A gridiron's form the proud Escurial rears,
While South of Vincent's Cape anchovies glide:
But, ah! o'er Tagus' once auriferous tide,
A priest-rid Queen Braganza's sceptre bears
Hard fate! that Lisbon's Diet-drink is known
To cure each crazy constitution but her own!
III.

1 burn! I burn! I glow! I glow!
With antique and with modern lore!
I rush from Bosphorus to Po-

To Nilus from the Nore.

Why were thy Pyramids, O Egypt! rais'd,
But to be measur'd, and be prais'd?
Avaunt, ye Crocodiles! your threats are vain!
On Norway's seas, my soul, unshaken,
Brav'd the Sea-snake and the Craken!
And shall I heed the River's scaly train?
Afric, I scorn thy Alligator band!
Quadrant in hand

I take my stand,

And eye thy moss-clad needle, Cleopatra grand!
O, that great Pompey's pillar were my own!
Eighty-eight feet the shaft, and all one stone!
But hail, ye lost Athenians!

Hail also, ye Armenians!

Hail once, ye Greeks, ye Romans, Carthaginians!
Twice hail, ye Turks, and thrice, ye Abyssinians!

Hail too, O Lapland, with thy squirrels airy!
Hail, Commerce-catching Tipperary!

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,
From burning Indus to the freezing Pole;

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 ;
Nabobs and Rajabs have I seen;

Old Bramius mild, young Arabs keen;
Tall Polygars,

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?
A monarch-day, that hath indeed no peer!
Let huge Buzaglos glow

In ev'ry corner of the isle,
To melt away the snow:

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,
Shall each be seen,

With a neat warming patentiz'd machine!
Because, 't is said, that chastity is cold!

ANTISTROPHE.

But ah! no roses meet the sight;
No yellow buds of saffron hue,
Nor azure blossoms of pale blue,
Nor tulips, pinks, &c. delight.

Yet on fine tiffany will I
My genius try,

The spoils of Flora to supply,

Or say my name's not GREGO—RY!
An artificial Garland will I bring,

That Clement Cottrell shall declare,
With courtly air,

Fit for a Prince-fit for a KING!

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,
Ju 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.