The Rolliad Part 29

V.

Noo, laddies! gi' your baugpipes breeth again; Blaw the loo'd, but solemn, strain: Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure, In mejesty sedate, In pride elate, The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure; Onward he stalks in froonan state; Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend, Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the la.s.ses lend.

Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit; Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit, Fra' _Tommy Toonsend_ up to _Wully Pitt!_ Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair To ye maun I the sang confeine: To n.o.bler fleights the muse expands her wing.

'Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine, 'Tis GEOURGE demands her care; Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!

See! where with Atlantean shoulder, Amazing each beholder, Beneath a tott'ring empire's weight.

Full six feet high he stands, and therefore--great!

VI.

Come then, aw ye POO'rs of vairse!

Gi' me great GEOURGE's glories to rehea.r.s.e; And as I chaunt his kingly awks, The list'nan warld fra me sall lairn Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks, And weel he gets his Queen wi' bairn.

Give me, with all a Laureat's art to jumble, Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble!

Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick's Royal line; Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!

Thus, crooned by his lib'ral hand.

Give me to lead the choral band; Then, in high-sounding words, and grand, Aft sail peipe swell with his princely name, And this eternal truth proclaim: 'Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA's land!

_NUMBER XIV._

ODE,

_By_ DR. JOSEPH WARTON, In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.

O! For the breathings of the _Doric ote!_ O! for the _warblings_ of the Lesbian _lyre!_ O! for the Alcean trump's terrific note!

O! for the Theban eagle's wing of fire!

O! for each stop and string that swells th' Aonian quire!

Then should this hallow'd day in _worthy strains be sung_, And with _due laurel wreaths_ thy cradle, Brunswick, _hung!_ But tho' uncouth my numbers flow --From a rude reed,-- That drank the dew of Isis' lowly mead, And _wild pipe_, fashion'd from the _embatted sedge_ Which on the _twilight edge_ Of my own Cherwell loves to grow: The G.o.d-like theme alone Should bear me on its _tow'ring wing_; Bear me undaunted to the throne, To view with fix'd and stedfast eye --The delegated majesty Of heav'ns dread lord, and what I see to sing.

Like heaven's dread lord, great George his voice can raise, From babes and suckling's mouths to hymn his _perfect praise_, _In poesy's trim rhymes_ and high _resounding phrase_.

_Hence, avaunt!_ ye savage train, That drench the earth and dye the main With the tides of hostle gore: Who joy in _war's terrific charms_, To see the steely gleam of arms, And hear the cannon's roar; Unknown the G.o.d-like virtue how to yield, To Cressy's or to Blenheim's _deathful_ field; Begone, and sate your Pagan thirst of blood; Edward, fell homicide, awaits you there, And Anna's hero, both unskill'd to spare Whene'er the foe their slaught'ring sword withstood.

The pious George to _white-staled peace_ alone His olive sceptre yields, and _palm-encircled throne_.

Or if his high degree On the _perturbed sea_ The b.l.o.o.d.y flag unfurls; Or o'er the embattl'd plain Ranges the martial train; On other heads his bolts he hurls.

Haughty subjects, _wail and weep_, Your angry master _ploughs the deep_.

Haughty subjects, swol'n with pride, Tremble at his _vengeful_ stride.

While the regal command Desp'rate ye withstand, He bares his red right hand.

As when Eloim's pow'r, In Judah's rebel hour, Let fall the fiery show'r That o'er her parch'd hills desolation spread, And heap'd her vales with mountains of the dead.

O'er Schuylkill's _cliffs the tempest roars_; O'er Rappahanock's recreant sh.o.r.es; Up the _rough rocks of Kipps's-bay_; The huge Ans.p.a.char _wins his way_; _Or scares the falcon_ from the _fir-cap'd side_ Of each high hill that hangs o'er Hudson's haughty tide.

Matchless victor, mighty lord!

Sheath the devouring sword!

Strong to punish, _mild to save_, Close _the portals of the grave_, Exert thy first prerogative, Ah! spare thy subject's blood, and let them _live_; Our _tributary breath_, Hangs on thine for life or death.

Sweet is the balmy breath of orient morn, Sweet are the horned treasures of the bee; Sweet is the fragrance of the scented thorn, But sweeter yet the voice of royal clemency.

He hears, and from his _wisdom's perfect day_ He sends a bright effulgent ray, The nations _to illumine far and wide_, And feud and discord, war and _strife, subside_.

His moral sages, _all unknown_ t'untie The wily rage of human policy, Their equal compa.s.ses expand, And mete the globe with philosophic hand.

No partial love of country binds In selfish chains the lib'ral minds, O gentle Lansdown! ting'd with thy philanthropy, Let other monarchs vainly boast A lengthen'd line of conquer'd coast, Or boundless sea of tributary flood, Bought by as wide a sea of blood---- Brunswick, in more _saint-like guise_ Claims for his spoils a purer prize, Content at every price to buy A conquest o'er himself, and o'er his progeny.

His be _domestic glory's radient calm_---- His be _the sceptre wreath'd with many a palm_---- His be _the throne with peaceful emblems hung_, And mine die laurel'd lyre, _to those mild conquests strung!_

_NUMBER XV._

PINDARIC,

_By_ the RIGHT HON. HERVEY REDMOND, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, Of Castle Morres, of the Kingdom of Ireland, &c. &c.

I.

Awake, Hibernian lyre, awake, To harmony thy strings attune, O _tache_ their trembling tongue to _spake_ The glories of the fourth of June.

Auspicious morn!

When George was born To grace (by deputy) our Irish throne, North, south, _aiste_, west, Of Kings the best, Sure now he's _a_quall'd by himself alone; Throughout the astonish'd globe so loud his fame shall ring, The d_i_f themselves shall _hare_ the strains the dumb shall sing.

II.

Sons of Fadruig[1], strain your throats, In your native Irish lays, Swe_a_ter than the scre_a_ch owl's notes, Howl aloud your sov'reign's praise, Quick to his hallow'd fane be led A milk-white BULL, on soft potatoes fed: His curling horns and ample neck Let wreaths of verdant shamrock deck, And perfum'd flames, to _rache_ the sky, Let fuel from our bogs supply, Whilst we to George's health, _a_'en till the bowl runs o'er Rich _strames_ of usquebaugh and sparkling whiskey pour.

III.

Of d_i_thless fame immortal heirs, A brave and patriotic band, Mark where Ierne's Volunt_a_res, Array'd in bright disorder stand.

The Lawyer's corps, red fac'd with black, Here drive the martial merchants back; Here Sligo's bold brigade advance, There Lim'rick legions sound their drum; Here Gallway's gallant squadrons prance, And Cork Invincibles are overcome!

The Union firm of Coleraine, Are scatter'd o'er the warlike plain, While Tipperary infantry pursues The Clognikelty horse, and Ballyshannon blues.

Full fifty thousand men we shew All in our Irish manufactures clad, Wh_a_ling, manuv'ring to and fro, And marching up and down like mad.

In fr_a_dom's holy cause they bellow, rant, and rave, And scorn thems_i_lves to know what they thems_i_lves would have!

Ah! should renowned Brunswick chuse, (The warlike monarch loves reviews) To see th_a_se h_a_roes in our Ph_a_nix fight, Once more, amidst a wond'ring crowd, The enraptur'd prince might cry aloud, "Oh! Amherst, what a h_i_venly sight[2]!"

The loyal crowd with shouts should r_i_nd the skies, To _hare_ their sov'reign make a sp_aa_ch so wise!

IV.

Th_a_se were the bands, 'mid tempests foul, Who taught their master, somewhat loth, To grant (Lord love his lib'ral soul!) Commerce and const.i.tution both.

Now p_a_ce restor'd, This gracious lord Would _tache_ them, as the scriptures say, At _laiste_, that if The Lord doth give, The Lord doth likewise take away.

Fr_a_dom like this who _i_ver saw?

We will, henceforth, for _i_ver more, Be after making _i_v'ry law, Great Britain shall have made before[3].

V.

Hence, loath'd Monopoly, Of Av'rice foul, and Navigation bred, In the drear gloom Of British Custom-house Long-room, 'Mongst c.o.c.kets, clearances, and bonds unholy, Hide thy detested head.

But come, thou G.o.ddess fair and free, Hibernian reciprocity!

(Which _manes_, if right I take the plan, Or _i_lse the tr_a_ity d_i_vil burn!

To get from England all we can; And give her nothing in return!) Thee, JENKY, skill'd in courtly lore, To the _swate_ lipp'd William bore, He Chatham's son (in George's reign Such mixture was not held a stain), Of garish day-light's eye afraid, Through the postern-gate convey'd; In close and midnight cabinet, Oft the secret lovers met.

Haste thee, nymph, and quick bring o'er Commerce, from Britannia's sh.o.r.e; Manufactures, arts, and skill, Such as may our pockets fill.

And, with thy left hand, gain by stealth, Half our sister's envied wealth, Till our island shall become Trade's compl_a_te imporium[4].

Th_a_se joys, if reciprocity can give, G.o.ddess with thee h_i_nceforth let Paddy live!

VI.

Next to great George be peerless Billy sung:-- Hark! he _spakes!_ his mouth his opes!

Phrases, periods, figures, tropes, _Strame_ from his mellifluous tongue-- Oh! had he crown'd his humble suppliant's hopes?

And given him near his much-lov'd Pitt, Beyond the limits of the bar to sit, How with his praises had St. Stephen's rung!

Though Pompey boast not all his patron's pow'rs, Yet oft have kind Hibernia's Peers To r_a_de his sp_aa_ches lent their ears: So in the Senate, had his tongue, for hours.

Foremost, amid the youthful yelping pack, That crow and cackle at the Premier's back, A flow of Irish rhetoric let loose, Beneath the _Chicken_ scarce, and far above the _Goose_.

[1] Ancient Irish name given to St. Patrick.

[2] The celebrated speech of a Great Personage, on reviewing the camp at c.o.x-heath, in the year 1779, when a French invasion was apprehended; the report of which animating apostrophe is supposed to have struck such terror into the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of our enemies, as to have been the true occasion of their relinquishing the design.