My Lent'n Fridays, I cannot profane,
At Covent Garden, or at Drury Lane:
So facred thus, no English jest there bides,
Yet fing of laughter, holding both his fides;
Or facred or profane, to please so pliant,
Now David's harp, then Polypheme the giant.
I'll hear wife Lords fo mighty in debate,
Mourn the grey hairs of mighty northern Kate;
See noble Peers with fifts a porter drub,
And fee a Peer that is---a famous Scrub;
Gay coach, outfide all gold, and paint, I'll find,
With groom in dirty boots, I'll fee it lin'd,
While three fine gentlemen ftep up behind.
See ancient virgins weep for poor Jane Shore,
Yet turn the starving infant from their door;
Yet 'mongst small actions mixt, are noble deeds,
In fashions garden, flourish flowers and weeds;
Oh let me not in an unguarded hour,

E'er chufe the weed and fling away the flow'r ;
You know good manners or report belies you,
So with a Quaker's curtfey I'll furprise you.

}

THE

WICKLOW MOUNTAINS,

IN THREE ACTS.

PERFORMED AT THE

THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN,

IN 1795.

THE MUSIC BY MR. SHIELD.

So, once again have I got up among the moun tains of Wicklow; aye, yonder is the very cabin where I fupped my bread and milk a little chubby cheek'd yonker.-Ob, but I'm every hour to expect Mr. Donnybrook, by Sir Richard's advice, my guardian that is to be, and his charming daughter from Dublin.-William, remember you're not to drop my name here.

Serv. Never fear, Sir.

Frank. Well, return to the public-house where we ftopt, open the portmanteau, and lay out my drefs.