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.
NUMBER XIII.
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.