er this Stone here lies _Gabriel John_;
Happy was I at the fight of Fair _Phillis_,
What should a Young Woman do with an old Man?

There's old Father _Peters_ with his Romish Creatures,
There was an old Woman sold Pudding and Pies,
Cannons with Thunder shall fill them with Wonder,
I once lov'd a Lass that had bright rowling Eyes:
There's my Maid _Mary_, she does mind her Dairy,
I took to my Heels and away I did run;
And bids him prepare to be happy to Morrow,
Alass! I don't know the right end of a Gun.

My Life and Death does lye both in your Power,
And every Man to his Mind, _Shrewsbury_ for me;
On the Bank of a Brook as I sat Fishing,
Shall I Die a Maid and never Married be:
Uds bobs let _Oliver_ now be forgotten,
_Joan_ is as good as my Lady in the Dark;
Cuckolds are Christians Boys all the World over,
And here's a full Bumper to _Robin John Clark_.

_The_ TROOPER _Watering his_ NAGG.

[Music]

There was an old Woman liv'd under a Hill,
Sing Trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo;
She had good Beer and Ale for to sell,
Ho, ho, had she so, had she so, had she so;
She had a Daughter her name was _Siss_,
Sing Trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo;
She kept her at Home for to welcome her Guest,
Ho, ho, did she so, did she so, did she so.

There came a Trooper riding by,
Sing trolly, _&c._
He call'd for Drink most plentifully,
Ho, ho, did he so, _&c._
When one Pot was out he call'd for another,
Sing trolly, _&c._
He kiss'd the Daughter before the Mother,
Ho, ho, did he so, _&c._

And when Night came on to Bed they went,
Sing trolly, _&c._
It was with the Mother's own Consent,
Ho, ho, was it so, _&c._
Quoth she what is this so stiff and warm,
Sing trolly _&c._
'Tis Ball my Nag he will do you no harm,
Ho, ho, wont he so, _&c._

But what is this hangs under his Chin,
Sing trolly, _&c._
'Tis the Bag he puts his Provender in,
Ho, ho, is it so, _&c._
Quoth he what is this? Quoth she 'tis a Well,
Sing trolly, _&c._
Where Ball your Nag may drink his fill,
Ho, ho, may he so, _&c._

But what if my Nag should chance to slip in,
Sing trolly, _&c._
Then catch hold of the Grass that grows on the brim,
Ho, ho, must I so, _&c._
But what if the Grass should chance to fail,
Sing trolly, _&c._
Shove him in by the Head, pull him out by the Tail,
Ho, ho, must I so, _&c._

_A Trip to the_ Jubilee. _The Tune by Mr._ R. Loe.

[Music]

Come bring us Win