THE Newmarket SONG.  
To the Tune of, Old Simon the King.  

I.  

THe Golden Age is come,  
The Winter storms are gone,  
The Flowers do spread, and Bloom,  
And smile to see the Sun;  
Who daily gilds each Grove,  
And calms the angry Seas,  
Dame Nature seems in Love,  
And all the World's at ease:   

You Rogue go saddle Ball,  
I'll to New-market scour,  
You never mind when I call,  
I should have been there this hour;   

For there is all Sporting and Game,  
Without any Plotting of State;  
From Whigs, and another such Shame,  
Deliver us, deliver us, O Fate!   

Let's be to each other a Prey,  
To be cheated be every one's Lot;  
Or choosed any sort of a way,  
But by another Damned Plot.  
Let Cullies that lose at the Race  
Go venture at Hazard, and win;  
And he that is bubbled at Dice  
Recover't at Cocking again▪   

Let Jades that are foundered be bought,  
Let Jockeys play Crimp to make sport;  
For i'faith it was strange, methought,  
To see Vintner beat the Court.    

II.  

Each corner of the Town  
Rings with perpetual noise,  
The Oyster bawling Clown  
Joyns with hot Pudding-pies;  
And both in Consort keep,  
To vend their stinking Ware,  
The drowsy God of Sleep  
Hath no Dominion there   

Hey boys! the Jockeys roar,  
If the Mare and the Gelding run,  
I'll hold you Five Guineas to Four  
He beats her, and gives half a stone   

God d— me, quoth Bully, 'tis done,  
Or else I'm a Son of a Whore;  
And fain would I meet with the man  
Would offer it, would offer it once more.   

See, see the damned Fate of the Town!  
A Fop that was starving of late,  
And scarcely could borrow a Crown,  
Puts in to run for the Plate.   

Another makes chousing a Trade,  
And dreams of his Projects to come,  
And many a Crimp-match has made,  
By bribing another man's Groom.   

The Townsmen are Whigish, G. rot 'em,  
Their hearts are but Loyal by fits;  
For, should you search to the bottom,  
They're as nasty as their Streets.    

III.  

But now all hearts beware;  
See, see on yonder Downs!  
Beauty now triumphs there,  
And at this distance wounds:   

In the Amazonian Wars  
Thus all the Virgins shone,  
And, like the glittering Stars,  
Paid homage to the Moon.   

Love proves a Tyrant now,  
And there doth proudly dwell;  
For each stubborn heart must bow,  
He has found a new way to kill:   

For ne'er was invented before  
Such Charms of additional Grace,  
Nor has Divine Beauty such Power  
In every, in every fair Face.   

God's bud, cries my Countryman john,  
Was ever the like before seen?  
By Hats and by Feathers they've on,  
Ise took'em e'en all for men:  
Embroidered and fine as the Sun,  
Their Horses and Trappings of Gold;  
Such a sight I shall ne'er see again,  
If I live to a hundred years old.   

This, this is the Country's discourse,  
All wondering at this rare sight:  
Then Roger go saddle my Horse,  
For I will be there to night.     

London, Printed Anno Domini MDCLXXXIV.