ODE,
By SIR JOSEPH MAWBEY, BART.
STROPHE.
HARK!—to yon heavenly skies,
Nature’s congenial perfumes upwards rise!
From each throng’d stye
That saw my gladsome eye,
Incense, quite smoking hot, arose,
And caught my seven sweet senses—by the nose!
AIR—accompanied by the LEARNED PIG.
Tell me, dear Muse, oh! tell me, pray,
Why JOEY’s fancy frisks so gay;
Is it!—you slut it is—some holy—holiday!
[Here Muse Whispers I,—Sir Joseph.]
Indeed!—Repeat the fragrant sound!
Push love, and loyalty around,
Through Irish, Scotch, as well as British ground!
CHORUS.
For this BIG MORN
GREAT GEORGE was born!
The tidings all the Poles shall ring!
Due homage will I pay,
On this, thy native day,
GEORGE, by the grace of God, my rightful KING!
AIR—with Lutes.
Well might my dear lady say,
As lamb-like by her side I lay,
This very, very morn;
Hark! JOEY, hark!
I hear the lark,
Or else it is—the sweet Sowgelder’s horn!