Yet on fine tiffany will I
My genius try,

The spoils of Flora to supply,
Or say my name's not GREGORY!

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 Parnassus' MOUNT!

In you I find an Aganippe FOUNT!
I venerate your muffs,

I bow and kiss your ruffs.
Inspire me, O ye Sisters of the frill,
And teach your votarist how to quill!
For O't is true indeed,

That he can scarcely read!

Teach him to flounce, and disregard all quippery,
As crapes and blonds, and such-like frippery;
Teach him to trim and whip from side to side,
And puff as long as puffing can be tried,

In crimping metaphor he'll dash on,
For point, you know, is out of fashion,
O crown with bay his tête,
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!
Though scarcely fledg'd, I'll try my wing-
And though, alas! I cannot sing,

I'll crow on this illustrious morn!
Sweet bird, that chirp'st the note of folly,
So pleasantly, so drolly!—
Thee oft, the stable-yards among,
I woo, and emulate thy song!

Thee for my emblem still I choose!

O! with thy voice inspire a Chicken of the Muse?

II.

And thou, great Earl, ordain'd to sit
High arbiter of verse and wit,

O crown my wit with fame!
Such as it is, I pr'ythee take it;
Or, if thou canst not find it, make it:
To me 't is 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 Taylor!
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 would 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 ASSESSOR, 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 sinile 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, fust of Chicks, I rule the roast!
There I appear
Pitt's Chanticleer,

The Bantam Cock 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'ın 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 demands 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* !
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!

O! 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 !".

* No reflection on the organization of Mr. Gilbert's brain is intended here; but rather a pathetic reflection on the continual Diabetes of so great a Member!

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 damns 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. Stephen's 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 God!