IRREGULAR ODE,
By the RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, ESQ. Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.
I.
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Ye lawland Bards! who’ are ye aw!
What are your sangs? What aw your lair too boot?
Vain are your thowghts the prize to win,
Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din;
Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! hoot!——
Put oot aw your Attic feires,
Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres;
A looder, and a looder note I’ll strieke:——
Na watter drawghts fra’ Helicon I heed,
Na will I moont your winged steed—
I’ll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike!—
II.
Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring,
Coom, lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing!
Ye canny maidens tee; wha aw the wheile,
Sa sweetly luik, sa sweetly smeile,
Coom hither aw, and round me thrang,
Wheil I tug oot my peips, and gi’ ye aw a canty sang.
Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!
Wha, gifted by the gods abuin,
Wi’ meikle taste, and meikle airt,
Fairst garr’d his canny peipe to lilt a tune!
To the sweet whussel join’d the pleesan drane,
And made the poo’rs of music aw his ain.
On thee, on thee I caw—thou deathless spreight!
Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight;
Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm:
And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm,
Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue.
I feel, I feel thy poo’r divine!
Laurels! kest ye to the groond,
Aroond my heed, my country’s pride I tweine—
Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon’d—
Sa sud gret GEOURGE be sung!
III.
Fra hills, wi’ heathers clad, that smeilan bluim
Speite o’ the northern blaist;
Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!
Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,
That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel;
Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o’ sic a king;
Lugs that in music’s soonds ha’ mickle taste.
Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,
Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;
Now, laddies! lood blaw up your chanters;
For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa leel.
Canny Montrose’s son leads on the ranters.
Thoo Laird o’ Graham! by manie a cheil ador’d,
Who boasts his native fillabeg restor’d;
I croon thee—maister o’ the spowrt!
Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,
Weind the reel, and wave the daunce;
Noo they rant, and noo they loup,
And noo they shew their brawny doup,
And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o’ the court,
Sa in the guid buik are we tauld,
Befoor the halie ark,
The guid King David, in the days of auld,
Daunc’d, like a wuid thing, in his sark,
Wheil Sion’s dowghters (’tis wi’ sham I speak’t)
Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain,
Keck’d, and lawgh’d,
And lawgh’d, and keck’d,
And lawgh’d, and keck’d again.
Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight,
Sa micke did the King their glowran eyne delight.
IV.
Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!
And stint your spowrts awce:
Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,
O’ersheenan aw the lave;
He comes, he comes!
Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!
Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks;
Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,
My tongue, its wunsome poo’rs, devote,
To gratitude and thee;
To thee, the sweetest o’ thy ain parfooms,
Orixa’s preide sud blaze
On thee, thy gems of purest rays;
Back fra’ this saund, their genuine feires sud shed,
And Rumbold’s Crawdle vie wuth Hasting’s Bed.
But heev’n betook us weil! and keep us weise!
Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command!
“Keep, keep thy tongue,” a warlock cries,
And waves his gowden wand.
V.
Noo, laddies! gi’ your baugpipes breeth again;
Blaw the loo’d, but solemn, strain:
Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,
In mejesty sedate,
In pride elate,
The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;
Onward he stalks in froonan state;
Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,
Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit;
Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,
Fra’ Tommy Toonsend up to Wully Pitt!
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine:
To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.
’Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,
’Tis GEOURGE demands her care;
Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!
See! where with Atlantean shoulder,
Amazing each beholder,
Beneath a tott’ring empire’s weight.
Full six feet high he stands, and therefore—great!
VI.
Come then, aw ye POO’rs of vairse!
Gi’ me great GEOURGE’s glories to rehearse;
And as I chaunt his kingly awks,
The list’nan warld fra me sall lairn
Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks,
And weel he gets his Queen wi’ bairn.
Give me, with all a Laureat’s art to jumble,
Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble!
Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick’s Royal line;
Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!
Thus, crooned by his lib’ral hand.
Give me to lead the choral band;
Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sail peipe swell with his princely name,
And this eternal truth proclaim:
’Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA’s land!
NUMBER XIV.
ODE,
By DR. JOSEPH WARTON, In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.
O! For the breathings of the Doric ote!
O! for the warblings of the Lesbian lyre!
O! for the Alcean trump’s terrific note!
O! for the Theban eagle’s wing of fire!
O! for each stop and string that swells th’ Aonian quire!
Then should this hallow’d day in worthy strains be sung,
And with due laurel wreaths thy cradle, Brunswick, hung!
But tho’ uncouth my numbers flow
—From a rude reed,—
That drank the dew of Isis’ lowly mead,
And wild pipe, fashion’d from the embatted sedge
Which on the twilight edge
Of my own Cherwell loves to grow:
The god-like theme alone
Should bear me on its tow’ring wing;
Bear me undaunted to the throne,
To view with fix’d and stedfast eye
—The delegated majesty
Of heav’ns dread lord, and what I see to sing.
Like heaven’s dread lord, great George his voice can raise,
From babes and suckling’s mouths to hymn his perfect praise,
In poesy’s trim rhymes and high resounding phrase.
Hence, avaunt! ye savage train,
That drench the earth and dye the main
With the tides of hostle gore:
Who joy in war’s terrific charms,
To see the steely gleam of arms,
And hear the cannon’s roar;
Unknown the god-like virtue how to yield,
To Cressy’s or to Blenheim’s deathful field;
Begone, and sate your Pagan thirst of blood;
Edward, fell homicide, awaits you there,
And Anna’s hero, both unskill’d to spare
Whene’er the foe their slaught’ring sword withstood.
The pious George to white-staled peace alone
His olive sceptre yields, and palm-encircled throne.
Or if his high degree
On the perturbed sea
The bloody flag unfurls;
Or o’er the embattl’d plain
Ranges the martial train;
On other heads his bolts he hurls.
Haughty subjects, wail and weep,
Your angry master ploughs the deep.
Haughty subjects, swol’n with pride,
Tremble at his vengeful stride.
While the regal command
Desp’rate ye withstand,
He bares his red right hand.
As when Eloim’s pow’r,
In Judah’s rebel hour,
Let fall the fiery show’r
That o’er her parch’d hills desolation spread,
And heap’d her vales with mountains of the dead.
O’er Schuylkill’s cliffs the tempest roars;
O’er Rappahanock’s recreant shores;
Up the rough rocks of Kipps’s-bay;
The huge Anspachar wins his way;
Or scares the falcon from the fir-cap’d side
Of each high hill that hangs o’er Hudson’s haughty tide.
Matchless victor, mighty lord!
Sheath the devouring sword!
Strong to punish, mild to save,
Close the portals of the grave,
Exert thy first prerogative,
Ah! spare thy subject’s blood, and let them live;
Our tributary breath,
Hangs on thine for life or death.
Sweet is the balmy breath of orient morn,
Sweet are the horned treasures of the bee;
Sweet is the fragrance of the scented thorn,
But sweeter yet the voice of royal clemency.
He hears, and from his wisdom’s perfect day
He sends a bright effulgent ray,
The nations to illumine far and wide,
And feud and discord, war and strife, subside.
His moral sages, all unknown t’untie
The wily rage of human policy,
Their equal compasses expand,
And mete the globe with philosophic hand.
No partial love of country binds
In selfish chains the lib’ral minds,
O gentle Lansdown! ting’d with thy philanthropy,
Let other monarchs vainly boast
A lengthen’d line of conquer’d coast,
Or boundless sea of tributary flood,
Bought by as wide a sea of blood——
Brunswick, in more saint-like guise
Claims for his spoils a purer prize,
Content at every price to buy
A conquest o’er himself, and o’er his progeny.
His be domestic glory’s radient calm——
His be the sceptre wreath’d with many a palm——
His be the throne with peaceful emblems hung,
And mine die laurel’d lyre, to those mild conquests strung!
NUMBER XV.
PINDARIC,
By the RIGHT HON. HERVEY REDMOND, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, Of Castle Morres, of the Kingdom of Ireland, &c. &c.
I.
Awake, Hibernian lyre, awake,
To harmony thy strings attune,
O tache their trembling tongue to spake
The glories of the fourth of June.
Auspicious morn!
When George was born
To grace (by deputy) our Irish throne,
North, south, aiste, west,
Of Kings the best,
Sure now he’s _a_quall’d by himself alone;
Throughout the astonish’d globe so loud his fame shall ring,
The d_i_f themselves shall hare the strains the dumb shall sing.
II.
Sons of Fadruig[1], strain your throats,
In your native Irish lays,
Swe_a_ter than the scre_a_ch owl’s notes,
Howl aloud your sov’reign’s praise,
Quick to his hallow’d fane be led
A milk-white BULL, on soft potatoes fed:
His curling horns and ample neck
Let wreaths of verdant shamrock deck,
And perfum’d flames, to rache the sky,
Let fuel from our bogs supply,
Whilst we to George’s health, a’en till the bowl runs o’er
Rich strames of usquebaugh and sparkling whiskey pour.
III.
Of d_i_thless fame immortal heirs,
A brave and patriotic band,
Mark where Ierne’s Volunt_a_res,
Array’d in bright disorder stand.
The Lawyer’s corps, red fac’d with black,
Here drive the martial merchants back;
Here Sligo’s bold brigade advance,
There Lim’rick legions sound their drum;
Here Gallway’s gallant squadrons prance,
And Cork Invincibles are overcome!
The Union firm of Coleraine,
Are scatter’d o’er the warlike plain,
While Tipperary infantry pursues
The Clognikelty horse, and Ballyshannon blues.
Full fifty thousand men we shew
All in our Irish manufactures clad,
Wh_a_ling, manœuv’ring to and fro,
And marching up and down like mad.
In fr_a_dom’s holy cause they bellow, rant, and rave,
And scorn thems_i_lves to know what they thems_i_lves would have!
Ah! should renowned Brunswick chuse,
(The warlike monarch loves reviews)
To see th_a_se h_a_roes in our Ph_a_nix fight,
Once more, amidst a wond’ring crowd,
The enraptur’d prince might cry aloud,
“Oh! Amherst, what a h_i_venly sight[2]!”
The loyal crowd with shouts should r_i_nd the skies,
To hare their sov’reign make a sp_aa_ch so wise!
IV.
Th_a_se were the bands, ’mid tempests foul,
Who taught their master, somewhat loth,
To grant (Lord love his lib’ral soul!)
Commerce and constitution both.
Now p_a_ce restor’d,
This gracious lord
Would tache them, as the scriptures say,
At laiste, that if
The Lord doth give,
The Lord doth likewise take away.
Fr_a_dom like this who _i_ver saw?
We will, henceforth, for _i_ver more,
Be after making _i_v’ry law,
Great Britain shall have made before[3].
V.
Hence, loath’d Monopoly,
Of Av’rice foul, and Navigation bred,
In the drear gloom
Of British Custom-house Long-room,
’Mongst cockets, clearances, and bonds unholy,
Hide thy detested head.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
Hibernian reciprocity!
(Which manes, if right I take the plan,
Or _i_lse the tr_a_ity d_i_vil burn!
To get from England all we can;
And give her nothing in return!)
Thee, JENKY, skill’d in courtly lore,
To the swate lipp’d William bore,
He Chatham’s son (in George’s reign
Such mixture was not held a stain),
Of garish day-light’s eye afraid,
Through the postern-gate convey’d;
In close and midnight cabinet,
Oft the secret lovers met.
Haste thee, nymph, and quick bring o’er
Commerce, from Britannia’s shore;
Manufactures, arts, and skill,
Such as may our pockets fill.
And, with thy left hand, gain by stealth,
Half our sister’s envied wealth,
Till our island shall become
Trade’s compl_a_te imporium[4].
Th_a_se joys, if reciprocity can give,
Goddess with thee h_i_nceforth let Paddy live!
VI.
Next to great George be peerless Billy sung:—
Hark! he spakes! his mouth his opes!
Phrases, periods, figures, tropes,
Strame from his mellifluous tongue—
Oh! had he crown’d his humble suppliant’s hopes?
And given him near his much-lov’d Pitt,
Beyond the limits of the bar to sit,
How with his praises had St. Stephen’s rung!
Though Pompey boast not all his patron’s pow’rs,
Yet oft have kind Hibernia’s Peers
To r_a_de his sp_aa_ches lent their ears:
So in the Senate, had his tongue, for hours.
Foremost, amid the youthful yelping pack,
That crow and cackle at the Premier’s back,
A flow of Irish rhetoric let loose,
Beneath the Chicken scarce, and far above the Goose.
[1] Ancient Irish name given to St. Patrick.
[2] The celebrated speech of a Great Personage, on reviewing the camp at Cox-heath, in the year 1779, when a French invasion was apprehended; the report of which animating apostrophe is supposed to have struck such terror into the breasts of our enemies, as to have been the true occasion of their relinquishing the design.
[3] Vide the Fourth Proposition.
[4] Vide Mr. Orde’s speech.