The Rolliad Part 32

_NUMBER XVIII._

IRREGULAR ODE,

_By the_ MARQUIS OF GRAHAM.

I.

Help! help! I say, Apollo!

To you I call, to you I hollo; My Muse would fain bring forth; G.o.d of Midwives come along Bring into light my little song, See how its parent labours with the birth; My brain! my brain!

What horrid pain; Come, now prithee come, I say: } Nay, if you won't, then stay away-- } Without thy help, I've sung full many a lay. }

II.

To lighter themes let other bards resort; My verse shall tell the glories of the Court.

Behold the Pensioners, a martial band; Dreadful, with rusty battle-axe in hand-- Quarterly and daily waiters, A l.u.s.tier troop, ye brave Beefeaters, Sweepers, Marshals, Wardrobe brushers, Patrician, and Plebeian ushers; Ye too, who watch in inner rooms; Ye Lords, ye Gentlemen, and Grooms; Oh! careful guard your royal Master's slumber, Lest factious flies his sacred face inc.u.mber.

But ah! how weak my song!

Crouds still on crouds impetuous rush along, I see, I see, the motly group appear, Thurlow in front, and Chandos in the rear; Each takes the path his various genius guides-- O'er Cabinets _this_, and _that_ o'er Cooks presides!

III.

Hail! too, ye beds, where, when his labour closes, With ponderous limbs great CINCINNATUS doses!

Oh! say what fate the Arcadian King betides When playful Mab his wandering fancy guides, Perhaps he views his HOWARD's wit Make SHERIDAN submissive sit; Perhaps o'er foes he conquest reaps: Perhaps some ditch he dauntless leaps; Now shears his people, now his mutton; Now makes a Peer, and now a b.u.t.ton.

Now mightier themes demand his care; HASTINGS for a.s.sistance flies; Bulses glittering skim the air; Hands unstretch'd would grasp the prize, But no diamond they find there; For awak'd, by amorous pat, Good lack! his gentle CHARLOTTE cries, What would your Majesty be at?

The endearing question kindles fierce desire, And all the monarch owns the lover's fire; The pious King fulfils the heav'nly plan, And little annual BRUNSWICKS speak the mighty man!

IV.

At Pimlico an ancient structure stands, Where Sheffield erst, but Brunswick now commands; Crown'd with a weatherc.o.c.k that points at will, To every part but Const.i.tution-hill-- Hence Brunswick, peeping at the windows, Each star-light night, Looks with delight, And sees unseen, And tells the Queen, What each who pa.s.ses out or in, does, Hence too, when eas'd of Faction's dread, With joys surveys, The cattle graze, At half a crown a head-- Views the ca.n.a.l's transparent flood, Now fill'd with water, now with mud; Where various seasons, various charms create, Dogs in the summer swim, and boys in winter skait.

V.

Oh! for the pencil of a Claud Lorrain, Apelles, Austin, Sayer, or Luke the saint-- What glowing scenes;--but ah! the grant were vain, I know not how to paint---- Hail! Royal Park! what various charms are thine-- Thy patent lamps pale Cynthia's rays outs.h.i.+ne-- Thy limes and elms with grace majestic grow, All in a row; Thy Mall's smooth walk, and sacred road beside, Where Treasury Lords by Royal Mandate ride.

Hark! the merry fife and drum: Hark! of beaus the busy hum; While in the gloom of evening shade, Gay wood-nymphs ply their wanton trade; Ah! nymphs too kind, each vain pursuit give o'er-- If Death should call--you then can walk no more!

See the children rang'd on benches; See the pretty nursery wenches; The cows, secur'd by halters, stand, Courting the ruddy milk-maid's hand.

Ill-fated cows, when all your milk they've ta'en, At Smithfield sold, you'll fatten'd be and slain.--

VI.

Muse, raise thine eyes and quick behold, The Treasury-office fill'd with gold; Where Elliot, Pitt, and I, each day } The tedious moments pa.s.s away, } In business now, and now in play---- } The gay Horse-guards, whose clock of mighty fame, Directs the dinner of each careful dame, Where soldiers with red coats equipp'd, Are sometimes march'd, and sometimes whipp'd.

Let them not doubt---- 'Twas heav'n's eternal plan That perfect bliss should ne'er be known to man.

Thus Ministers, are in--are out, Turn and turn about---- Even Pitt himself may lose his place, } Or thou, Delpini, sovereign of grimace, } Thou, too, by some false step, may'st meet disgrace. }

VII.

Ye feather'd choristers, your voices tune, 'Tis now, or near the fourth of June; All nature smiles--the day of Brunswick's birth Destroy'd the iron-age, and made an heav'n on earth.

Men and beasts his name repeating, Courtiers talking, calves a-bleating; Horses neighing, a.s.ses braying, Sheep, hogs, and geese, with tuneful voices sing, All praise their King, George the Third, the Great, the Good.

France and Spain his anger rue; Americans, he conquer'd you, Or would have done it if he cou'd.

And 'midst the general loyal note, Shall not his _gosling_ tune his throat; Then let me join the jocund hand, Crown'd with laurel let me stand; My grateful voice shall their's as far exceed, As the two-legg'd excels the base four-footed breed.

_NUMBER XIX._

LETTER FROM THE RT. HON. LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, TO THE EARL OF SALISBURY.

MY LORD, Being informed from undoubted authority, that the learned _Pierot_, whom your Lords.h.i.+p has thought proper to nominate to the dignity of your a.s.sessor, knows no language but his own, it seemed to me probable he might not understand _Irish_.--Now as I recollect my last Ode to have proceeded on the orthography of that kingdom, I thought his entire ignorance of the tongue might perhaps be some hindrance to his judgment, upon its merit. On account of this unhappy ignorance, therefore, on the part of the worthy _Buffo_, of any language but _Italian_, I have taken the liberty to present your Lords.h.i.+p and him with a second Ode, written in _English_; which I hope he will find no difficulty in understanding, and which certainly has the better chance of being perfectly correct in the true English idiom, as it has been very carefully revised and altered by my worthy friend, Mr. _Henry Dundas_.

I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lords.h.i.+p's devoted servant, MOUNTMORRES.

ODE,

_By the_ RT. HON. HARVEY REDMOND MORRES, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND, &c.

I.

Ye gentle Nymphs, who rule the Song, Who stray _Thessalian_ groves among, With forms so bright and airy; Whether you pierce _Pierian_ shades, } Or, less refin'd, adorn the glades, } And wanton with the l.u.s.ty blades } Of fruitful _Tipperary_; Whether you sip Aonias' wave, Or in thy stream, fair _Liffy_, lave; Whether you taste ambrosial food; Or think _potatoes_ quite as good, Oh, listen to an _Irish_ Peer, Who has woo'd your s.e.x for many a year.

II.

_Gold!_--thou bright benignant pow'r!

Parent of the jocund hour, Say, how my breast has heav'd with many a storm, When thee I wors.h.i.+p'd in a _female_ form!

Thou, whose high and potent skill, Turns things and persons at thy will!

Thou, whose omnipotent decree, Mighty as Fate's eternal rule, Can make a wise man of a fool, And grace e'en loath'd deformity: Can straitness give to her that's crook'd, And _Grecian_ grace to nose that's hook'd; Can smooth the mount on _Laura_'s back, And wit supply to those that lack: Say, and take pity on my woes, Record my throbs, recount my throes; How oft I sigh'd, How oft I dy'd: How oft dismiss'd, How seldom kiss'd; How oft, fair _Phyllida_, when thee I woo'd With cautious foresight all thy charms I view'd.

O'er many a sod, How oft I trod, To count thy acres o'er; Or spent my time, For marle or lime, With anxious zeal to bore[1]!

How _Cupid_ then all great and powerful sate, Perch'd on the vantage of a rich estate; When, for his darts, he us'd fair spreading trees, Ah! _who_ cou'd fail that shot with shafts like these!

III.

Oh, sad example of capricious Fate!

Sue _Irishmen_ in vain!

Does _Pompey_'s self, the proud, the great, Fail e'en a maid to gain?

What boots my form so tall and slim, My legs so stout--my beard so grim?

Why have I _Alexander_'s bend?

Emblem of conquest never gain'd!

A nose so long--a back so strait-- A chairman's mien--a chairman's gait?

Why wasted ink to make orations?

Design'd to teach unlist'ning nations!

Why have I view'd th' ideal clock[2], Or mourn'd the visionary hour?

Griev'd to behold with well-bred shock, The fancy'd pointer verge _to four?_ Then with a bow, proceed to beg, A general pardon on my leg-- "Lament that to an hour so late,"

"'Twas mine to urge the grave debate!"

"Or mourn the rest, untimely broken!"

All this to say--all this to do, In form so native, neat, and new, In speech _intended_ to be spoken!-- But fruitless all, for neither here or there, My _leg_ has yet obtain'd me _place_, or _fair!_

IV.

_Pompeys_ there are of every shape and size: Some are the Great, y-clep'd, and some the Little, Some with their deeds that fill the wond'ring skies, And some on ladies' laps that eat their vittle!

'Tis _Morres_' boast--'tis _Morres_' pride, To be to both ally'd!

That of all various _Pompeys_, he Forms one complete _epitome_!

Prepar'd alike fierce Faction's host to fight, Or, thankful, stoop _official crumbs_ to bite-- No equal to himself on earth to own; Or watch, with anxious eye, on _Treasury-bone!_ As Rome's fam'd chief, imperious, stiff, and proud; Fawning as curs, when supplicating food!

In him their several virtues all reside, The peerless Puppy, and of Peers the pride!

V.

Say, Critic _Buffo_, will not powers like these, E'en thy refin'd fastidious judgment please?

A common _b.u.t.t_ to all mankind, 'Tis my hard lot to be; O let me then some justice find, And give the b.u.t.t to me!

Then dearest DE'L, Thy praise I'll tell, And with _unprost.i.tuted_ pen.

In _Warton_'s pure and modest strain, Unwarp'd by Hope--unmov'd by Gain, I'll call the "best of husbands," and "most chaste of men!"