he Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight
_Ah hone_, &c.

What we shall do, the Lord himself knows,
Our Army is beaten without any blows;
Our M----r begins to feel some remorse,
For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse.
_Ah hone_, &c.

If the _French_ do but come, which is all our Hopes,
We'll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes;
If _London_ stands to us as _Bristol_ has done,
We need not fear but _Orange_ must run.
_Ah hone_, &c.

But if they prove false, and to _Orange_ they scower,
By G---- all the M---- shall play from the _Tower_;
Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown,
The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down.
_A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree._

_The Character of a_ Seat's-man; _written by one of the_ CRAFT: _To be
Sung on_ CRISPIN-Night. _Tune_ Packington's Pound.

[Music]

I am one in whom Nature has fix'd a Decree,
Ordaining my Life to happy and free;
With no Cares of the World I am never perplex'd,
And never depending, I never am vex'd:
I'm neither of so high nor so low a degree,
But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me;
My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease,
I go where I will, and I work when I please:
I live above Envy, and yet above Spight,
And have Judgment enough for to do my self right;
Some greater and richer I own there may be,
Yet as many live worse, as live better than me,
And few that from Cares live so quiet and free.

When Money comes in I live well 'till it's gone,
So with it I'm happy, Content when I've none:
I spend it Genteelly, and never repent,
If I lose it at Play, why I count it but Lent:
For that which at one time I Lose among Friends,
Another Night's Winnings still makes me amends:
And though I'm without the first Day of the Week,
I still make it out by Shift or by Tick:
In Mirth at my Work the swift Hours do pass,
And by _Saturday_ Night, I'm as rich as I was.

Then let Masters drudge on, and be Slaves to their Trade,
Let their Hours of Pleasure by Business be stay'd;
Let them venture their Stocks to be ruin'd by Trust,
Let Clickers bark on the whole Day at their Post:
Let 'em tire all that pass with their rotified Cant,
"Will you buy any Shoes, pray see what you want";
Let the rest of the World still contend to be great,
Let some by their Losses repine at their Fate:
Let others that Thrive, not content with their store,
Be plagu'd with the Trouble and Thoughts to get more.

Let wise Men invent, 'till the World be deceived,