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Because, 'tis said, that _chast.i.ty_ is _cold_!
ANTISTROPHE.
But ah! no roses meet the sight; No _yellow_ buds of _saffron_ hue, Nor _azure_ blossoms of _pale blue_, Nor tulips, pinks, &c. delight.
Yet on fine _tiffany_ will I My genius try, The spoils of _Flora_ to supply, Or say my name's not GREGO--RY!
An _artificial_ Garland will I bring, That _Clement Cottrell_ shall declare, With courtly air, Fit for a Prince--fit for a KING!
Epode.
Ye _millinery_ fair, To me, ye Muses are; Ye are to me _Parna.s.sus_ MOUNT!
In you, I find an _Aganippe_ FOUNT!
I venerate your _m.u.f.fs_, I bow and kiss your _ruffs_.
Inspire me, O ye _Sisters_ of the _frill_, And teach your votarist how to _quill_!
For oh!--'tis true indeed, That he can scarcely read!
Teach him to _flounce_, and disregard all quippery, As c.r.a.pes and blonds, and such like frippery; Teach him to _trim_ and _whip_ from side to side, And _puff_ as long as puffing can be try'd.
In _crimping_ metaphor he'll dash on, For _point_, you know, is out of fashion.
O crown with bay his tete, _Delpini_, arbiter of fate!
Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport.
A PAGE should be a _Dangler_ at the court.
_NUMBER XI._
ODE,
_By_ MICHAEL ANGELO TAYLOR, ESQ. M. P.
Only Son of SIR ROBERT TAYLOR, Knt. and late Sheriff--also Sub-Deputy, Vice-Chairman to the Irish Committee, King's Counsel, and Welsh Judge Elect, &c, &c.
I.
Hail, all hail, thou natal day!
Hail the very half hour, I say, On which great GEORGE was born!
Tho' scarcely fledg'd, I'll try my wing-- And tho', alas! I cannot sing, I'll _crow_ on this ill.u.s.trious morn!
Sweet bird, that chirp'st the note of folly, So pleasantry, so drolly!-- Thee, oft the stable yards among, I woo, and emulate thy song!
Thee, for my emblem still I choose!
Oh! with thy voice inspire a _Chicken of the Muse!_
II.
And thou, great Earl, ordain'd to sit High arbiter of verse and wit, Oh crown my wit with fame!
Such as it is, I prithee take it; Or if thou can'st not find it, make it: To me 'tis just the same.
Once a white wand, like thine, my father bore: But now, alas! that white wand is no more!
Yet though his pow'r be fled, Nor Bailiff wait his nod nor Gaoler; Bright honour still adorns the head Of my Papa, Sir _Robert Tayler!_ Ah, might that honour on his son alight!
On this auspicious day How my little heart would glow, If, as I bend me low, My gracious King wou'd say, Arise, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO!
O happiest day, that brings the happiest Knight!
III.
Thee, too, my _fluttering_ Muse invokes, Thy guardian aid I beg.
Thou great a.s.sESSOR, fam'd for jokes, For jokes of face and leg!
So may I oft thy stage-box grace, (The first in beauty as in place) And smile responsive to thy changeful face!
For say, renowned mimic, say, Did e'er a merrier crowd obey Thy laugh-provoking summons, Than with fond glee, enraptur'd sit, Whene'er with _undesigning wit_, I entertain the Commons?
Lo! how I shine St. Stephen's boast!
There, first of _Chicks_, I rule the _roast_!
There I appear, Pitt's _Chanticleer_.
The _Bantam c.o.c.k_ in opposition!
Or like a _hen_ With watchful ken, Sit close and hatch--the Irish propositions!
IV.
Behold for this great day of pomp and pleasure, The House adjourns, and I'm at leisure!
If _thou_ art so, come muse of sport, With a few rhymes, Delight the times, And coax the Chamberlain, and charm the Court!
By Heaven she comes!--more swift than prose, At her command, my metre flows; Hence, ye weak warblers of the rival lays!
Avaunt, ye Wrens, ye Goslings, and ye Pies!
The _Chick of Law_ shall _win_ the prize!
The _Chick of Law_ shall _peck_ the bays!
So, when again the State deminds our care, Fierce in my laurel'd pride, I'll take the chair!-- GILBERT, I catch thy bright invention, With somewhat more of _sound retention[1]!_ But never, never on thy _prose_ I'll border-- _Verse_, lofty-sounding _Verse_, shall "_Call to Order!_"
Come, sacred Nine, come one and all, Attend your fav'rite Chairman's call!
Oh! if I well have chirp'd your brood among, Point my keen eye, and tune my brazen tongue!
And hark! with Elegiac graces, "I beg that gentlemen may take their places!"
Didactic Muse, be thine to state, The rules that harmonize debate!
Thine, mighty CLIO, to resound from far, "The door! the door!--the bar! the bar!"
Stout _Pearson_ d.a.m.ns around at her dread word;-- "Sit down!" cries _Clementson_, and grasps his silver sword.
V.
But lo! where Pitt appears to move Some new resolve of hard digestion!
Wake then, my Muse, thy gentler notes of love, And in persuasive numbers, "_put the Question._"
The question's gain'd!--the Treasury-Bench rejoice!
"All hail, thou _least_ of men" (they cry), with mighty voice!
--Blest sounds! my ravish'd eye surveys Ideal Ermine, fancied Bays!
Wrapt in St. Stephens future scenes I sit perpetual chairman of the _Ways and Means!_ Cease, cease, ye Bricklayer crew, my sire to praise, His mightier offspring claims immortal lays!
The father climb'd the ladder, with a hod; The son, like _General Jackoo_, jumps alone, by G.o.d!
[1] No reflection on the organization of Mr. Gilbert's brain is intended here; but rather a pathetic reflection an the continual Diabetes of so great a Member!
_NUMBER XII._
ODE,
_By_ MAJOR JOHN SCOTT, M.P. &C. &C.
I.
Why does the loitering sun r.e.t.a.r.d his wain, When this glad hour demands a fiercer ray?
Not so he pours his fire on Delhi's plain, To hail the Lord of Asia's natal day.
There in mute pomp and cross-legg'd state, The _Raja Pouts_ MAHOMMED SHAH await.
There _Malabar_, There _Bisnagar_, There _Oude_ and proud _Bahar_, in joy confederate.
