II.

Curs'd be the clime, and curs'd the laws, that lay Insulting bonds on George's sovereign sway!

Arise, my soul, on wings of fire, To G.o.d's anointed, tune the lyre; Hail! George, thou all-accomplish'd King!

Just type of him who rules on high!

Hail inexhausted, boundless spring Of sacred truth and Holy Majesty!

Grand is thy form--'bout five feet ten, Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men!

Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad-- Thy Pages view thee, and are aw'd!

Lo! how thy white eyes roll!

Thy whiter eye-brows stare!

Honest soul!

Thou'rt witty, as thou'rt fair!

III.

North of the Drawing-room a closet stands: The sacred nook, St James's Park commands!

Here, in sequester'd state, Great GEORGE receives Memorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves!

Here all the force of sov'reign thought is bent, To fix Reviews, or change a Government!

Heav'ns! how each word with joy _Caermarthen_ takes!

G.o.ds! how the lengthen'd chin of _Sydney_ shakes!

Blessing and bless'd the sage a.s.sociate see, The proud triumphant league of incapacity.

With subtile smiles, With innate wiles, How do thy tricks of state, GREAT GEORGE, abound!

So in thy Hampton's mazy ground, The path that wanders In meanders, Ever bending, Never ending, Winding runs the eternal round.

Perplex'd, involv'd, each thought bewilder'd moves; In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves; Contending themes the ernbarra.s.s'd listener baulk, Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk!

IV.

Now shall the levee's ease thy soul unbend, Fatigu'd with Royalty's severer care!

Oh! happy few! whom brighter stars befriend, Who catch the chat--the witty whisper share!

Methinks I hear In accents clear, Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear-- "What?--what?--what?

Scott!--Scott!--Scott!

Hot!--hot!--hot!

What?--what!--what?"

Oh! fancy quick! oh! judgment true!

Oh! sacred oracle of regal taste!

So hasty, and so generous too!

Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait!

Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art, To paint the beauties of that head and heart!

That heart where all the virtues join!

That head that hangs on many a sign!

V.

Monarch of mighty _Albion_, check thy talk!

Behold the _Squad_ approach, led on by _Palk_!

_Smith, Barwelly, Cattt Vansittart_, form the band-- Lord of Brirannia!--let them kiss thy hand!-- For _sniff_[1]!--rich odours scent the sphere!

'Tis Mrs. _Hastings_' self brings up the rear!

G.o.ds! how her diamonds flock On each unpowdere'd lock!

On every membrane see a topaz clings!

Behold her joints are fewer than her rings!

Ill.u.s.trious dame! on either ear, The _Munny Begums_' spoils appear!

Oh! Pitt, with awe behold that precious throat, Whose necklace teems with many a future vote!

Pregnant with _Burgage_ gems each hand she rears; And lo! depending _questions_ gleam upon her ears!

Take her, great George, and shake her by the hand; 'Twill loose her jewels, and enrich thy land.

But oh! reserve one ring for an old stager; The _ring_ of future marriage for her _Major_!

[1] Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling.

_NUMBER XIII._

IRREGULAR ODE,

_By the_ RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, ESQ.

Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.

I.

Hoot! hoot awaw!

Hoot! hoot awaw!

Ye lawland Bards! who' are ye aw!

What are your sangs? What aw your lair too boot?

Vain are your thowghts the prize to win, Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din; Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! hoot!---- Put oot aw your Attic feires, Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres; A looder, and a looder note I'll strieke:---- Na watter drawghts fra' Helicon I heed, Na will I moont your winged steed-- I'll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike!--

II.

Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring, Coom, lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing!

Ye canny maidens tee; wha aw the wheile, Sa sweetly luik, sa sweetly smeile, Coom hither aw, and round me thrang, Wheil I tug oot my peips, and gi' ye aw a canty sang.

Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!

Wha, gifted by the G.o.ds abuin, Wi' meikle taste, and meikle airt, Fairst garr'd his canny peipe to lilt a tune!

To the sweet whussel join'd the pleesan drane, And made the poo'rs of music aw his ain.

On thee, on thee I caw--thou deathless spreight!

Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight; Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm: And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm, Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue.

I feel, I feel thy poo'r divine!

Laurels! kest ye to the groond, Aroond my heed, my country's pride I tweine-- Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon'd-- Sa sud gret GEOURGE be sung!

III.

Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim Speite o' the northern blaist; Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!

Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring, That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel; Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o' sic a king; Lugs that in music's soonds ha' mickle taste.

Then, hither haste, and bring them aw, Baith your muckle peipes and smaw; Now, laddies! lood blaw up your chanters; For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa leel.

Canny _Montrose_'s son leads on the ranters.

Thoo _Laird o' Graham!_ by manie a cheil ador'd, Who boasts his native fillabeg restor'd; I croon thee--maister o' the spowrt!

Bid thy breechless loons advaunce, Weind the reel, and wave the daunce; Noo they rant, and noo they loup, And noo they shew their brawny doup, And weel, I wat, they please the la.s.ses o' the court, Sa in the guid buik are we tauld, Befoor the halie ark, The guid King David, in the days of auld, Daunc'd, like a wuid thing, in his sark, Wheil Sion's dowghters ('tis wi' sham I speak't) Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain, Keck'd, and lawgh'd, And lawgh'd, and keck'd, And lawgh'd, and keck'd again.

Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight, Sa micke did the King their glowran eyne delight.

IV.

Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!

And stint your spowrts awce: Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave, O'ersheenan aw the lave; He comes, he comes!

Aw hail! thoo Laird of paG.o.das and lacks!

Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks; Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note, My tongue, its wunsome poo'rs, devote, To grat.i.tude and thee; To thee, the sweetest o' thy ain parfooms, Orixa's preide sud blaze On thee, thy gems of purest rays; Back fra' this saund, their genuine feires sud shed, And _Rumbold_'s Crawdle vie wuth _Hasting_'s Bed.

But heev'n betook us weil! and keep us weise!

Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command!

"Keep, keep thy tongue," a warlock cries, And waves his gowden wand.