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And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay. His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died sull as big as Dorchester butt. His body, when long in the ground it had lain And time into clay had dissolv’d it again, A potter found out, in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale; So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.

THE BEGGAR GIRL.

Over the mountain and over the moor, Hungry and barefoot I wander forlorn ; My father is dead and my mother is poor. And she grieves for the days that will never re– turn Pity, kind gentlemen, friends of humanity ; Cold blows the wind, and the night’s com– ing on Give me some food for my mother in charity Give me some food, and then I'll be gone.