ON THE D. OF BEDFORD'S ARRIVAL IN IRELAND
SOFTLY fweet in Lydian measure,
Let the flute refound our pleasure ;
Stop the noise of rattling drums :
For the Great PEACE-MAKER comes
Let no din of frightful war
With dread alarms his fancy scare ;
Nor let the thund❜ring cannons roar,
To fpeak his welcome to the fhore.
You vile, you venal, flavifh band,
In useless pageantry that ftand,
Begone! he likes not your parade;
He hates a martial cavalcade.
But let the gently lulling lute
In mildeft ftrains the chief falute:
And let the thrum of light guittar
With grateful trifling please his ear.
Ye matrons, twine the olive wreath,
Whofe valiant friends thro' him ftill breathe:
Ye maids, who have not loft a spouse,
Adorn with thistle ev'ry house.
Ye ladies fair, fhew your regards,
And ftrew the streets with heaps of cards;
Be PAM with glad amazement dumb;
His fervant and his patron's come.
Ye fons of ALMA, tune your lays,
And fing your worthy fav'rite's praise;
Extol the heroes of his name,
Whofe valour won immortal fame.
Chiefs, who the fword for freedom drew,,
Alike to prince, and people true;
Nor barter'd, fhame for fordid pelf;
Nor made the public yield to self..
Laft in the glorious record be
The MARTYR for fweet LIBERTY;
Who for religion nobly bled,
And for his virtue loft his head.
In these bright patterns of renown,
Trace worth continual handed down ;
Then fay, what virtue of a man
Adorns this worthy ?-if you can.
Defcribe his dangers on the main,
Or on the great NEWMARKET plain;
His wounds of honour in the face,
Or stripes his back got at a race.
Display, to the admiring nations,
His wond'rous fkill in negotiations:
Or, what more near engage his heart,
The tricks of the stock-jobbing art.
The loffes tell, which haughty Spain
Sorely lamented once in vain :
Soon he with gen'rous ease restor❜d
The earnings of the BRITISH fword.
Describe the fall of GALLIC pride,
Her arms o'erthrown on ev'ry fide;
And, that fo high her creft's now rais'd,
Be this great DUKE by hirelings prais'd.
Ireland, Sept. 6, 1768.
THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION.
BALLAD ON THE SAME OCCASION; TO THE
TUNE OF CHEVY CHASE.
GOD profper long our noble king,
And eke his fubjects too;
And grant fuch deeds as now I fing
We never more may rue.
In feventeen hundred fixty-eight,
All on a fummer's day,
Grim death did on our member wait,
And took him clean away.
O! then a writ was iffu'd out,
To chufe a member in;
And foon began a mighty rout
For Proctor and for Glynn.
When as the day advanced nigh,
Each party did its beft;
And Horne (who fcorns to tell a lye)
Turn'd Proctor's cause to jeft.
Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who,
Of Irish ftrength affur'd,
Provided many a gallant crew,
True men, I'll pawn my word.
Such crowds to Brentford town did hie,
As fill'd the place outright;
While thousands knew not where to lie,
At length the fatal morning came,
O had it ne'er arriv'd!
For many a wight crawl'd home quite lame,
Full glad that he surviv'd.
Soon as the rifing fun had clear'd
The gloomy fhades of night,
All on the huftings they appear'd-
O! 'twas a glorious fight!
With ribbon and with ftar bespread,
(Given by the good old king)
Sir William hung his languid head,
And look'd-like any thing.
The ferjeant held his head upright,
For confcious fill was he,
That those who do the deed that's right,
Have real caufe for glee.
Mr. O'Murphy too was there,
Hight counsellor at law-
His bus'nefs was to ftrut and ftare,
And find or make a flaw.
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