Primary tabs
Transcription
[Page 13]
1785. Morning Herald.
Aug 20.
PROBATIONARY ODES,
For the LAUREATHSHIP.No. XIX.
IRREGULAR ODE FOR THE KING's BIRTH-DAY,
By Sir GEORGE HOWARD, K. B.
CHORUS.
Re mi fa Sol,
Told de rol lol.
MY Muse, for George prepare the splendid song
Oh may it float on Schewellenbergen's voice,
Let Maids of Honor sing it all day long,
That Hoggaden's fair ears may hear it, and rejoice.
II
What subject first shall claim thy courtly strains?
Wilt thou begin from Windsor's sacred bow,
Where erst, with pride and pow'r elate,
The Tudor: [fate?] in sullen state,
While Rebel Freedom, forc'd at length to bow,
Retir'd reluctant from her fav'rite plains?
Ah! while in each insulting tow'r you trace
The features of that tyrant race,
How wilt thou joy to view the alter'd scene f-
The giant castle quits his threat'ning mien,
The levell'd ditch no more its jaws discloses,
But o'er its mouth, to feast our eyes and noses,
Brunswick hath planted pinks and roses,
Hath spread sooth gravel walks, and a small bowling green.
III.
Mighty Sov'reign! Mighty Master!
George is content with lath and plaister!
At his own palace- gate,
In a poor porter lodge by Chambers plan'd,
See him, with Jenky, hand in hand.
In Serious mood,
Talking! talking! talking! talking!
Talking if affairs of state
All for his country's good!
Oh, Europe's pride! Britannia's hope!
To view his turnips and potatoes,
Down his fair kitchen- garden's slope
The victor monarch walks like Cincinnatus!
See, heavenly Muse! I vow to God
'Twas thus the laurel'd hero trod. -
Sweet rural joys! delights without compare!
Pleasure shines in his eyes,
While George with surprize,
Sees his cabbages rise,
And his 'sparagus wave in the air!
IV.
But, hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The Levee's hour approaches,
Haste, ye Postillions ! o'er the turnpike road
Back to St. James's bear your royal load!
'Tis done- his smoaking wheels scarce touch'd the
ground-
By the old Magpye and the new,
By Colnbrook, Hounslow, Brendford, Kew,
Half choak'd with dust the Monarch flew;
And now behold he's landed safe and sound.-
Hail to the blest who tread this hallow'd ground!
Ye firm invincible beef-eaters,
Warriors who love your fellow-creatures,
I hail your military features!
Ye gentle Maids of Honor, in stiff hoops
Buried alive up your necks,nde
Who chaste as phenixes in coops,
Know not the danger that await your [indecipherable]!
Ye Lords empower'd by fortune or desert,
Each in his turn to change your Sovereign's shirt!
Ye Country Gentlemen, ye City May'rs,
Ye Pages of King's back stairs,
Who in these precincts joy to wait-
Ye courtly wands so white and small,
And you, great pillars of the state,
Who at Stephens's slumber or debate,
Hail to you all!!!
CHORUS
Hail to you all.
V.
Now heavenly muse thy choicest song prepare;
Let loftier strains the glorious subject suit:
Lo! hand in hand advance th'enamour'd pair,
This Chatham's son, and that the drudge of Bute.
Proud of their mutual love,
Like Nisus and Euryalus they move,
To Glory's steepest heights together tend,
Each careless for himself, each anxious for his friend;
Hail associate Politicians!
Hail sublime Arithmeticians,
Hail [vast exhaustless fource of Irish propositions!
Sooner our gracious King
From heel to heel shall create to swing,
Sooner that brilliant eye shall leave its feck;
Sooner that hand desert the breeches pocket,
Than constant George consent his friends to quit,
And break his plighted faith to Jenkinson and Pitt.
CHORUS.
Hail most prudent Politicians,
Hail correct Arithmeticians,
Hail vast exhaustless fource of Irish propositions!
VI.
Oh, deep unfathomable Pitt!
To thee Ierne owes her happiest days!
Wait a bit,
And all her sons shall loudly sing thy praise,
Ierne, happy, happy Maid!
Mistress of the poplin trade,
Old Europa's fav'rite daughter,
Whom first, emerging from the water,
In days of yore,
Europa bore,
To the celestial Bull!
Behold thy vows are heard, behold thy joys are full!
Thy fav'rite resolutions greet,
They're not much chang'd, there's no deceit.
Pray be convinc'd they're still the true ones,
Though sprung from thy prolific head,
Each resolution hath begotten new ones,
Al like their fires, all Irish, born and bred.
Then haste, Ierne, haste to sing,
God save Great George! God save the King!
May thy son's sons to him their voices tune,
And each revolving year bring back the fourth of June!