III.

My trembling mufe can ne'er afpire
To tune an ode with Whitehead's fire,
Or fing these glorious days:

Befides, your ears, my Lord, are nice,
They shrink from flattery in a trice,
And scarce bear modest praise.

IV.

Elfe fhould I hail this lucky hour,
LO, SAYRE Committed to the Tower!
Britain fhall Peans fing:

A meal-tub plot young Oates fhall prove,
Since Kate Macaulay basely strove

To ravish George our King * !

V.

Can I defcribe the Atlantick fea,
Green as a leek with India's tea,
Dire caufe of civil rage?

• Mr. Richardson, (the witness against Sayre, and therefore the Titus Oates of the Court) will produce undoubted evidence to prove this extraordinary fact.-The Lord Mayor elect, Mr. Sawbridge, encouraged his fifter to this atrocious attempt, unparalle!ed even in her own hiftory.Mr. Wilkes is alfo ftrongly fufpected.

The

The duft and fweat on Putnam's brow,
Who in the battle equals Howe,

But kneels to Madam Gage?

VI.

Enough for me, if I rehearse
Some Whiggish maxim in my verse,
And prove my patriot zeal :

I've no fond wish to lose an ear

(Or gain a penfion, like Shebbeare,). Though the King's touch might heal.

OCTOBER 27, 1775.

To prevent malignant conftructions, the author thinks himfelf bound in honour to declare, that by Madam Gage he means Mrs. Gage, and not the General. At the fame time he candidly owns a compliment was defigned to the gallant old wood-cutter, for his fingular politenefe to that lady.

ODE

My Lord, your filley's hardly broke,

She kicks and winces at the yoke,
Nor will fubmit to draw:

With too much spirit for a hack,

Though King, Lords, Commons, gall her back,

And bridle her with law.

II.

By youth and freedom fir'd fhe roves,
The boundlefs wood and field fhe loves,

Nor heeds the herdfman's whistle:
With wanton colts fhe wildly strays,
But drives your braying afs to graze
On Nova Scotia's thistle.

1

III. Don't

III.

Don't rob the orchard, (though you've power,)
The Boston apples yet are four,

And apt to purge and gripe:

The loyal Yankies, for your use,

Would give and grant the genial juice,
You'd fteal the fruit-unripe.

IV.

The faints, alas! have waxen strong;
In vain your fafts and godly fong,

To quell the rebel rout!

Within his lines fkulks valiant Gage,
Like Yorick's ftarling in the cage,

He cries, "I can't get out."

V.

Why will the Council always blunder?
Dull Leadenhall you still may plunder,
You ne'er can want pretenfions;

Seapoys and Nabobs can't refift,
A vote will pay the Civil Lift,

And Ireland furnish penfions.

VI.

But ftubborn Yankies let alone,
They hurl defiance at the throne,

And all your schemes unsettle;

To

To mark your ACT with more difgrace,
They fling their tea-pots in your face,
And fcald you with the kettle.

CONGRATULATORY ODE,

ADDRESSED TO LORD GEORGE GERMAIN, ON HIS

BEING APPOINTED SECRETARY OF STATE FOR
THE COLONIES, IN THE ROOM OF LORD DART--
MOUTH.

BY THE SAME.

My Lord, I hail your fpotlefs fame;
A civil poft, and change of name,
Have wash'd away all fin:

The German flough no more prevails,
For ferpent-like, you've cast your scales,
And fhine in a new-fkin..

Degraded from your martial station,
You ftill furprize and please the nation,,
Your zeal they yet applaud :

:

Sentenc'd no more to blaze in arms,

Like an old trull with tarnish'd charms

You turn a useful bawd..

Bred