A gridiron's form the proud Escurial rears, 1 burn! I burn! I glow! I glow! To Nilus from the Nore. Why were thy Pyramids, O Egypt! rais'd, I take my stand, And eye thy moss-clad needle, Cleopatra grand! Hail also, ye Armenians! Hail once, ye Greeks, ye Romans, Carthaginians! Hail too, O Lapland, with thy squirrels airy! Hail, wonder-working Magi! Hail, Ouran-Outangs! Hail, Anthropophagi! Hail, all ye cabinets of every state, From poor Marino's Hill, to Catherine's Empire great! All have their chiefs, who speak, who write, who seem to think, Caermarthens, Sydneys, Rutlands, paper, pens, and ink! IV. Thus, through all climes, to earth's remotest goal, In chaises and on floats, In dillies and in boats; Now on a camel's native stool; Now on an ass, now on a mule ; Old Bramius mild, young Arabs keen; Dwarf Zemindars, Mahommed's tomb, Killarney's lake, the fane of Ammon, With all thy Kings and Queens, ingenious Mrs. Salmon*: Yet vain the majesties of wax! Vain the cut velvet on their backs GEORGE, mighty GEORGE, is flesh and blood No head he wants of wax or wood! His heart is good! (As a King's should,) And every thing he says is understood! * Exhibits the Wax-work, in Fleet Street. NUMBER X.. ODE FOR NEW-YEAR'S DAY, By SIR GREGORY PAGE TURNER, BART. M. P. Lord Warden of Blackheath, and Ranger of Greenwich Hill, during the Christmas and Easter Holidays. STROPHE. O DAY of high career! First of a month-nay more-first of a year? In ev'ry corner of the isle, And, like to May, Be this month gay; And with her at hop-step-jump-play, Dance, grin, and smile: Ye too, ye Maids of Honour, young and old, With a neat warming patentiz'd machine! ANTISTROPHE. But ah! no roses meet the sight; Yet on fine tiffany will I The spoils of Flora to supply, Or say my name's not GREGO—RY! That Clement Cottrell shall declare, Fit for a Prince-fit for a KING! Ye are to me Parnassus' MOUNT! In you I find an Aganippe FOUNT! I bow and kiss your ruffs. Inspire me, O ye Sisters of the frill, That he can scarcely read! Teach him to flounce, and disregard all quippery, Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport— 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! On which great GEORGE was born! I'll crow on this illustrious morn! 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; To me 't is just the same. |