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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FOR THE YEAR 1767. |
 | The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton |  |
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!
| The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | |