The City Caper: OR, The WHETSTONES-PARK Privateer.  
Being a true relation how a small●she Pickaroon lately sailed from the park, and Crusing abroad in the night, seized on a rich Marchant-man, whom she tempted to board her, and then she disabled his Ship, took all his Cargo, spoiled his Tackle, and burned his Rudder, etc.  
Tune of, Captain Digbies farewel.  
 

THe Jenny a small Pickaroon in the Park  
Last night went a Crusing abroad in the dark,  
Her impudence was her commander in chief,  
Her haven is Lust, and her Pilot a Thief:  
As swift as a Fish she did glide by the Strand,  
well rig'd, and well trimmed but she lacked to be man'd  
In her mouth a whole teer of Damme's there lies,  
Granades were shot out of her rolling eyes.   

The ruffling silk of her Petticoat Sails,  
The wind had full blown with its wantoning gales  
that wind which their meeting with contrary wind  
Sometiemes doth create hurricanes behind:  
Carreened and new pained most curiously,  
Her upermost Deck did appear to the eye,  
The curls of her Tower so like streamers do wave  
Men of War to engage her they seem for to brave   

But look on her Stem, she is right for the trade,  
Her Lading betwixt wind and water was laid,  
A Loof, and a Loof and most steady she steered,  
Yet often to alter her courses appeared,  
To Starboard and Lar-board, a baft and before,  
She glances an eye and she creeps by the shore,  
To look what unconveyed Vessels there came,  
That might help to add to her pilfering game.   
 

AT length from her maintop she gladly espies  
A merchantman far a head passing her by,  
O'er freighted was he, and ready to sink,  
His Hull was so much overstowed with drink:  
She straight makes all Sails she was able, and plies  
Her Oars to come up to so welcome a prize,  
Though's head was so light, she was lighter than he  
And had in an instant brought him by the Lee.   

Her mobled hood she turned up for a Flag,  
Sometimes she shears off & sometimes she doth lag  
She hauld him with hums, hut the dulpated Owl,  
Would not understand her, unless she fell foul:  
At last a salute with a Gun, in she pours,  
Your servant she cried and he answering yours:  
She boldly bore up, and for sometime they ride,  
Yard-arm to Yard-arm, and each side by each side.   

The battle between them now warmer was grown,  
And the grappling Irons were mutually thrown,  
She gave him her broadside of kisses so strong,  
There was no hope left of his holding out long:  
Yet on her design better colour to lay,  
She pretended to tack, as if steering away,  
Then seeming disabled to bear up again,  
She offers herself unto him to be ta'en.   

He sees her lie by, and then grows the more bold,  
To venture aboard, and to rumidge her hold,  
She freely receives him astern and invites,  
Him for to taste of her Cabin delights:  
From prow unto poop he did grope her all o'er,  
And finding her Gun to be full Cannon bore,  
For his Ammunition he swore was as large,  
And threatened to give her forthwith a due charge,   

She flung off her Glove as a Flag of defiance,  
And scorned to accept of his terms of compliance,  
Come bully, quoth she, I will stand thy fierce shot  
For already I've taken full many a knock;  
With that below Deck than he thundered in,  
And she for to tumble and toss did begin,  
As if that a tempest had rocked her pillow,  
And danced her vessel aloft on a billow.   

A calm then succeedeth this storming her honour,  
He soon had unladed his Cargo upon her,  
Before hand he gave her his contracted Guinies,  
And thought he ne'er sailed in so pleasant a Pinnace,  
But quickly that fancy he cursed when he found,  
How damnable deep she had run him on ground,  
For just in the fury and heat of the job,  
He ransacked Placket, she rifled his, Fob.   

With Watch, Gold, and jewels she slipped out of door  
Poor Voyager ne'er was so jilted before,  
His Cargo was lost, and his mainmast was torn  
His Tackling she spoiled, and his Rudder did burn  
Hence learn you young gallants that venture to see  
The danger of such Pickaroons for to flee,  
For vessels rich guilded with proud Silken Sails,  
Oft Fire ships do prove & bear death in their tails.    

Printed for P. Brooksby at the golden ball in Pie-corner.