Transcription
BON GENEVE.
The celebrated and much-admired SONG, sung by Mr. JOHANNOT,
In the Character of PEG JUNIPER,
In the famous SIEGE of VALENCIENNES,
At ASTLEY’s.
With bon geneve* here’s honest Peg,
From Brussels famous City;
From camp to camo with glass and keg,
For soldiers smart and pretty:
And oft the serjeant [sic] deigns to cry,
As Peg is passing careless by,
What, lovely, is it you?—come here, you little devil, a word with you; what you have—“Geneve, your honour,” says I, “would you please to taste it?”—“Damn your geneve,” says he, “kiss me prettily, and I’ll give you something.”—“Lord! Sit,” says I, “how can you talk so profane? would you ruin my character?”—“Curse your character,” replies he, “what’s that to me.”—“Thank you, Sit, says I, its only
Lira, Lira, la! Lira, Lira, la!
With a jolly soldier.
Sometimes when the sun is down,
And soldiers drink together,
The song and story blithe goes round,
In spite of wind or weather:
While oft the drummer slips away,
And thus to Peg is heart to say—
“Peggy, my keg of sweets, you do not love me! you have broke the drum-sticks of my heart, you jade, and do not pity me!”—“Pity the devil,” says I, “you piece of parchment; what do you want with me? Come, nine of your winking, fellow what do you take me for?”—“An angel,” says he, “and I’ll play such a rub-a-dub upon your lips, my charmer.”—“Play a rub-a-dub upon my—get out,” says I, “I know what you’re after, but its
Lira, Lira, la! Lira, Lira, la!
With a jolly soldier.
Oft the gallant Major steals to poor Peg most slily,
And his story soon reveals, with each art so wily;
Yet I smiting bid him go,
With a fie, Sit, O! no, no.
Bon Geneve, your honour; nothing else, I assure you; I never sell any thing that I am ashamed of.—“Blood and oons!” says he, “do you take me for a gin-drinker? Arrah, be easy, and I’ll not hurt you, child.”—“Bless your honour,” says I, “but consider my virtue.”—“O don’t mention it,” says he, “how old are you, honey?”—“Forty four, you honour,” says I.—“O you are a tender kid,” says he, “for the devil to pick: come here, while I give you a bit of a squeeze; do you love an Irishman?”—“Ah, your honour,” says I, “don’t ask me, when you know its
Lira, Lira, la! Lira, Lira, la!
With a jolly soldier.
*The view of the Author, by his character, is not to extol the virtue or spirits; the dangerous effects arising from the tendency of this pernicious liquor, when taken in an extreme, not only endangers the health, but too frequently produce disease more fatal to the human body than the sword.
