The Wiccamical Chaplet a selection of original poetry; comprising smaller poems, serious and comic; classical trifles; sonnets; inscriptions and epitaphs; songs and ballads; mock-heroics, epigrams, fragments, &c. &c. Edited by George Huddesford |
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A NEW-YEAR'S ODE, 1777.
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 | The Wiccamical Chaplet |  |
174
A NEW-YEAR'S ODE, 1777.
Being a loose and distant Imitation of the Laureate's.
Again imperial Winter's sway
Bids th'unwilling Muse obey:
I feel, I feel his icy hands;
Nathless I write, for he commands:
'Tis a vile task! Come, Dr. Boyce!
Bring Beard, Phil H---s and B-rn-y bring!
Bring all that have a violin or voice,
And join their pow'rs to fiddle and to sing!
Bids th'unwilling Muse obey:
I feel, I feel his icy hands;
Nathless I write, for he commands:
'Tis a vile task! Come, Dr. Boyce!
Bring Beard, Phil H---s and B-rn-y bring!
Bring all that have a violin or voice,
And join their pow'rs to fiddle and to sing!
First we heave a kindred Groan!
Sad Symphony to the sad Rhymes that follow:
Ah, Doctor, don't you wish 'twas done!
Or will your Music make them swallow
The ill-drest Fare of such a homely Verse!
Yet listening Peers, that stand around
To hear our Choir rehearse,
Know ye how hard it is to make an Ode?
Now, Doctor, let the Music sound!
But I'm asham'd, by ---.
Sad Symphony to the sad Rhymes that follow:
Ah, Doctor, don't you wish 'twas done!
Or will your Music make them swallow
The ill-drest Fare of such a homely Verse!
Yet listening Peers, that stand around
To hear our Choir rehearse,
Know ye how hard it is to make an Ode?
Now, Doctor, let the Music sound!
But I'm asham'd, by ---.
175
Harmonious Children of the tuneful Voice,
Whose Notes shall now approach the Throne,
I pity your misfortune and my own!
Alas? we neither sing nor write by choice!
For tho' we toil, to grace the Day,
With charms of Music and of Rhyme;
Our Memory soon shall pass away
Nor leave a trace in future time
Of all that I have writ, or you have sung:
Tho' Verse and Air united stood
With many a skilful hand and many a warbling tongue;
Yet, ere the Sun shall reach the western main,
Or ere your Fiddles are unstrung,
The Song, the Band, the Poet and the Strain
Shall all, for aye, lye buried in Oblivion's Flood.
Whose Notes shall now approach the Throne,
I pity your misfortune and my own!
Alas? we neither sing nor write by choice!
For tho' we toil, to grace the Day,
With charms of Music and of Rhyme;
Our Memory soon shall pass away
Nor leave a trace in future time
Of all that I have writ, or you have sung:
Tho' Verse and Air united stood
With many a skilful hand and many a warbling tongue;
Yet, ere the Sun shall reach the western main,
Or ere your Fiddles are unstrung,
The Song, the Band, the Poet and the Strain
Shall all, for aye, lye buried in Oblivion's Flood.
| The Wiccamical Chaplet | |