University of Virginia Library

ODE I.

Hail! Christopher, my patron, dear,
Descended from your grandfather;
To thee, my bosom friend, I fly,
Brass buckler of Odoherty!
Some are, who all their hours consume
With well-train'd horse, and sweated groom,—
Who, if the Doncaster they gain,
Or, coming first, with lighten'd rein,
At the St. Leger, bear away
Elate the honors of the day,
Pull up their collars to their ears,
And think themselves amid the spheres.
Such art thou, Lambton, Kelburne, Pierse,
And more than I can name in verse.
Another tries, with furious speech,
The bottoms of the mob to reach;—
Here on the hustings stands Burdett,
With trope and start their zeal to whet;
While jackall Hobhouse, sure to tire on
Tracking alway the steps of Byron,
Stands at his arm, with words of nectar
Determined to out-hector Hector.—
Preston, with rosin on his beard,
Starts up, determined to be heard,
And swears destruction to the bones
Of those who will not hear Gale Jones:
While Leigh Hunt, in the Examiner,
About them tries to make a stir,
And says, (who doubts him?) men like these
Shame Tully and Demosthenes.—
A third, like Sir John Sinclair, tries
To hold the harrow to the skies;
And thinks there is no nobler work,
Than scattering manure with the fork,
Except (as Mr. Coke prefers,)
To catch the sheep, and ply the shears:
Although you'd give, in guineas round,
A plum, (i. e. one hundred thousand pound,)
You could not get these men, I know,
Aboard the Northern ships to go,—
Through frozen latitudes to stroll,
And see if ice surrounds the pole;—
They wish success to Captain Parry,
But yet, at home would rather tarry.
In slippers red, before the fire,
With negus to his heart's desire.
The merchant sits; he winks and snores,—
The north wind in the chimney roars:
Waking, he bawls aloud—“Od rot 'em,
“I fear my ships are at the bottom!—
“The crews are trifles to be sure,
“But then the cargos a'n't secure:
“'Change will be changed for me to-morrow,—
“Alack! for poverty and sorrow!”
Men are—I know them—let that pass,
(Who crack a joke, and love a glass)
Whether, like Falstaff, it be sack,
Champaigne, Old Hock, or Frontiniac,
Or Whiskey-punch, which, jovial dog,
Is true heart's-balsam to James Hogg;—
Like Wordsworth, under pleasant trees,
Some take delight to catch the breeze;
Or lie amid the pastoral mountains,
And listen to the bubbling fountains.
Many in camps delight to hear
The fife and bugle's music clear,
While hautboy sweet, and kettle-drum,
Upon the ear like thunder come.
Though youngsters love a battle hot,
Their anxious mothers love it not;—
While in the fray a son remains out,
Some erring ball may knock his brains out.
O'er hedge and ditch, through field and thicket,
With buck-skin breeches, and red jacket,
On spanking steed the huntsman flies,
Led by the deep-mouth'd stag-hounds' cries:
Meanwhile his spouse, in lonely bed,
Laments that she was ever wed;
And, toss'd on wedlock's stormy billow,
Like the M'Whirter, clasps her pillow,
And sighs, while fondling it about.
“Thou art my only child, I doubt!”
—For me a laurel crown, like that
Used for a band to Southey's hat,
(Not such as Cockney Will abuses,
And Leigh Hunt for a night-cap uses,)
Would make me, amid wits, appear
A Samson, and a grenadier!
Then, many a nymph, with sparkling eye,
Would crowd around Odoherty;
Swift at the tune, which Lady Morgan
Would play upon the barrel organ;
MacCraws, and all my second cousins,
And light-heel'd blue-stockings by dozens
With nimble toe would touch the ground,
And form a choral ring around.—
Oh! that James Hogg, my chosen friend,
His glowing fancy would me lend,
His restless fancy, wandering still
By lonely mount, and fairy rill!
That Dr. Scott, with forceps stout,
Would draw my stumps of dullness out;
Exalt my heart o'er churlish earth,
And fill me with his fun and mirth;
Then, Anak-like, 'mid men I'd stray,
Men, that like mice would throng my way,
Rise high o'er all terrestrial jars,
And singe my poll against the stars.