PHANUEL BACON.

Reading-1700-1783.

This Doctor in Divinity is characterized as having been "possessed of exquisite humour with a strong inclinationfor punning." He published, The Kite, a poem, 1719. then five Dramatick Pieces; The Foxes-The Insignificants The Trial of the Time-killers-The Moral Quack-The Duellists, 1757: afterwards collected in one volume, and entitled, Humourous Ethicks. The Snipe and the Song of Similies, in the Oxford Sausage are his, and the Friar in the first Ballad, is intended for himself.

THE SNIPE,

A BALLAD.

Tune-Abbot of Canterbury.

I'LL tell you a Story, a Story that's true,
A Story that's dismal; yet comical too;

It is of a Friar, who some people think,

Tho' as sweet as a nut, might have died of a stink Derry down, down, hey derry down,

This Friar would often go out with his gun,

And tho' no great Marksman, he thought himself

one;

For tho' he for ever was wont to miss aim,
Still something, but never himself, was to blame.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

It happen'd young Peter, a friend of the Friar's, With legs arm'd with leather, for fear of the briars, Went out with him once, tho' it signifies not Where he hired his gun, or who tick'd for the shot.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Away these two trudged it, o'er hills and o'er dales, They popt at the Partridges, frighten'd the Quails, But to tell you the truth, no great mischief was done,

Save spoiling the Proverb, as sure as a Gun.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

But at length a poor Snipe flew direct in the way, In open defiance, as if he would say

"If only the Friar and Peter are there,

I'll fly where I list, there's no reason to fear," Derry down, down, hey derry down,

Tho' little thought he that his death was so nigh, Yet Peter by chance fetch'd him down from on high,

His shot was ramm'd down with a journal, I wist, The first time he charged so improper with Mist. Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Then on both sides the speeches began to be made, As-I beg your acceptance oh! no Sir indeed! I beg that you would Sir,-for both wisely knew, That one Snipe could ne'er be a supper for two, Derry down, down, hey derry down.

What the Friar declined in a most civil sort,
Peter slipt in his pocket, the De'el take him
for't!

But were the truth known 'twould plainly appear,
He oft-times had found a longer Bill there.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Hid in his pocket the Snipe safely lay,

While a week did pass over his head, and a day, Till the ropes for a toast too offensive were

grown,

And were smelt out by every nose but his own.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

The Friar look'd wholesome it must be agreed,

So no one could say, whence the stink should proced;

Where the stink might be laid, tho' no one could say, 'Tis certain he brought it and took it away.

Derry down, down, hey derry down,

At sight of the Friar began the perfume,
And scarce he appear'd, but he scented the room:
Snuff-boxes were held in the highest esteem,
And all the wry faces were made when he came.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

As the place he was in, it was call'd this and that; In his room 'twas a close-tool, or else a dead rat; In the fields where he walk'd for some carrion 'twas guess'd;

"Twas a fart, at the Angel, and pass'd for a jest. Derry down, down, hey derry down.

At length the suspicion fell thick on poor Tray, "Till he took to his heels and with speed ran away; Thought the Friar poor Tray, I'll remember thee

soon,

If I live to grow sweet, I will give thee a bone.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

For he knew that poor Tray was most highly

abused,

And if any, himself, thus deserved to be used:
For 'twas certainly he, whom else could he think;
'Twas certainly he, that must make all the stink;
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

So when he came home he sat down on his bed,.
His elbow at distance supported his head;
His body long while like a pendulum went;
But all he could do did not alter the scent.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Thus hypp'd, he got up, and pull'd off his cloaths, He peep'd in his breeches and smelt to his hose, And the very next morning, fresh cloaths he

put on,

All, all but a waistcoat, for he had but one.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

But changing his clothes did not alter the case, And so he stunk on for three weeks and three

days;

'Till to send for a Doctor he thought it most meet; For though he was not, yet his life it was, sweet. Derry down, down, hey derry down..