 | Poems of Gray, Collins and T. Warton |  |
137
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;
138
The famed events of many a Journal.
France feeds her sons on meagre soup.
'Twas hence they lost their Guadaloupe:
What though they dress so fine and ja'nty?
They could not keep Marie-galante.
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!—
Before this place fell the brave Wolfe, yet with the satisfaction of [illeg.] hearing that his troops were victorious. The other places here enumerated were conquests of the preceding year. —Warton.
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,
Hoped to demolish hardy Duff;
But soon unlook'd-for guns o'eraw'd him,
Hawke darted forth, 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.
139
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 laced jackets of the French Mounseers;
When every week produced some lucky hit,
And all our paragraphs were plann'd by Pitt.
We Newsmen drank—as England's Heroes fought,
While every victory procured—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, [illeg.] 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 carried 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 the Exporters were exported too!
In every hot-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 laced jackets of the French Mounseers;
When every week produced some lucky hit,
And all our paragraphs were plann'd by Pitt.
We Newsmen drank—as England's Heroes fought,
While every victory procured—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, [illeg.] 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 carried 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 the Exporters were exported too!
In every hot-house is unpaid our score;
And generous Captain Jolly ticks no more!
Yet still [illeg.] store some happiness remains,
Some triumphs that may grace these annual strains.
Misfortunes past no longer I repeat—
George has declared—that we again shall eat.
Sweet Withelminy, 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, could I but have had one single sup,
One single sniff, at Charlotte's caudle-cup!—
I hear—God bless it—'tis a charming girl,
So here 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 declared—that we again shall eat.
Sweet Withelminy, 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, could I but have had one single sup,
One single sniff, at Charlotte's caudle-cup!—
I hear—God bless it—'tis a charming girl,
So here 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!
142
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 early pay for his vagaries;
For whether North, or whether Chatham.
Shall rule the roast, we must have-at-'em:
Galleons—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 crowd 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 early pay for his vagaries;
For whether North, or whether Chatham.
Shall rule the roast, we must have-at-'em:
Galleons—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 crowd 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 declared 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 declared 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!
143
A SONG. IMITATED FROM THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM OF SHAKESPEARE, ACT II. SCENE V.
Lo, here, beneath this hallow'd shade,
Within a cowslip's blossom deep,
The lovely Queen of Elves is laid;
May nought disturb her balmy sleep.
Within a cowslip's blossom deep,
The lovely Queen of Elves is laid;
May nought disturb her balmy sleep.
Let not the snake or baleful toad
Approach the silent mansion near,
Or newt profane the sweet abode,
Or owl repeat her orgies here.
Approach the silent mansion near,
Or newt profane the sweet abode,
Or owl repeat her orgies here.
No snail or worm shall hither come
With noxious filth her bower to stain;
Hence be the beetle's sullen hum,
And spider's disembowel'd train.
With noxious filth her bower to stain;
Hence be the beetle's sullen hum,
And spider's disembowel'd train.
The love-lorn nightingale alone
Shall thro' Zitania's arbour stray,
To sooth her sleep with melting moan,
And lull her with his sweetest lay.
Shall thro' Zitania's arbour stray,
To sooth her sleep with melting moan,
And lull her with his sweetest lay.
| Poems of Gray, Collins and T. Warton | |