Songs from Inkle and Yarico published in the daily press

i. These songs were printed in the Public Advertiser, Aug. 6, 1787

Act I.

DUETT. Mr. Bannister, jun. and Mrs. Kemble.

inkle. O Say, simple maid, have you form’d any notion
Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean?
When winds whistle shrilly, ah! won’t they remind you,
To sigh with regret for the grot left behind you?

yarico. Ah! no, I cou’d follow, and fail the world over,
Nor think of my grot, when I look at my lover!
The winds which blow round us, your arms for my pillow,
Will lull us to sleep, whilst we’re rock’d by each billow.

both. O say then, my true love, we never will sunder,
Nor shrink from the tempest, nor dread the big thunder;
Whilst constant we’ll laugh, at all changes of weather,
And journey all over the world both together.

Act II.

song. Mrs. Bannister. (By Dr. Arnold)

Freshly now the breeze is blowing;
As yon ship at anchor rides,
Sullen waves incessant flowing,
Rudely dash against the sides.
So my hear, its course impeded,
Beats in my perturbed breast;
Doubts like waves—by waves succeeded,
Rise, and still deny it rest.

song. Miss George. (By Dr. Arnold)

Remember when we walk’d alone,
And heard so gruff the lion growl,
And when the moon so bright it shone,
We saw the wolf look up and howl;
I led you well, safe to our tell,
While tremblingly
You said to me,
And kiss’d so sweet—dear Wowski tell,
How cou’d I live without ye?
But now you come across the sea,
And tell me here no monsters roar;
You’ll walk alone, and leave poor me!
When wolves to fright you howl no more.
But, ah! think well on our old cell,
While tremblingly
You kiss’d poor me,
Perhaps you’ll say—dear Wowski tell,
How can I live without ye?

song. Mrs. Kemble (By Dr. Arnold)

Our grotto was the sweetest place!
The bending bows, with fragrance blowing,
Wou’d check the brook’s impetuous pace,
Which murmer’d to be stopt from flowing.
’Tis there we met, and gaz’d our fill;
Ah! think onthis, and love me still.
’Twas then my bosom first knew fear,
Fear to an Indian maid a stranger;
The war song arrows, hatchet, spear,
All warn’d me of my lover’s danger.
For him did cares my bosom fill;
Ah! think on this, and love me still.

song. Mr. Edwin (By Dr. Arnold)

A clerk I was in London gay,
Jemmy linkum feedle,
And went in boots to see the play,
Merry fiddlem tweedle.
I march’d the lobby, twirl’d my stick,
Diddle, daddle, deedle;
The girls all cry’d, “He’s quite the kick!”
Oh Jemmy linkum feedle.
Hey, for America I sail,
Yankee doodle deedle;
The sailor boys cry’d “smoak his tail!”
Jemmy linkum feedle.
On English belles I turn’d my back,
Diddle, daddle, deedle;
And got a foreign fair, quite black,
Oh twaddle, twaddle, tweedle!
Your London girls, with roguish trip,
Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle,
Boast their pounting under-lip,
Fiddle, faddle, feedle.
My Wows would beat a hundred such,
Diddle, daddle, deedle,
Whose upper-lip pouts twice as much,
Oh pretty double wheedle!
Rings I’ll buy to deck her toes,
Jemmy linkum feedle;
A feather fine shall grace her nose,
Waving fidle feedle,
With jealousy I ne’er shall burst
Who’d steal my bone of bone-a?
A while Othello, I can trust
A dingy Desdemona.

song. Mr. Edwin

A voyage over seas had not enter’d my head,
Had I known but on which side to butter by bread.
Heighho! sure I—for hunger must die!
I’ve sail’d like a booby; come here in a squall,
Where, alas! there’s no bread to be butter’d at all!
Oho! I’m a terrible booby!
Oh, what a sad booby am I!
In London what gay chop-house sings in the street!
But the only sign here is of nothing to eat.
Heighho! that I—for hunger shou’d die!
My mutton’s all lost, I’m a poor starving elf,
And for all the world like a lost mutton myself;
Oho! I shall die a lost mutton!
Oh what a lost mutton am I!
For a neat slice of beef, I cou’d roar like a bull,
And my stomach’s so empty, my heart is quite full.
Heighho! that I—for hunger should die!
But, grave without meat, I must here meet my grave,
For my bacon I fancy I never shall save;
Oho! I shall ne’er save my bacon!
I can’t save my bacon, not I!

ii. These songs were printed in the London Chronicle, Aug. 4–7, 1787

song. Mrs. Forster.

This maxim let every one hear
Proclaim’d from the North to the South,
Whatever comes in at your ear
Shou’d never run out at your mouth.
We servants listen to all and be dumb;
Let others harangue and debate,
We look wise, shake our heads, and are mum.
The judge in dull dignity drest,
In silence hears barristers preach;
And then, to prove silence is best,
He’ll get up and give them a speech.
By saying but little, the maid
Will keep her swain under her thumb;
And the lover that’s true to his trade,
Is certain to kiss and cry mum.