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FOR HIS

MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY;

WRITTEN BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ; POET, LAUREAT, AND PERFORMED AT ST. JAMES'S ON THE FOURTH OF JUNE, 1776, BY HIS MAJESTY'S

BAND OF MUSICIANS.

YE weftern gales, whofe genial breath
Unbinds the glebe, 'till all beneath

One verdant livery wears:
You footh the fultry heats of noon,
Add softness to the fetting fun,
And dry the morning's tears.

This is your feason, lovely gales,
Thro' Æther now your power prevails
And our dilated breafts thall own
The joys which flow from you alone.

Why therefore, in yon dubious sky,
With out-fpread wing, and eager eye
On distant scenes intent,

"Sits expectation in the air.".

Why do alternate hope and fear

Sufpend fome great event?

Can Britain fail?-the thought were vain ;
The powerful emprefs of the main

But

But ftrives to fmooth th' unruly flood
And dreads a conqueft ftain'd with Blood.

While yet, ye winds, your breezy balm
Thro' nature spreads a general calm,
While yet a pause fell discord knows ;
Catch the foft moment of repose,

Your genuine powers exert;
To pity melt th' obdurate mind,
Teach every bofom to be kind,
And humanize the heart!

Propitious gales, O wing your way!
And whilft we hail that rightful sway
Whence temper'd freedom fprings,
The blifs we feel to future times
Extend, and from your native climes
Bring peace upon your wings!

A B A L

BALLAD,

WRITTEN, OR RATHER SPOKEN, BY A GEN

TLEMAN, AT COMING INTO A COFFEE

HOUSE, FROM THE ABOVE MUSICAL ENTER-
TAINMENT.

SAY

no more of the breezes-fome wine and tobacco,

A plague on his weft, 'tis an arrant * firocco; As I live the damn'd poet has brought 'em together,

To warble of winds and to fing of the weather.

Then he talk'd, filly fellow, of tumult and war, And he fet expectation aloft in the air, Like a witch on her broom looking out of the north,

To fee if the storm she had rais'd was gone forth,

Time was, that a laureat fweetly would fing Of the virtue, or valour, or wit of the king. That time is no more, and we now cannot hear, Any praise of our monarch once in a year.

But has he forgot it, or has he not known, What his queen to the world of her bounty hath fhown?

And how the great folk went to see it, and kifs it? What an op'ning there was, zounds how could he mifs it!

Here's his majesty's health; if his course he can keep, he'll

Be father, as well as be king of his people:
For he fhall beget him a nation of princes,
When this shall be flain, to fubdue his provinces.

Here's health to the king; to his queen more of her dues;

To his poet more wit to difplay his best virtues; To his council more wifdom (may heaven foon

fend it)

And freedom to those who have hearts to defend it.

O D

E,

WRITTEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE, SEPTEMBER,

1776.

OFT to these walls the pilgrim grey,

With labour'd travel worn; Has haften'd at the parting day,

And shelter'd till the morn.

The

The poor way farer, diftant bound,
Pacing the frequent-haunted ground,

His feeble limbs lefs toil'd wou'd find,
Refresh'd, he'd flumber thro' the night,
With pray'rs, depart at early light,
Yet-leave his foul behind.

No longer echoes round the hall;
The ftrange romantic tale;
Nor mirth provokes, nor triping ball,
The laugh o'er nut-brown ale.

Hope droops! whilft o'er each gothic room,
Pale melancholy spreads a gloom,

And pity mourns the ruin'd feat;

Old hofpitality is fled,

And northern FAMINE in his stead,

Here, fixes her retreat.

Back fly reflection-truth fevere !

Let fancy for a while,

Tot PEMBROKE lend a fcornful fneer,

Tot WINNINGTON a smile.

! Behold!

+ The bufts of Lord Pembroke and Mr. Winnington, the minister, in the parlour; remarkable for such countenances.