Ta! Ribaldry!

I did some temping this week, and valiantly used the time to slog through almost an entire volume (1720) of Wit and Mirth: Pills to Purge Melancholy. So if any of you are searching for a late baroque song about farting and/or copulation to round out your perfect recital program, feel free to drop me a line. I did find a few gems amid the muck...and some fairly amusing muck, as well. I am tempted to offer one here, but you'll have to wait and see if I muster the nerve. I will remark on the surprisingly frequent mention of pudding. Lumpy, nasty pudding. Hmmm. Maybe this would be a good moment to confess my natural and long-standing interest in mildly obscene antiques. I guess it started with a book of old limericks that I got ahold of in junior high, which were much more satisfying than the kind of drollery in general circulation. Then I really hit the jackpot while doing some research on Venetian courtesans and, more surprisingly, musical nuns. But to deserve any interest, the printed word has to be clever and it ought to rhyme.

Okay, here's a sweet one. And there is pudding, but I think that in this case it is actual pudding.

The Old Woman's Wish

If I live to be old, which I never shall own,
Let this be my fortune in country or town;
Let me have a warm bit, with two more in store,
And a lusty young fellow to rub me before.
May I give to my passion an absolute sway,
Til by mumping and grunting, my breath's worn away
Without ache or cough by tedious decay.

In a dry chim'ny nook with a rug and warm clothes,
A swinging coal fire still under my nose;
With a large elbow chair to sit at the fire,
And a crutch or a staff to the bed to retire.
May I give to my passion, &c.

With a pudding on Sunday with custard and plums,
When my teeth are all out fore to ease my old gums;
With a dram of the bottle, each day a fresh quart,
Reserved in a corner to cheer up my heart.
May I give to my passion, &c.

With a neighbor or two to tell me a tale,
And to sing Chevy-Case o'r a pot of good ale;
A snuff-box, and short pipe snug under the range,
And a clean flannel shift as oft as I change.
May I give to my passion, &c.

Without palfry or gout, may I die in a chair,
And when dead, may my great, great, great grandchild declare
She's gone who for so long had cheated the devil,
And the world is well rid of a troublesome evil.
That gave to her passion an absolute sway,
Til with mumping and gruntin, her breath wore away,
Without ache or cough by tedious decay.

Aw...I might have to learn that one!