EPIGRAM.
From two domestic acts of pious zeal
Learn what calamities sad mortals feel.
When Lord George Gordon of the Pope afeard,
(That was before he show’d a Jewish beard)
When he his Whiggish Mob had raised, they fly
On poor Lord Mansfield’s harmless Library.
Then were his legal Writings, precious store,
Burnt, or dispersed as Sibyl’s leaves of yore.
Twelve years elapsed from that disastrous tide,
And lo! another storm from t’other side!
In vengeance on their Presbyterian foes
The loyal Mob of Birmingham arose;
And as their zeal for Church and King grew hot,
All Priestley’s books and papers went to pot.
Losses like these till then we never saw;
Priestley’s Divinity and Mansfield’s Law.
ON
TWO ENGLISH POETS,
WHO FLOURISHED IN THE FORMER HALF OF THE LAST CENTURY, AND PUBLISHED COMPLIMENTARY VERSES ON EACH OTHER.
Edward, thy Ode’s too long by half,
Stephen’s Reply might spare a quarter:
Now, in my judgment, Stephen’s song
Is as much better, as ’tis shorter.
Edward declares, though Milton’s lines
Rise to an unexampled height,
That, in heroics, Stephen shines
Like Milton, and almost as bright.
Stephen for quittance makes reply,
That nothing in the world could hinder
(Except his native modesty)
Edward from taking place of Pindar.
Stephen and Edward all this while
Are lying to each other’s face;
Edward can do ’t in bolder style,
But Stephen with a better grace.
VERSES
TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED “NO POPERY” ON HIS PIES, &C.
I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺,
Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church,
Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot,
Starts from his counter, piping hot,
To warn us of the dire intent,
And, like himself, is eloquent.
Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread
Th’ alarm of danger widely spread;
Then quaking Custards join the cry,
And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!”
Defender of the Faith! rare Cook,
Who mak’st thy Pastry-shop a Book
As formidable, and much more read
Than that which our eighth Henry made,
Whose Church-of-England oven bakes
Protestant Appletarts and Cakes!
Children that feed upon thy Pies
Grow in religion as in size;
While, often as their mouths they ope,
They chew destruction to the Pope.
Fame shall desert th’ ingenious Quaker
To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker;
Whose willing Pupils, apter far
Than all the school of Lancaster,
Shall read, and eat, his name enroll’d
On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold.
ON
THE FUNERAL OF ⸺,
IN A HEARSE AND SIX, FOLLOWED BY A MOURNING COACH AND FOUR.
What, Save-all in a Hearse convey’d!
And six brave Nags to draw the Dead!
’Tis ruin!—Why, ’tis more by five
Than e’er convey’d him while alive.
And look, what follows!—more and more
Profusion, in a Coach and Four!
Such waste of what thou liv’dst to save,
Might break the quiet of thy Grave.
In what slow pomp the Rogues advance,
Courting, as ’twere, Extravagance!
O! the vast charge of every night!
They revel, and set nothing by ’t;
But give to have thee lie in state,
More than thou e’er paid’st there for meat.
What else?—their dead and useless load
They carry on the Turnpike road,
Paying—but they care nothing, they,
How many Gates there be to pay.—
Plague on the Gates! how thick they are!
Five pounds will soon be squander’d here.
Another—and another yet!
And Half-a-crown at every Gate;
Those Gates which thou didst alway shun,
To save thy Pence from every one.
Alas! this needless cost is more
Than all th’ extravagance before!
To stop such charge, at least, arise
And show them—where the Bye-way lies!
PARODY
ON DRYDEN’S “THREE POETS,” &c.
Three Poets, born in different lands and ages,
Three different Heroes took to grace their pages:
The first, a Buonaparte, fierce to fight;
The next, a Methodistic Hypocrite:
No human character combined more evil,
So Milton for his Hero took the Devil.