pains!
So Johnny, so Johnny, Look after your money; Lay tip no more honey To fatten the drones: The days are at hand When each man in the land Must make a hold stand For the goods that be owns.
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