The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton ... Fifth Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. To which are now added Inscriptionum Romanarum Delectus, and An Inaugural Speech As Camden Professor of History, never before published. Together with Memoirs of his Life and Writings; and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Richard Mant |
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| THE OXFORD NEWSMAN's VERSES. |
 | The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton |  |
209
THE OXFORD NEWSMAN's VERSES.
FOR THE YEAR 1760.
Think of the Palms, my Masters dear!
That crown this memorable year!
Come fill the glass, my hearts of gold,
To Britain's Heroes brisk and bold;
While into rhyme I strive to turn all
The fam'd events of many a Journal.
That crown this memorable year!
Come fill the glass, my hearts of gold,
To Britain's Heroes brisk and bold;
While into rhyme I strive to turn all
The fam'd events of many a Journal.
France feeds her sons on meagre soup,
'Twas hence they lost their Guadaloup:
What tho' they dress so fine and ja'nty?
They could not keep Marigalante.
Their forts in Afric could not repel
The thunder of undaunted Keppel:
Brave Commodore! how we adore ye
For giving us success at Goree.
Ticonderago, and Niagara,
Make each true Briton sing O rare a!
I trust the taking of Crown-Point
Has put French courage out of joint.
Can we forget the timely check
Wolfe gave the scoundrels at Quebec?—
That name has stopp'd my glad career,—
Your faithful Newsman drops a tear!—
'Twas hence they lost their Guadaloup:
What tho' they dress so fine and ja'nty?
They could not keep Marigalante.
Their forts in Afric could not repel
The thunder of undaunted Keppel:
Brave Commodore! how we adore ye
For giving us success at Goree.
Ticonderago, and Niagara,
Make each true Briton sing O rare a!
I trust the taking of Crown-Point
Has put French courage out of joint.
210
Wolfe gave the scoundrels at Quebec?—
That name has stopp'd my glad career,—
Your faithful Newsman drops a tear!—
But other triumphs still remain,
And rouse to glee my rhymes again.
And rouse to glee my rhymes again.
On Minden's plains, ye meek Mounseers!
Remember Kingsley's grenadiers.
You vainly thought to ballarag us
With your fine squadron off Cape Lagos;
But when Boscawen came, La Clue
Sheer'd off, and look'd confounded blue.
Conflans, all cowardice and puff,
Hop'd to demolish hardy Duff;
But soon unlook'd-for guns o'eraw'd him,
Hawke darted sorth, and nobly claw'd him.
And now their vaunted Formidable
Lies captive to a British cable.
Would you demand the glorious cause
Whence Britain every trophy draws?
You need not puzzle long your wit;—
Fame, from her trumpet, answers—Pitt.
Remember Kingsley's grenadiers.
You vainly thought to ballarag us
With your fine squadron off Cape Lagos;
But when Boscawen came, La Clue
Sheer'd off, and look'd confounded blue.
Conflans, all cowardice and puff,
Hop'd to demolish hardy Duff;
But soon unlook'd-for guns o'eraw'd him,
Hawke darted sorth, and nobly claw'd him.
And now their vaunted Formidable
Lies captive to a British cable.
Would you demand the glorious cause
Whence Britain every trophy draws?
211
Fame, from her trumpet, answers—Pitt.
FOR THE YEAR 1767.
Dismal the news, which Jackson's yearly Bard
Each circling Christmas brings,—“The times are hard!”
There was a time when Granby's grenadiers
Trimm'd the lac'd jackets of the French Mounseers;
When every week produc'd some lucky hit,
And all our paragraphs were plann'd by Pitt.
We Newsmen drank—as England's Heroes fought,
While every victory procur'd—a pot.
Abroad, we conquer'd France, and humbled Spain;
At home, rich harvests crown'd the laughing plain.
Then ran in numbers free the Newsman's verses,
Blithe were our hearts, and full our leathern purses.
But now, no more the stream of plenty flows,
No more new conquests warm the Newsman's nose.
Our shatter'd cottages admit the rain,
Our infants stretch their hands for bread in vain.
All hope is fled, our families are undone;
Provisions all are carry'd up to London;
Our copious granaries Distillers thin,
Who raise our bread—but do not cheapen gin.
Th' effects of exportation still we rue;
I wish th' Exporters were exported too!
In every Pot-house is unpaid our score;
And generous Captain Jolly ticks no more!
Each circling Christmas brings,—“The times are hard!”
There was a time when Granby's grenadiers
Trimm'd the lac'd jackets of the French Mounseers;
When every week produc'd some lucky hit,
And all our paragraphs were plann'd by Pitt.
We Newsmen drank—as England's Heroes fought,
While every victory procur'd—a pot.
Abroad, we conquer'd France, and humbled Spain;
At home, rich harvests crown'd the laughing plain.
Then ran in numbers free the Newsman's verses,
Blithe were our hearts, and full our leathern purses.
But now, no more the stream of plenty flows,
No more new conquests warm the Newsman's nose.
Our shatter'd cottages admit the rain,
Our infants stretch their hands for bread in vain.
212
Provisions all are carry'd up to London;
Our copious granaries Distillers thin,
Who raise our bread—but do not cheapen gin.
Th' effects of exportation still we rue;
I wish th' Exporters were exported too!
In every Pot-house is unpaid our score;
And generous Captain Jolly ticks no more!
Yet still in store some happiness remains,
Some triumphs that may grace these annual strains.
Misfortunes past no longer I repeat—
George has declar'd—that we again shall eat.
Sweet Willhelminy, spite of wind and tide,
Of Denmark's monarch shines the blooming bride:
She's gone! but there's another in her stead,
For of a Princess Charlotte's brought to bed:—
Oh, cou'd I but have had one single sup,
One single sniff, at Charlotte's candle-cup!—
I hear—God bless it—'tis a charming Girl,
So here's her health in half a pint of Purl.
But much I fear, this rhyme-exhausted song
Has kept you from your Christmas cheer too long.
Our poor endeavours view with gracious eye,
And bake these lines beneath a Christmas-Pie!
Some triumphs that may grace these annual strains.
Misfortunes past no longer I repeat—
George has declar'd—that we again shall eat.
Sweet Willhelminy, spite of wind and tide,
Of Denmark's monarch shines the blooming bride:
She's gone! but there's another in her stead,
For of a Princess Charlotte's brought to bed:—
Oh, cou'd I but have had one single sup,
One single sniff, at Charlotte's candle-cup!—
I hear—God bless it—'tis a charming Girl,
So here's her health in half a pint of Purl.
But much I fear, this rhyme-exhausted song
Has kept you from your Christmas cheer too long.
Our poor endeavours view with gracious eye,
And bake these lines beneath a Christmas-Pie!
213
FOR THE YEAR 1768.
Still shall the Newsman's annual rhymes
Complain of taxes and the times?
Each year our Copies shall we make on
The price of butter, bread, and bacon?
Forbid it, all ye pow'rs of verse!
A happier subject I rehearse.
Farewell distress, and gloomy cares!
A merrier theme my Muse prepares.
For lo! to save us, on a sudden,
In shape of porter, beef, and pudding,
Though late, Electioneering comes!—
Strike up, ye trumpets, and ye drums!
At length we change our wonted note,
And feast, all winter, on a vote.
Sure, canvassing was never hotter!
But whether Harcourt, Nares, or Cotter,
At this grand crisis will succeed,
We Freemen have not yet decreed.—
Methinks, with mirth your sides are shaking,
To hear us talk of Member-making!
Yet know, that we direct the state;
On us depends the nation's fate.—
What though some Doctor's cast-off wig
O'ershades my pate, not worth a fig;
My whole apparel in decay;
My beard unshav'd—on New-Year's day;
In me behold (the land's Protector)
A Freeman, Newsman, and Elector!
Though cold, and all unshod, my toes;—
My breast for Britain's freedom glows:—
Though turn'd, by poverty, my coat,
It ne'er was turn'd to give a vote.
Complain of taxes and the times?
Each year our Copies shall we make on
The price of butter, bread, and bacon?
Forbid it, all ye pow'rs of verse!
A happier subject I rehearse.
Farewell distress, and gloomy cares!
A merrier theme my Muse prepares.
For lo! to save us, on a sudden,
In shape of porter, beef, and pudding,
Though late, Electioneering comes!—
Strike up, ye trumpets, and ye drums!
At length we change our wonted note,
And feast, all winter, on a vote.
Sure, canvassing was never hotter!
But whether Harcourt, Nares, or Cotter,
At this grand crisis will succeed,
We Freemen have not yet decreed.—
Methinks, with mirth your sides are shaking,
To hear us talk of Member-making!
Yet know, that we direct the state;
On us depends the nation's fate.—
214
O'ershades my pate, not worth a fig;
My whole apparel in decay;
My beard unshav'd—on New-Year's day;
In me behold (the land's Protector)
A Freeman, Newsman, and Elector!
Though cold, and all unshod, my toes;—
My breast for Britain's freedom glows:—
Though turn'd, by poverty, my coat,
It ne'er was turn'd to give a vote.
Meantime, howe'er improv'd our fate is
By jovial cups, each evening, gratis;
Forget not, 'midst your Christmas cheer,
The customs of the coming year:—
In answer to this short Epistle,
Your tankard send, to wet our whistle!
By jovial cups, each evening, gratis;
Forget not, 'midst your Christmas cheer,
The customs of the coming year:—
In answer to this short Epistle,
Your tankard send, to wet our whistle!
FOR THE YEAR 1770.
As now petitions are in fashion
With the first patriots of the nation;
In spirit high, in pocket low,
We patriots of the Butcher-Row,
Thus, like our Betters, ask redress
For high and mighty grievances,
Real, tho' penn'd in rhyme, as those
Which oft our Journal gives in prose:—
With the first patriots of the nation;
In spirit high, in pocket low,
We patriots of the Butcher-Row,
Thus, like our Betters, ask redress
For high and mighty grievances,
215
Which oft our Journal gives in prose:—
“Ye rural 'Squires, so plumb and sleek,
“Who study—Jackson, once a week;
“While now your hospitable board
“With cold sirloin is amply stor'd,
“And old October, nutmeg'd nice,
“Send us a tankard and a slice!
“Ye country Parsons, stand our friends,
“While now the driving sleet descends!
“Give us your antiquated canes,
“To help us through the miry lanes;
“Or with a rusty grizzle wig
“This Christmas deign our pates to rig.
“Ye noble gem'men of the Gown,
“View not our verses with a frown!
“But, in return for quick dispatches,
“Invite us to your buttery-hatches!
“Ye too, whose houses are so handy,
“For coffee, tea, rum, wine, and brandy;
“Pride of fair Oxford's gawdy streets,
“You too our strain submissive greets!
“Hear Horseman, Spindlow, King, and Harper!
“The weather sure was never sharper:—
“Matron of Matrons, Martha Baggs!
“Dram your poor Newsman clad in rags!
“Dire mischiefs folks above are brewing,
“The Nation's—and the Newsman's ruin;—
“'Tis yours our sorrows to remove;
“And if thus generous ye prove,
“For friends so good we're bound to pray
“Till—next returns a New-year's Day!”
“Giv'n at our melancholy cavern,
“The cellar of the Sheep's-Head Tavern.”
“Who study—Jackson, once a week;
“While now your hospitable board
“With cold sirloin is amply stor'd,
“And old October, nutmeg'd nice,
“Send us a tankard and a slice!
“Ye country Parsons, stand our friends,
“While now the driving sleet descends!
“Give us your antiquated canes,
“To help us through the miry lanes;
“Or with a rusty grizzle wig
“This Christmas deign our pates to rig.
“Ye noble gem'men of the Gown,
“View not our verses with a frown!
“But, in return for quick dispatches,
“Invite us to your buttery-hatches!
“Ye too, whose houses are so handy,
“For coffee, tea, rum, wine, and brandy;
“Pride of fair Oxford's gawdy streets,
“You too our strain submissive greets!
“Hear Horseman, Spindlow, King, and Harper!
“The weather sure was never sharper:—
216
“Dram your poor Newsman clad in rags!
“Dire mischiefs folks above are brewing,
“The Nation's—and the Newsman's ruin;—
“'Tis yours our sorrows to remove;
“And if thus generous ye prove,
“For friends so good we're bound to pray
“Till—next returns a New-year's Day!”
“Giv'n at our melancholy cavern,
“The cellar of the Sheep's-Head Tavern.”
FOR THE YEAR 1771.
Delicious news—a war with Spain!
New rapture fires our Christmas strain.
Behold, to strike each Briton's eyes,
What bright victorious scenes arise!
What paragraphs of English glory
Will Master Jackson set before ye!
The Governor of Buenos Ayres
Shall dearly pay for his vagaries;
For whether North, or whether Chatham,
Shall rule the roast, we must have-at-'em:
Galloons—Havannah—Porto Bello,—
Ere long, will make the nation mellow:—
Our late trite themes we view with scorn,
Bellas the bold, and Parson Horne:
Nor more, through many a tedious winter,
The triumphs of the patriot Squinter,
The Ins and Outs, with cant eternal,
Shall croud each column of our Journal.—
After a dreary season past,
Our turn to live is come at last:
Gen'rals, and Admirals, and Jews,
Contractors, Printers, Men of News,
All thrive by war, and line their pockets,
And leave the works of peace to blockheads.
New rapture fires our Christmas strain.
Behold, to strike each Briton's eyes,
What bright victorious scenes arise!
What paragraphs of English glory
Will Master Jackson set before ye!
The Governor of Buenos Ayres
Shall dearly pay for his vagaries;
For whether North, or whether Chatham,
Shall rule the roast, we must have-at-'em:
Galloons—Havannah—Porto Bello,—
Ere long, will make the nation mellow:—
217
Bellas the bold, and Parson Horne:
Nor more, through many a tedious winter,
The triumphs of the patriot Squinter,
The Ins and Outs, with cant eternal,
Shall croud each column of our Journal.—
After a dreary season past,
Our turn to live is come at last:
Gen'rals, and Admirals, and Jews,
Contractors, Printers, Men of News,
All thrive by war, and line their pockets,
And leave the works of peace to blockheads.
But stay, my Muse, this hasty fit—
The war is not declar'd as yet:
And we, though now so blithe we sing,
May all be press'd to serve the King!
Therefore, meantime, our Masters dear,
Produce your hospitable cheer:—
While we, with much sincere delight,
(Whether we publish news—or fight)
Like England's undegenerate sons,
Will drink—confusion to the Dons!
The war is not declar'd as yet:
And we, though now so blithe we sing,
May all be press'd to serve the King!
Therefore, meantime, our Masters dear,
Produce your hospitable cheer:—
While we, with much sincere delight,
(Whether we publish news—or fight)
Like England's undegenerate sons,
Will drink—confusion to the Dons!
| The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | |