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[Page 4]
1785 Morning Herald.
IV.
Now shall the Levee's ease thy soul unbend,
Fatigu'd with loyalty's feverer care ;
Oh ! happy Few ! whom brighter stars befriend ;
Who catch the chat, the witty whisper share.
Methinks I hear,
In accents clear,
Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear.
"What? - what? - what!
"Scott! - Scott ! - Scott!
"Hot! - hot! - hot!
"What? - what? - what!"
Oh! fancy quick! oh! judgment true!
Oh! sacred oracle of regal state!
So hasty and so generous too!
Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait !
Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art,
To paint the beauties of that head and heart !
That head, that hangs on many a sing !
That heard, where all the virtues join !
V.
Monarch of mighty Albion, check thy talk !
Behold the Squad approach, led on by Palk !
Old Barwell, Call, Vansittart from the band !
Lord of Britannia ! - let them kiss thy hand !
For, Sniff ! * rich Eastern odours scent the sphere !
'Tis Mrs. Hastings' self brings up the rear !
Gods ! how her diamonds flock
On each unpowder's lock !
And, lo ! her joints are fewer than her rings !
Illustrious Dame ! on either ear,
The Munny-Begum's spoils appear.
Oh ! Pitt, with awe behold that previous throat,
Whose necklace teems with many a future vote ;
Pregnant with burgage gems, each hand she rears ;
And lo ! depending questions gleam upon her ears.
Take her great George, and shake her by the hand,
"Twill loose her jewels, and enrich thy land.
But oh ! reserve one ring for an old stager,
The ring of future marriage for her Major !
* Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling.
June14. PROBATIONARY ODES
for the LAUREATSHIP.
No. XII.
IRREGULAR ODE ;
By the Right Honorable HARRY DDUNDAS, Esq. Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.
I
HOOT ! HOOT awaw !
Hoot ! Hoot awaw !
Ye lawland Bards ! wha' are ye aw?
What are you fangs ? what aw your lair to boot ?
Vain are your thowghts the prize to win,
Sae dight your gobs, and flint your senseless din ;
Hoot ! hoot awaw ! hoot ! hoot !
Put oot aw your Attic feires,
Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres ;
A looder, and a looder note I'll strike :
-Na watter drawghts fra' Helicon I heed,
Na wull I mount your winged steed,
I'll mount the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike .
II.
Ye lairdly fowk ! wha form the coortly ring,
Coom ! lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing !
Ye canny maidens tee ! wha aw the wheile,
Sa sweetly luik, fa sweetly smeile ;
Coom hither aw ! and roon'd me thrang,
Wheil I lug oot my peips, and f'ye a canty sang.
Wha, gifted by the Gods abuin,
Wi' meickle taste, and meickle airt,
Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt !
Faint garr'd his canny peipe to lilt a tune.
To the sweet whassel join'd the pleesan drane,
And made the poo'rs of music aw his ain.
On thee, on thee, I caw - thou deathless spreight !
Doon fia thy thrane, abuin the list fa breight,
Ah ! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm '
And, fou as is the baug beneath my airm,
Inspeire my saul, and geide my tunesome tongue.
I feeel, I feel, thy poo'r divine ;
Lawrels ! kest ye to the graon'd ;
Aroon'd my heed, my coontry's pride I tweine ;
Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon'd,
Sa sud gret G E O R G E be sung.
III.
Fra hills, wi'heathers clad, that smeilan bluirs
Speite o' the northern blaist ;
Ye breether bairds ! descend, and hither coom :
Let ilka ane his baugpipe bring,
That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel ;
Sweet foonds ! that please the lugs o' fic a king ;
Lugs that in musick's soonds ha' mickle taste.
Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,
Baith your muckle peipes and smaw ;
Now, laddies ! lood blaw up your chanters ;
For, luik ! whare, cled in claies sa leel,
Canny Montrose's son leads on the ranters.
Thoo, Laird 'o Gra'am ! by manie a cheil ador'd,
Wha boasts his native fillabeg restor'd ;
[line indecipherable]
Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,
Weind the reel, and wave the daunce ;
Noo they rant, and noo they lowp,
And noo they shew their brawny dowp ;
And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o' the Coort,
Sa, in the guid buik are we tauld,
Befoor the halie ark,
The guid King David, in the days of auld,
Daunc'd, like a wuid thing, in his sark ;
Wheil Sion's dowghters ('tis wi' sham I speak't),
Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain,
Kee'd, and laugh'd,
And laugh'd, and keck'd,
And lawgh'd, and keck'd again.
Scarce coud they keep their watter at the [seight?],
Sa mickle did the king their glowran eyae delight.
IV.
Anewgh ! anewgh ! noo haud your haund !
And stint your spowrts awee :
Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,
O'ersheenan aw the lave ;
He cooms, he cooms !
Aw hail ! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks !
Weel coud I tell of aw thy mighty awks ;
Fain wad my peipe, its loodest note,
My tongue, its wunsome poo'rs, devote,
To gratitude and thee ;
To thee, the sweetest o' thy ain parfooms,
Orixa's preide, sud blaze ;
On thee, thy gems of purest rays,
Back fra' this haund, their genuine feires sud shed.
And Rembold's crawdle vie wuth Hastings' bed.
But Heev's betook us weil ! and keep us weife!
Leike thunder, brustan at thy dreed command ;
"Keep, keep thy tongue,", a warlock cries,
And waves his gowden waund.
V.
Noo, laddies ! gi' your baugpipes breeth again ;
Blaw the loo'd, but solemn, strain ;
Thus wheil I hail with haird-felt pleasure,
In majesty sedate,
In pride elate,
The smuith cheek's Laird of aw the treesure ;
Onward be stalks in froon an state ;
Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,
Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend,
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds ! of mickle wit ;
Hair to ye aw, wha in weise cooncil sit,
Fra' Tommy Toonsend up to Wully Pitt!
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine ;
To nobler fleights the nause expands her wing,
Tis he, whase eyne and wit sa brightly sheine,
"Tis G E O R G E demands her care ;