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[Page 12]
[Handwritten] 1785. Morning Herald.
Ill-fated cows, when all your milk they've ta'en,
At Smithfield fold, you'll fatten'd be, and slain. --
V.
Muse, raise thine eyes and quick behold,
The Treasury-office fill'd with gold,
Where Elliot, Pitt, and I, each day
The tedious moments pass away,
In business now, and now in play --
The gay horse-guard, 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.
VI
Ye, feather'd choristers your voices tune,
'Tis now, as near the fourth of June ;
All nature smiles -- the day of Brunswick's birth
Destroy'd the iro-age, and made an heav'n on earth.
Men and beasts his name repeating,
Courtiers talking, calves a-bleating ;
Horses neighing,
Asses 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 could.
And midst the general loyal note,
Shall not his gosling tune his throat ?
Then let me join the jocund band,
Crown's with the laurel let me stand ;
My grateful voice shall theirs as far exceed,
As the two leg'd excels, the base four-footed breed