ANTISTROPHE.
But ah! no roses meet the sight;
No yellow buds of saffron hue,
Nor azure blossoms of pale blue,
Nor tulips, pinks, &c. delight.
Yet on fine tiffany will I
My genius try,
The spoils of Flora to supply,
Or say my name’s not GREGO—RY!
An artificial Garland will I bring,
That Clement Cottrell shall declare,
With courtly air,
Fit for a Prince—fit for a KING!
Epode.
Ye millinery fair,
To me, ye Muses are;
Ye are to me Parnassus MOUNT!
In you, I find an Aganippe FOUNT!
I venerate your muffs,
I bow and kiss your ruffs.
Inspire me, O ye Sisters of the frill,
And teach your votarist how to quill!
For oh!—’tis true indeed,
That he can scarcely read!
Teach him to flounce, and disregard all quippery,
As crapes and blonds, and such like frippery;
Teach him to trim and whip from side to side,
And puff as long as puffing can be try’d.
In crimping metaphor he’ll dash on,
For point, you know, is out of fashion.
O crown with bay his tête,
Delpini, arbiter of fate!
Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport.
A PAGE should be a Dangler at the court.
NUMBER XI.
ODE,
By MICHAEL ANGELO TAYLOR, ESQ. M. P.
Only Son of SIR ROBERT TAYLOR, Knt. and late Sheriff—also Sub-Deputy,
Vice-Chairman to the Irish Committee, King’s Counsel, and Welsh
Judge Elect, &c, &c.
I.
Hail, all hail, thou natal day!
Hail the very half hour, I say,
On which great GEORGE was born!
Tho’ scarcely fledg’d, I’ll try my wing—
And tho’, alas! I cannot sing,
I’ll crow on this illustrious morn!
Sweet bird, that chirp’st the note of folly,
So pleasantry, so drolly!—
Thee, oft the stable yards among,
I woo, and emulate thy song!
Thee, for my emblem still I choose!
Oh! with thy voice inspire a Chicken of the Muse!
II.
And thou, great Earl, ordain’d to sit
High arbiter of verse and wit,
Oh crown my wit with fame!
Such as it is, I prithee take it;
Or if thou can’st not find it, make it:
To me ’tis just the same.
Once a white wand, like thine, my father bore:
But now, alas! that white wand is no more!
Yet though his pow’r be fled,
Nor Bailiff wait his nod nor Gaoler;
Bright honour still adorns the head
Of my Papa, Sir Robert Tayler!
Ah, might that honour on his son alight!
On this auspicious day
How my little heart would glow,
If, as I bend me low,
My gracious King wou’d say,
Arise, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO!
O happiest day, that brings the happiest Knight!
III.
Thee, too, my fluttering Muse invokes,
Thy guardian aid I beg.
Thou great ASSESSOR, fam’d for jokes,
For jokes of face and leg!
So may I oft thy stage-box grace,
(The first in beauty as in place)
And smile responsive to thy changeful face!
For say, renowned mimic, say,
Did e’er a merrier crowd obey
Thy laugh-provoking summons,
Than with fond glee, enraptur’d sit,
Whene’er with undesigning wit,
I entertain the Commons?
Lo! how I shine St. Stephen’s boast!
There, first of Chicks, I rule the roast!
There I appear,
Pitt’s Chanticleer.
The Bantam Cock in opposition!
Or like a hen
With watchful ken,
Sit close and hatch—the Irish propositions!
IV.
Behold for this great day of pomp and pleasure,
The House adjourns, and I’m at leisure!
If thou art so, come muse of sport,
With a few rhymes,
Delight the times,
And coax the Chamberlain, and charm the Court!
By Heaven she comes!—more swift than prose,
At her command, my metre flows;
Hence, ye weak warblers of the rival lays!
Avaunt, ye Wrens, ye Goslings, and ye Pies!
The Chick of Law shall win the prize!
The Chick of Law shall peck the bays!
So, when again the State deminds our care,
Fierce in my laurel’d pride, I’ll take the chair!—
GILBERT, I catch thy bright invention,
With somewhat more of sound retention[1]!
But never, never on thy prose I’ll border—
Verse, lofty-sounding Verse, shall “Call to Order!”
Come, sacred Nine, come one and all,
Attend your fav’rite Chairman’s call!
Oh! if I well have chirp’d your brood among,
Point my keen eye, and tune my brazen tongue!
And hark! with Elegiac graces,
“I beg that gentlemen may take their places!”
Didactic Muse, be thine to state,
The rules that harmonize debate!
Thine, mighty CLIO, to resound from far,
“The door! the door!—the bar! the bar!”
Stout Pearson damns around at her dread word;—
“Sit down!” cries Clementson, and grasps his silver sword.
V.
But lo! where Pitt appears to move
Some new resolve of hard digestion!
Wake then, my Muse, thy gentler notes of love,
And in persuasive numbers, “put the Question.”
The question’s gain’d!—the Treasury-Bench rejoice!
“All hail, thou least of men” (they cry), with mighty voice!
—Blest sounds! my ravish’d eye surveys
Ideal Ermine, fancied Bays!
Wrapt in St. Stephens future scenes
I sit perpetual chairman of the Ways and Means!
Cease, cease, ye Bricklayer crew, my sire to praise,
His mightier offspring claims immortal lays!
The father climb’d the ladder, with a hod;
The son, like General Jackoo, jumps alone, by God!
[1] No reflection on the organization of Mr. Gilbert’s brain is intended here; but rather a pathetic reflection an the continual Diabetes of so great a Member!
NUMBER XII.
ODE,
By MAJOR JOHN SCOTT, M.P. &C. &C.
I.
Why does the loitering sun retard his wain,
When this glad hour demands a fiercer ray?
Not so he pours his fire on Delhi’s plain,
To hail the Lord of Asia’s natal day.
There in mute pomp and cross-legg’d state,
The Raja Pouts MAHOMMED SHAH await.
There Malabar,
There Bisnagar,
There Oude and proud Bahar, in joy confederate.
II.
Curs’d be the clime, and curs’d the laws, that lay
Insulting bonds on George’s sovereign sway!
Arise, my soul, on wings of fire,
To God’s anointed, tune the lyre;
Hail! George, thou all-accomplish’d King!
Just type of him who rules on high!
Hail inexhausted, boundless spring
Of sacred truth and Holy Majesty!
Grand is thy form—’bout five feet ten,
Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men!
Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad—
Thy Pages view thee, and are aw’d!
Lo! how thy white eyes roll!
Thy whiter eye-brows stare!
Honest soul!
Thou’rt witty, as thou’rt fair!
III.
North of the Drawing-room a closet stands:
The sacred nook, St James’s Park commands!
Here, in sequester’d state, Great GEORGE receives
Memorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves!
Here all the force of sov’reign thought is bent,
To fix Reviews, or change a Government!
Heav’ns! how each word with joy Caermarthen takes!
Gods! how the lengthen’d chin of Sydney shakes!
Blessing and bless’d the sage associate see,
The proud triumphant league of incapacity.
With subtile smiles,
With innate wiles,
How do thy tricks of state, GREAT GEORGE, abound!
So in thy Hampton’s mazy ground,
The path that wanders
In meanders,
Ever bending,
Never ending,
Winding runs the eternal round.
Perplex’d, involv’d, each thought bewilder’d moves;
In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves;
Contending themes the ernbarrass’d listener baulk,
Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk!
IV.
Now shall the levee’s ease thy soul unbend,
Fatigu’d with Royalty’s severer care!
Oh! happy few! whom brighter stars befriend,
Who catch the chat—the witty whisper share!
Methinks I hear
In accents clear,
Great Brunswick’s voice still vibrate on my ear—
“What?—what?—what?
Scott!—Scott!—Scott!
Hot!—hot!—hot!
What?—what!—what?”
Oh! fancy quick! oh! judgment true!
Oh! sacred oracle of regal taste!
So hasty, and so generous too!
Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait!
Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art,
To paint the beauties of that head and heart!
That heart where all the virtues join!
That head that hangs on many a sign!
V.
Monarch of mighty Albion, check thy talk!
Behold the Squad approach, led on by Palk!
Smith, Barwelly, Cattt Vansittart, form the band—
Lord of Brirannia!—let them kiss thy hand!—
For sniff[1]!—rich odours scent the sphere!
’Tis Mrs. Hastings’ self brings up the rear!
Gods! how her diamonds flock
On each unpowdere’d lock!
On every membrane see a topaz clings!
Behold her joints are fewer than her rings!
Illustrious dame! on either ear,
The Munny Begums’ spoils appear!
Oh! Pitt, with awe behold that precious throat,
Whose necklace teems with many a future vote!
Pregnant with Burgage gems each hand she rears;
And lo! depending questions gleam upon her ears!
Take her, great George, and shake her by the hand;
’Twill loose her jewels, and enrich thy land.
But oh! reserve one ring for an old stager;
The ring of future marriage for her Major!
[1] Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling.