THE QUATORSE, OR THE Sorrowful Lamentation of the Preston Gentlemen in the Press-yard, for the Loss of P. W. Made by the Author, while he was playing at Picket.  
In Imitation of Habby Simson.  

THE Press-yard now may cry Alace,  
For she has lost her greatest Grace,  
And all within that dismal Place  
Themselves bemoan;  
Not one can show a cheerful Face.  
Sen Pere's gone.   

Now wha shall Play Corellis' Airs:  
Make Tables Dance with Stools and Chairs  
Like Lads and Lasses at our Fairs,  
As oft he's done?  
But now Alace w' have no such Play'rs,  
Sen Pere's gone.   

Such Skill he had in musics Arts  
So exquisitely played his Parts,  
That oft he made more bleeding Hearts  
With's Bow alone,  
Than Cupid with Ten Thousand Darts;  
But now he's gone.   

Whilst Pere stayed, we were resigned  
No murmuring then, not one repined  
Altho' like Thieves we were confined  
To th' middle ston.  
But wha can Ease the troubled Mind,  
Sen Pere's gone?   

Whilst Pere stayed we feared no Evil,  
From fawning Rowss or surly revel.  
Both then were grown most wondrous Civil  
By music won;  
But now begin to play the Devil,  
Sen Pere's gone.   

The Captain too by Nature rough  
As Grenadier gird up in Buff;  
As smooth as Silk, or softest Stuff  
He then was grown;  
But now he's turned Morose and Gruff,  
Sen Pere's gone.   

When doomed to die was bonny Wood end,  
And likely was to make no good end,  
Instead of Paul, he did attend,  
His Tunes alone  
Could raise the drooping Heart of's Friend  
But now he's gone.   

His music all from Ills protected,  
And cured those with Plague infected;  
So sweetly he each Note dissected  
With sprightly Tone:  
But now Alace 'tis all neglected,  
Sen Pere's gone.   

O wa is me! quoth, Thomas Riddell,  
My music now must all lye idle  
For want of Pere's Pipe and Fiddle.  
With grief and moan  
My farting Pipe is burst i'th' middle,  
Sen Pere's gone.   

Pere, who could my Mirth enhance,  
And make my Dog and me to Dance,  
Or raise me from the deadly Trance,  
When could as ston.  
O wa is me unhappy Chance!  
Poor Pere's gone.   

When e'er we met for to be cheery,  
Wha could divert us, Wha but Pere?  
So blithe he was, so Brisk and Airy,  
'twas he alone,  
And only he could make us Merry,  
But now he's gone.   

Ay when he barked like the Dogs  
The Geitlings leaped and skip'd like Frogs,  
Or Irish tripping over the Bogs.  
But now ther's none  
That can divert the little Rogues,  
Sen Pere's gone.   

He did not much delight to Scribble,  
As some, who when at wit they Nibble;  
But as for Pun, or quarter Quibble,  
out done by none.  
To vie with him no Man was able;  
But now he's gone.   

Pere who was without compare;  
The Loss of him what Man can bear,  
And not let fall a mournful Tear?  
In saddest Tone,  
Let all his Friends their Grief declare,  
Sen he is gone.   
FINIS.