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The SPELLING by Mr. GROJAN, _Attorney at Law._
HARK! hark!--hip! hip!--hoh! hoh!
What a mort of bards are a-singing!
Athwart--across--below---- I'm sure there's a dozen a dinging!
I hear sweet Sh.e.l.ls, loud Harps, large Lyres-- Some, I trow, are tun'd by Squires-- Some by Priests, and some by Lords!--while Joe and I Our _b.l.o.o.d.y hands_, hoist up, like meteors, on high!
Yes, _Joe_ and I Are em'lous--Why?
It is because, great CaeSAR, you are clever-- Therefore we'd sing of you for ever!
Sing--sing--sing--sing G.o.d save the King!
Smile then, CaeSAR, smile on _Wray_!
Crown at last his _poll_ with bay!---- Come, oh! bay, and with thee bring Salary, ill.u.s.trious thing!---- Laurels vain of Covent-garden, I don't value you a farding!---- Let sack my soul cheer For 'tis sick of small beer!
CaeSAR! CaeSAR! give it--do!
Great CaeSAR giv't all, for my Muse 'doreth you!-- Oh fairest of the Heavenly Nine, Enchanting _Syntax_, Muse divine!
Whether on _Phbus_' h.o.a.ry head, By blue-ey'd _Rhadamanthus_ led, Or with young _Helicon_ you stray, Where mad _Parna.s.sus_ points the way;-- G.o.ddess of _Elizium_'s hill, Descend upon my _Paean_'s quill.---- The light Nymph hears--no more By _Pegasus_' meand'ring sh.o.r.e, _Ambrosia_ playful boy, Plumbs her _jene scai quoi!_---- I mount!--I mount!-- I'm half a _Lark_--I'm half an _Eagle_!
Twelve stars I count---- I see their dam-- she is a _Beagle_!
Ye Royal little ones, I love your flesh and bones-- You are an arch, rear'd with immortal stones!
_Hibernia_ strikes his harp!
Shuttle, fly!--woof! wed! warp!
Far, far, from me and you, In lat.i.tude North 52.-- Rebellion's hush'd, The merchant's flush'd;-- Hail, awful _Brunswick, Saxe-Gotha_, hail!
Not _George_, but _Louis_, now shall turn his tail!
Thus, I a-far from mad debate, Like an old wren, With my good hen, Or a young gander, Am a by-stander, To all the peac.o.c.k pride, and vain regards of state!-- Yet if the laurel _prize_, Dearer than my eyes, Curs'd _Warton_ tries For to surprize, By the eternal G.o.d I'll SCRUTINIZE!
_NUMBER II._
ODE ON THE NEW YEAR,
By LORD MULGRAVE.
STROPHE.
O for a Muse of Fire, With blazing thumbs to touch my torpid lyre!
Now in the darksome regions round the Pole, Tigers fierce, and Lions bold, With wild affright would see the snow-hills roll, Their sharp teeth chattering with the cold-- But that Lions dwell not there---- Nor beast, nor Christian--none but the _White Bear!_ The White Bear howls amid the tempest's roar, And list'ning Whales swim headlong from the sh.o.r.e!
ANTISTROPHE. (By _Brother_ HARRY.)
Farewel awhile, ye summer breezes!
What is the life of man?
A span!
Sometimes it thaws, sometimes it freezes, Just as it pleases!
If Heaven decrees, fierce whirlwinds rend the air, And then again (behold!) 'tis fair!
Thus peace and war on earth alternate reign: Auspicious GEORGE, thy powerful word Gives peace to France and Spain, And sheaths the martial sword!
STROPHE II. (By _Brother_ CHARLES.)
And now gay Hope, her anchor dropping, And blue-ey'd Peace, and black-ey'd Pleasures, And Plenty in light cadence hopping, Fain would dance to WHITEHEAD's measures.
But WHITEHEAD now in death reposes, Crown'd with laurel! crown'd with roses!
Yet we, with laurel crown'd, his dirge will sing, And thus deserve fresh laurels from the KING.
_NUMBER III._
ODE,
_By_ SIR JOSEPH MAWBEY, BART.
STROPHE.
HARK!--to yon heavenly skies, Nature's congenial perfumes upwards rise!
From each throng'd stye That saw my gladsome eye, Incense, quite smoking hot, arose, And caught my _seven sweet senses_--by the _nose_!
AIR--_accompanied by the_ LEARNED PIG.
Tell me, dear Muse, oh! tell me, pray, Why JOEY's fancy frisks so gay; Is it!--you s.l.u.t it is--some _holy--holiday!_ [_Here Muse Whispers I,--Sir Joseph._]
Indeed!--Repeat the fragrant sound!
Push love, and loyalty around, Through _Irish_, _Scotch_, as well as _British_ ground!
CHORUS.
For this BIG MORN GREAT GEORGE was born!
The tidings all the Poles shall ring!
Due homage will I pay, On this, thy native day, GEORGE, _by the grace of G.o.d, my rightful_ KING!
AIR--_with Lutes._
Well might my dear lady say, As lamb-like by her side I lay, This very, very morn; Hark! JOEY, hark!
I hear the lark, Or else it is--the sweet _Sowgelder_'s horn!
ANTISTROPHE.
Forth, from their styes, the bristly victims lead; A score of HOGS, flat on their backs, shall bleed.
Mind they be such on which good G.o.ds might feast!
And that In lily fat They cut six inches on the ribs, at least!
DUET--_with Marrow-bones and Cleavers._
_Butcher_ and _Cook_ begin!
