Flare up in the confessional
THE FLARE UP IN THE
THE PUSSEY CATS ARE COMING.
COME cheer up old England, don't be in
the lurch, [the church ;
With the broom beat the pussey cats out of
Never mind the confessional, let us have hope
We don't care for pussy cat, priestcraft, or
Pope. [wait !
There's a good time boys, coming, a little time
And listen awhile to the schoolmaster T . . e ;
The Bishop of London, will make them all
And knock them from Oxford, right over St.
The pussey cats coming, close windows and
gate, T . . e ;
It is very distressing, says the schoolmaster
Jolly Westerton collar'd a thumping oak stake
And threatened to wallop them over the pate !
They summon'd the priest, and they sent for
I the Pope, [to mope ;
And the Bishop of London, did make them
He said, I will have you all banished I vow,
When in popp'd the pussey cats, singing, moll
Forgive me, oh, Father, said A . . d P . . e, [row
I'll know better next time, when I go to school
When in jump'd a Bishop from Oxford no
doubt, [ing out.
With his breeches all tore, and his shirt hang-
Oh ! ladies, young ladies, of pussies beware !
If you go to confession, you'll be caught in a
snare, [your nose,
You must tell all you do ; and the length of
How many nails you have got on your fin-
gers and toes :
How many times you have washed yourself
under the pump, [rump ;
And how many times you have fell on your
How many times you've been smoking your
pipe, [your life.
And how many times you've been drunk in
How many times out at night you have
stopped, [been wopped ;
By your husband, tell how many times you've
How many glasses of gin you've drunk pat,
And how many times you have wallopped the
Tell them how many times you have been to
the play [day !
And if you'll have any pudding on Christmas
Ladies, tell them about your fuzzles & curls ;
Do you think your good husband goes after
the girls ?
Well now, says the Bishop, you bad naughty
boy, [and toys,
Throw away all your jew's harps, your whistles
Away with your hoops, your toys, and your
rattles ; [battle.
And you mister Oxford, must lead them to
Fill all the pussey cats now with amaze,
It was money made fire & faggots to blaze ;
Said London, all you haughty p . . . . e boys,
Shall be chopped up for sausages & saveloys.
Oh, dear ! how they stamped, while some tum-
bled flat, [pussey cats !
And they hollowed and swore, did the poor
Cried clever mister London, I've made it a rule
To sack him & whack him poor B . . . . s P . . e.
The ladies no more shall go to him confessing,
Because I consider 'tis very distressing ;
Speak candid young ladies, would you any
one like,— [a night ?
To tell how many times you've been kiss'd in
Here's success mister London, true night&day
Oh, Westerton, drive all the pussies away ;
As for you mister Oxford you no comfort will
When you've got a great hole in your breeches
If the women confess they shall have no more
gin, [sins ;
Now can they go telling the parson their
There will soon be a stop to such doings we
Away with the pussey cats, laugh at the Pope
Be couragious old England, of thorns clear
Hurrah for brave Westerton Jolly and gay,
He will turn the confessionals all inside out,
And then all the pussey cats, put to the rout.
London :— Printed for the Vendors.
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