What scale of metaphor fhall Fancy raife,
To climb the heights of thy ftupendous praise?
Thrice has the fun commenc'd his annual ride,
Since full of years and praise, thy mother died.
'Twas then I faw thee, with exulting eyes,
A fecond Phoenix, from her ashes rife ;
Mark'd all the graces of thy loyal creft,
Sweet with the perfume of its parent neft.
Rare chick! How worthy of all court careffes,
How foft, how echo-like, it chirp'd addreffes.
Proceed, I cry'd, thy full fledg'd plumes unfold,
Each true-blue feather shall be tipt with gold;
Ordain'd thy race of future fame to run,
To do, what'er thy mother left undone.
In all her smooth, obfequious paths proceed,
For, know, poor oppofition wants a head.
With horn and hound her truant school boys roam,
And for a fox-chace quit St. Stephen's dome,
Forgetful of their grandfire Nimrod's plan,
"A mighty hunter, but his prey was man."
The reft, at crouded Almack's, nightly bett,
To stretch their own beyond the nation's debt.
Ver. 155. A mighty hunter.] A line of Mr. Pope's. If our younger fenators would take the hint, and now and then hunt a minifter instead of a fox, they might perhaps find fome fun.
Vote then fecure; the needful millions raife,
That fill the privy-purse with means and ways.
And do it quickly too, to fhew your breeding, 160
The weazel Scots are hungry, and want feeding.
Nor need you wait for that more plenteous season,
When mad America is, brought to reason.
Obfequious Ireland, at her fister's claim,
(Sifter or step-dame, call her either name)
Shall pour profufely her Pactolian tide,
Nor leave her native patriots unfupply'd.
Earl N-t fung, while yet but fimple Clare,
That wretched Ireland had no gold to fpare.
Ver. 161. The weazel Scots.] It is not I, but Shakespeare, that gives my countrymen this epithet. See Hen. V. A&t 1. scene 2. For once the eagle England being in prey,
To her unguarded neft the weazel Scot
Comes sneaking, and fo fucks her princely eggs, &c.
Ver. 168. Earl Nt fung.] The intellect not only of pofterity, but of the prefent reader, must here again be enlightened by a note for this fong was fung about two years ago,, and is confequently forgotten. Yet if the reader will please to recollect how eafily I brought to life Sir William Chambers's Profe differtation which had been dead half that time, he will, I hope, give me credit for being able to recover this dead poem from oblivion also. It was fent to her Majefty on her birth-day, with a prefent of rith grogram; and the newspaper of the day faid (but I know not how truly) that the Queen was gracioully pleafed to thank the noble author for both his pieces of stuff. C 6 The
How couldst thou, fimple Clare! that ifle abufe, 170
Which prompts and pays thy linfey-woolfey mufe?
Mistaken peer, her treasures ne'er can ceafe,
Did he not long pay Viry for our peace?
Say, did the not, till rang the royal knell,
Irradiate vestal Majesty at Zell?
Sure then he might afford, to my poor thinking,
One golden tumbler, for Queen Charlotte's
drinking.
I care not, if her hinds on fens and rocks,
Ne'er roast one shoulder of their fatted flocks,
The poet's exordium feemed to have been taken from that very Ode in Horace which I have alfo attempted to imitate in this pamphlet. It began by affuring her Majefty, that Ireland was too poor to present her with a piece of gold plate.
Could poor lerne gifts afford,
Worthy the confort of her lord.
Of purest gold a fculpter'd frame,
Juft emblem of her zeal, fhould flame.
This fuppofed poverty of his native country ftruck me at the time as a mere gratis-dictum. I have therefore, from verse 180 to verfe 86 of this epiftle, endeavoured to refute it, for the honour of Ireland.
Ver. 178. I care not, &c.] Alluding to thefe lines in the fame
Where farving hinds from fens and rocks,
View paflures rich with herd's and flocks,
And only view- forbid to tafte, &c.
And in a note on the paffage, he tells us that thefe Finds ne
Shall Irish hinds to mutton make pretenfions? 180
Be theirs potatoes, and be ours their pensions.
If they refuse, great North, by me advis'd,
Enact, that each potatoe be excis'd.
Ah! hadst thou, North, adopted this fage plan,
And fcorn'd to tax each British ferving-man, 185
Thy friend Macgreggor, when he came to town,
As poets fhould do) in his chaise and one,
Had feen his foot-boy Sawney, once his pride,
On ftunt Scotch poney trotting by his fide,
With frock of fuftian, and with cape of red,
Nor grudg'd the guinea tax'd upon his head.
But, tufh, I heed not-for my country's good
I'll pay it-it will purchase Yankee blood-
And well I ween, for this heroic lay,
Almon will give me wherewithal to pay.
Tax then, ye greedy minifters, your fill
No matter, if with ignorance or skill.
Be ours to pay, and that's an easy task,
In these bleft times to have is but to ask.
Ye know, whate'er is from the public preft,
Will fevenfold fink into your private cheft.
ver eat animal food; but fays not one word about potatoes, that moft nutritious of all aliments, which is furely very difingenuous..
For he, the nurfing father, that receives,
Full freely tho' he takes, as freely gives.
So when great Cox, at his mechanic call,
Bids orient pearls from golden dragons fall,
Each little dragonet, with brazen grin,
Gapes for the precious prize, and gulps it in.
Yet when we peep behind the magic scene,
One mafter-wheel directs the whole machine :
The self-fame pearls, in nice gradation, all
Around one common centre rise and fall.
Thus may our ftate-museum long furprise;
And what is funk by votes-in bribes arise ;
Till mock'd and jaded with the puppet-play,
Old England's genius turns with fcorn away,
Afcends his facred bark, the fails unfurl'd,
And fteers his state to the wide western world:
High on the helm majestic Freedom stands,
In act of cold contempt she waves her hands-
Take, flaves, fhe cries, the realms that I difown, 220
Renounce your birth-right, and deftroy my throne.
Ver. 211. Around one common centre.] I was let into this fecret by my late patron, Sir William Chambers; who, as Mr. Cox's automata were very much in the Chinese tafte, was very curious to discover their mechanifm. I must do the Knight the jotice to own that fome of my best things are borrowed from bim.
|