This seems to be the same song with a different title. From The Vocal Magazine, Volume 1, No. 1, (London: A. Redford, January 2, 1815), page 32:

[I wish I knew how to do hanging indents in HTML.]


THE IRISHMAN'S THEATRICAL DESCRIPTION,
or AN APOLOGY FOR A SONG.

Written and sung by Mr. T. Dibdin, with great applause, in his Entertainment of the Harmonists

TUNE.—ANY ONE THE SINGER PLEASES.

Without the help of gamut, note, demi-semi-quaver, crochet, or minum,
Or any other sort of sounds that have no meaning in 'em;
Without going round the bush and round the bush, playing at hide and go seek;
A man, without any tune at all at all, may sing just as well as he can speak.

[CHORUS:] Tiddy ti tol lol lay, tiddy ti tol lol lay,
Phillelu drimandru;
Subbaboo mushagrah.

When singing and speaking was such a sort of undertaking, as was executed according to nature,
He or she, who attempted to execute either, was something like a rational creature,
And your stage-players of old, to be sure, we are told, they would strut like a turkey or bustard;
But they knew no more about grinning, and grunting, and making faces at one another, than they did about making of mustard.

Sing tiddy ti tol, &c.

The great Turk, in a pet, I mean Bajazet, when by Tamerlane was taken in battle,
Like a bear, with head sore, blood and turf! How he'd roar, while his chains did melodiously rattle;
And old Shylock, the Jew, his long knife he drew, to be sticking in the poor merchant's beef!
But devil a Christian soul but what said to him in their hearts, bad luck to you, you butch'ring old thief.

Sing tiddy ti tol, &c.

Then thick-lipp'd Othello, that sooty-fac'd fellow, that choak'd his poor wife in her bed, sir,
Wou'd have made all the blood in your body run cold, and the hair almost stand an end on your head, sir;
And when crooked King Dick bid his kingdom for a horse, it's true upon my life, it's no fable;
The devil a one in the whole place would lend him a jack-ass, though they'd half a score in the stable.

Sing tiddy ti tol, &c.

Then Macbeth stuck the poor King in his sleep with a pair of damn'd French-looking daggers,
Struck the folk with his guilt, and the blood that he spilt, like a horse, when he's struck with the staggers:
And Macbeth sung, when he was going to be hung, a man can die bolder by brandy;
And the ladies in the boxes, from the duchess to the doxies, would be saying, to be sure, he's quite the tippy, and the dandy.

Sing tiddy ti tol, &c.

Now, to make an end of my song: to be sure, it's rather long, but then, as to words and the tune;
You're not only welcome as the flowers in May, but welcome as the roses in June.
Now, don't take it in your noddle, to say it is the twaddle, nor let any of it put you in a passion;
Because, upon my conscience, a little bit of nonsense, now a-days, it is the very tippy, and pink of the fashion.

Sing tiddy ti tol, &c.