He cried, "I am a stupid elf,
To be jeer'd by all the people,

But I'll end my cares, and hang myself;"
So he hung himself in the steeple.

(Spoken.)-And there little Johnny Bell hung dangling along with the great Tom Bell, and all the rest of the bells, to the tune of

Ding dong, &c.

The ringers came, who rang so well,
And found, as the story tells,
Among the ropes, the rope where Bell
Was hanging among the bells;
We came to ring a merry round

For mutton and trimmings," they said;
"Our mutton's lost, but we have found,
A man, as mutton, dead !"

(Spoken. We pay no toll! said they, although we toll for pay; but, however, as Johnny Bell was a man of mettle, and a sound fellow, we'll give him a round gratis, to make all square, to the tune of-

Ding dong, &c

They cut him down, and quickly found
Poor Johnny was not dead,

His mortuum rope, 'tis true, was cut,

Not so his vital thread;

"Why did you do this act so dread?"

They one and all did cry,

Poor Johnny star'd at them, and said,
"He hung himself to try.”

(Spoken.)—"I know," said he, "good JUDGES try before they hang, but there's an exception with bells, for they must be hung before they're tried, or, else, how can the folks tell if they'll ring to the tune of

Ding dong, &c.

While Johnny Bell was hung 'tis true,

The steeple high to deck,

Mistress Bell was hanging too,

Round Major George's neck;

Johnny caught them both, and, to enrage her,

He thump'd the Major's nob,

For Johnny Bell he lov'd no Major,
But merry MAJOR BOB.

(Spoken. After this action against his person, which pu the Major very much in the Minor by proving Johnry a Bell that would strike in time, another was brought against his purse, whereby Johnny recovered sufficient DAMAGES to pay all DAMAGE, and cried, " since my wife and I can no more get at it ding dong, egad! the Bells shall," so he set them a ringing to the tune of-

Ding dong, &c.

This Mrs. Bell's soft heart soon broke,

And wonderful, but true,

When death her vital current stopp'd,

Her clapper it stopp'd too;
Cried John," there is no harmony
Springs from one Bell alone,

So I'll get another, whose tongue shall not
Be louder than my own."

(Spoken,)-He was a long time unsuccessful, but at length he found a dumb lady, who chimed in so well with him, that he gave her a ring in church, crying, "This is the best change ever made," for a DUMB BELL is a pleasant thing to exercise ones self upon, it opens the chest, expands the muscles, and makes a man sing to the tune of

Ding dong, &c.

BETSY BAKER.

Trip across the Alleghany Mountains to New-Orleans, with Betsy Baker.

BY MR. G. DIXSON.

My sweet-heart is a wonder quite,
And lately I did take her,

Her name you've heard before to-night,

Or else I do mistake her.

Others may be great and good,

On land, on sea, or lake, sir,
Few names have ever fairer stood
Than my sweet Betsy Baker.

We started off for New-Orleans,
'Cross Alleghany mountains;
The snow was deep as e'er was seen,
The water poured in fountains;
The coach it got upset quite flat,

Of course the bad coachmaker!
And knocked into a cock'd hat,
Was my sweet Betsy Baker.

The ice ran down the Ohio,
The steamboat it impeded,
At last we got away from snow,
Of which we so much needed;
No accident did us befall,

Tho' steamboat was a shaker,
I was not then blown up at all,
Except by Betsy Baker.

At last arrived at Louisville,
We thought ourselves quite lucky
To get so far down our route,
And lodge safe in Kentucky:
My wife she wished to see the men ;
Half horse, half alligator,

I fearful was that they might gouge
My lovely Betsy Baker.

Down Mississippi we did way,

The moon in her first quarter,
One night the boat ran on a snag,
And filled her full of water;
The passengers both great and small,
Enough to shock a quaker,

Had scarcely any clothes at all,
What a sight for Betsy Baker.

At last arrived at New-Orleans,
The town was in our view, sirs,
A Frenchman, smart as e'er was seen,
Began to parlez vous, sirs,
Says he, Mister Permitey mois
Mademoiselle to take, ah,

Says I-I will he damned if you

Shall touch my Betsy Baker.

I went into a masquerade

To see the pretty souls, sirs,
There saw ladies fine parade,

Think they're called creoles, sirs,
They walked about and danced so fine,
And waltzed and cut a caper,
But I was fetched home in a thrice,
By my sweet Betsy Baker.

ODE

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE

FRENCH REVOLUTION,

IN THE CITY OF NEW-YORK, NOV. 25 1830.

BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH, PRINTER

TUNE Marseilles Hymn.

I.

O'er regal domes, renown'd in story,
The trinal banner proudly waves;
And France resumes the march of glory,
Her gallant sons no longer slaves;
With tyrants vainly had they pleaded-
But when the PRESS in thunder spoke,
It burst their chains with lightning-stroke,
And peace and liberty succeeded.

CHORUS.

Then swell the choral strain,

To hail the blest decree;

Rejoice! Rejoice! the PRESS shall reign,
And all the world be free.

II.

All hail, renown'd chivalric nation!
Land of the Olive and the Vine;
Inspired with kindred emulation,
Our bosoms glow with joy like thine.
Columbia's grateful sons can never
Forget, that in her darkest hour
She owned to Gallic arms the power
To disenthrall her PRESS for ever.

Then swell the choral, &c.

The day which saw the sceptre shiver'd
And hail'd Columbia truly free,
From every hireling foe delivered,
We consecrate to joy and thee :
For tyrants tremble now before thee,
And a free PRESS, the beacon-light
That burst upon oppression's night,
Has spread eternal glory o'er thee.

Then swell the choral, &c.

IV.

Thy chartered rights, with lawless daring.
Beneath oppressors' feet were trod,
Till startled despots heard, despairing,

The people's voice, the voice of God!
Their sovereign will was loudly spoken-
The PRESS proclaim'd it to the world,
Till freedom's ensign waved unfurl'd,
And Gallia's galling chains were broken.

Then swell the choral, &c.

V.

Thy gallant band of youthful heroes,
Roused by their bleeding country's prayers,
Undaunted hurl'd on ruthless Neros,

The vengeance due to crimes like theirs.

Too late they see their fatal error

Their hireling guards by thousands fall-
The PRESS resigns its types for ball,

And despots fly the scene in terror!

Then swell the choral &