EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF c.u.mBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the _Veto_, dear Catholic Neddy?"

"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!

Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers-- Or, (if sweeter that abode) From the King's well-odored Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.

Hither come and gayly twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us, Those who rule and (some say) fool us-- Flora, sure, will love to please England's Household Deities![1]

First you must then, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, Fetch me many an orange lily-- Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply;-- Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, To crown the head of Liverpool.

'Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs, Which they suffered (what a pity!) On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown, Bring me from the County Down, Withered Shamrocks which have been Gilded o'er to hide the green-- (Such as Headfort brought away From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]-- St.i.tch the garland thro' and thro'

With shabby threads _of every hue_-- And as, G.o.ddess!--_entre nous_-- His Lordship loves (tho' best of men) A little _torture_ now and then, Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough--away, away-- Had I leisure, I could say How the _oldest rose_ that grows Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose-- How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile Crowned with wreaths of camomile.

But time presses--to thy taste I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household G.o.ds.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The _sobriquet_ given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."-- "We've lost the _Court Guide_, Ma'am, but here's _the Red Book_.

"Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour _Places_ in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains, About what your old crony, The Emperor Boney, Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries: Should there come famine, Still plenty to cram in You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may; For the gay bloom of fifty soon pa.s.ses away, And then people get fat, And infirm, and--all that, And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!--alas, even they, Tho' so rosy they burn, Too quickly must turn (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget Your mind about matters you don?t understand?

Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, Because "_you_," forsooth, "_have the pen in your hand_!"

Think, think how much better Than scribbling a letter, (Which both you and I Should avoid by the by,) How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.

To Crown us, Lord Warden, In c.u.mberland's garden Grows plenty of _monk's hood_ in venomous sprigs: While Otto of Roses Refreshing all noses Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau In that streamlet delicious, That down midst the dishes, All full of gold fishes, Romantic doth flow?-- Or who will repair Unto Manchester Square, And see if the gentle _Marchesa_ be there?

Go--bid her haste hither, And let her bring with her The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going-- Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of--Ackerman's Dresses for May!

[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public--ent.i.tled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

[2] Charles Fox.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.