University of Virginia Library

SONG FOR THE C---N.

Roi's wife of Brunswick Oëls!
Roi's wife of Brunswick Oëls!
Wot you how she came to him,
While he supinely dreamt of no ills?
Vow! but she is a canty Queen,
And well can she scare each royal orgie.—
To us she ever must be dear,
Though she's for ever cut by Georgie.—
Roi's wife, &c. Da capo.

SONNET to Mathew Wood , Esq., Alderman and M. P.

Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic Wood!
Regardless what the player's son may prate,
Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of Debate—
Who nothing generous ever understood.
London's twice Prætor! scorn the fool-born jest—
The stage's scum, and refuse of the players—
Stale topics against Magistrates and Mayors—
City and Country both thy worth attest.
Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit,
More fit to sooth the superficial ear
Of drunken Pitt, and that pickpocket Peer,
When at their sottish orgies they did sit,
Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein,
Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain.

THE GODLIKE.

In one great man we view with odds
A parallel to all the gods.
Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow,
Could never match his princely bow.
In him a Bacchus we behold:
Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old.
Like Phœbus next, a flaming lover;
And then he's Mercury—all over.
A Vulcan, for domestic strife,
He lamely lives without his wife.
And sure—unless our wits be dull—
Minerva-like, when moon was full,
He issued from paternal skull.

ON A PROJECTED JOURNEY.

To gratify his people's wish
See G---e at length prepare—
He's setting out for Hanover—
We've often wish'd him there.

ON A LATE EMPIRIC OF “BALMY” MEMORY.

His namesake, born of Jewish breeder,
Knew “from the Hyssop to the Cedar;”
But he, unlike the Jewish leader,
Scarce knew the Hyssop from the Cedar.

THE UNBELOVED.

Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C---ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C---gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van's beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for 't,
I could never love thee, H---t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object,—
Dear to neither prince, nor subject;—
Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf
Fastning on the skin of Guelph,
Thou, thou must, surely, loathe thyself.

EPIGRAM.

(Written in the last reign.)

Ye Politicians, tell me, pray,
Why thus with woe and care rent?
This is the worst that you can say,
Some wind has blown the wig away,
And left the hair apparent.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE.

(Written in the last reign.)

SONNET.

St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford.

All unadvised, and in an evil hour,
Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft
The lowly labours of the Gentle Craft
For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour.
All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;
The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground;
And sweet content of mind is oftener found
In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower.
The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;
And better to this hour you had been plying
The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying,
Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein;
Still teazing Muses, which are still denying;
Making a stretching-leather of your brain.

THE THREE GRAVES.

Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds,
Where Bedloe, Oates and Judas, hide their heads,
I saw great Satan like a Sexton stand,
With his intolerable spade in hand,
Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were,
For those who, coffinless, must enter there
With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth
Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath:
The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye, that dwelt
Upon it long, like darkness to be felt.