FOUND, last Winter, near the Turk’s Head Inn, which has not since been claimed, _a Lady’s Hat and Wig_, supposed to have been blown off the Head of the fair Owner whilst in a state of _Indescribability_.----Any Lady who can prove them to be her Property, may have them again, free of all Expence; but if not claimed and identified before the first of April next, they will be sold, and the Money given as a Donation to the Fever Hospital.
The Watchmen, ’tis granted, correctly and clever, Of the hour informs us, and state of the weather; But doubly delightful, their _calling_ would be, Were they all wise enough to take lessons from Me; O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes, Each Taylor leaps up at the sound; Off, to hear me, like roe bucks, they scampering set, So delighted, I’m told, that they _cabbage_ forget, When sonorous I publish all round.
To be sold by Auction, J.M. Auctioneer, a large and choice Collection of Materials for Sleeping,--consisting of a Quantity of old News; erroneous and clumsy Statements of recent events; heavy Critiques on Theatrical Performers and Plays _not_ performed; flat Pieces of uninteresting Biography; drowsy original Letters; dull Extracts from a northern _Caput Mortuum_ of Insipidity; a Number of Puns, Jests, and old Anecdotes, warranted free from Attic Salt, chigramatic Point, or any other Ingredient capable of rousing Attention or exciting Risibility; also, a Quantity of pure Tyne Mercury, which possesses the peculiar Property of never rising in the Barometer of public Estimation, higher than the Point Ennui.--The Sale to begin every Monday Evening at Eight o’Clock, and continue till all be sold.
I’m resolv’d--may I hope you’ll approve of the measure?-- A short course of Lectures to give, when I’ve leisure; In order to perfect these Orators’ graces, Who cry Dying Speeches and Lists of the Races: But, hark! ding dong, the Prompter’s Bell goes, I’m electrified by the sound; Mr Lindoe,[13] your summons I haste to obey, Yet Gratitude bids me one moment delay-- Just to thank my kind Patrons all round.
_By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle, and sung at the Newcastle Theatre Royal_.
On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Claret, and Sherry, Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare; ’Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry, And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care; But what vintage can fire us, Enrapture, inspire us, As Oxygen? what so delicious to quaff? It is so animating, And so titillating, E’en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh, For what can so fire us, &c.