Clever TOM CLINCH going to be banged. A Written in the Year 1727. Sclever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, Rode ftately through Holbourn to die in his calling; He stopt at The George for a bottle of fack, And promis'd to pay for it when he came back His waistcoat and stockings, and breeches were white; His cap had a new cherry ribband to tye't. The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, And faid, Lack-a day! he's a proper young man. But, as from thewindows the ladies he spy'd, Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each fide; And, when his laft fpeech the loud hawkers did cry. He fwore from his cart, it was all a damn'd lye. The hangman for pardon fell down on his knce; Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: Then faid, I muft fpeak to the people a little, But I'll fee yon all damn'd before I will *whittle. My honeft friend Wild may he long hold his place, He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, Nor flip this occafion to follow your trade; My confcience is clear, and my fpirits are calm, And thus I go off without pray'r-book or pfalm; Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch. *A cant word for con feffing at the gallows. The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was hanged for receiving ftolen goods. On On cutting down the old THORN at MARKET-HILL*. Written in the Year 1727. AT Market-bill, as well appears By chronicle of ancient date, Hither came ev'ry village-maid, + Sir Archibald that val'rous knight, (Sir Archibald, whose fav'rite name A village near the feat of Sir Arthur Achefon, where the dean fometimes made a long vifit. - + Sir Archibald Achefon, fecretary of state for Scotland. I Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander earl of Sterling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry. But ; But time with iron teeth I ween, Cuts down with facrilegious hand. And mother Tellus trembled fo, The fylvan pow'rs with fear perplex'd, The magpye, lighting on the flock, The owl forefaw, in penfive mood, To feek a more fecure retreat. Laft Laft trotted forth the gentle fwine, But from the root a dismal groan This prophecy he trembling hears. "Thou chief contriver of my fall, "Relentless dean, to mischief born; "My kindred oft thine hide fhall gall, Thy gown and caffock oft be torn. "And thy confed'rate dame, who brags "That fhe condemn'd me to the fire, "Shall rent her petticoats to rags, And wound her legs with ev'ry briar. "Nor |