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Yet on fine tiffany will I
The spoils of Flora to supply,
An artificial Garland will I bring,
That Clement Cottrell shall declare,
Fit for a Prince-fit for a KING!
Ye millinery fair,
To me, ye
Ye are to me Parnassus' MOUNT!
In you I find an Aganippe FOUNT!
I bow and kiss your ruffs.
That he can scarcely read!
Teach him to flounce, and disregard all quippery,
In crimping metaphor he'll dash on,
Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport-
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.
HAIL, all hail, thou natal day!
On which great GEORGE was born!
I'll crow on this illustrious morn!
Thee for my emblem still I choose!
O! with thy voice inspire a Chicken of the Muse?
And thou, great Earl, ordain'd to sit
O crown my wit with fame!
Once a white wand, like thine, my father bore:
How my little heart would glow,
My gracious King would say,
O happiest day, that brings the happiest Knight!
Thee, too, my fluttering Muse invokes,
Thou great ASSESSOR, fam'd for jokes,
So may I oft thy stage-box grace,
And sinile responsive to thy changeful face!
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!
The Bantam Cock in opposition!
With watchful ken,
Sit close, and hatch-the Irish Propositions!
Behold, for this great day of pomp and pleasure,
And coax the Chamberlain, and charm the Court!
With somewhat more of sound retention* !
O! if I well have chirp'd your brood among,
Point my keen eye, and tune my brazen tongue!
"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
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
-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;