Here’s success to the jury who acted so clever, Do you think they’d be bias’d, oh no, they would never, Drink their health in a bumper, may they live for ever, And we hope they will never go mad. When the trial was over, young Windham not fear’d them, And the public as soon as ever they near’d him, Hurrah’d him right well, and so heartily cheer’d him, And declar’d that he never was mad.
H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.
Oh, here’s a jolly lark, Some strife perhaps there may be, A Marquis had a wife, Oh, such a blooming lady; She married him they say, For title, and remember, ’Twas lovely Miss May, And old Mister December.
Old Fidgets lost his wife, And sorely now does grumble When he goes to bed at night, He’s nobody to fumble.
The old man is seventy eight, As sprightly as a donkey, Such a noble friend is he To the Italians & the monkeys. The lady he did wed, He married her one Monday, Blooming, young, and fair, Only seventeen come Sunday.
He cuddled her so sweet, The damsel he did flatter, Singing I for Bobbing Joan, And she for stoney batter; An angel from above, The poor old man did think her, But oh dear, she ran away One morning with a tinker.
The old Marquis lost his wife, And he was in a sad mess, Miss was a lady gay, An Irish Marchioness; Lovely seventeen, He could not discard her-- Wedded she thought she’d been Unto her great grandfather.
Five hundred bright pounds, The damages, that got he, Against the naughty man Who robbed him of his lady. The lawyers they did chaff, What fun in court, oh law there They caught her snug in bed, In Sheffield town, in Yorkshire.
This blooming damsel fair, Has such a lovely pimple, Such pretty chesnut hair, And nigh her mouth a dimple; A bustle made of gold, And I can now remember, A crinoline to hold Poor old Mister December.
Old men, take my advice, Or taken in you may be, If you should wed a nice, Sweet frolicsome young lady; A gay, young Mister June, Perhaps they may connive at, To play to her a tune, Just now and then in private.
The poor old man is mad, Though he has lots of riches, He wants another wife, Or a larger pair of breeches; Though past three score and ten, If one should meet his fancy. He says he’ll marry again,-- Oh! don’t I love my Nancy.