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By MAJOR JOHN SCOTT, M.P. &c. &c.
WHY does the loitering sun retard his wain,
There Oude and proud Bahar, in joy confederate.
Curs'd be the clime, and curs'd the laws, that lay
Arise, my soul, on wings of fire,
Of sacred Truth and holy Majesty!
Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad-
Thou 'rt witty, as thou'rt fair!
North of the Drawing-room a closet stands :
With innate wiles,
How do thy tricks of state, Great GEORGE, abound! So in thy Hampton's mazy ground,
The path that wanders
Winding runs th' eternal round.
Perplex'd, involv'd, each thought bewilder'd moves; In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves; Contending themes th' embarrass'd listener baulk, Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk!
Now shall the levee's ease thy soul unbend,
O, happy few! whom brighter stars befriend,
In accents clear,
Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear→→→ what?
O fancy quick! O judgment true!
So hasty, and so generous too!
Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait! Vain, vain, O Muse, thy feeble art,
To paint the beauties of that head and heart!
That heart where all the virtues join!
Monarch of mighty Albion, check thy talk!
Gods! how her diamonds flock
* Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling, x
On every membrane see a topaz clings!
The Munny Begums' spoils appear! O 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, 'T will loose her jewels, and enrich thy land. But O! reserve one ring for an old stager! The ring of future marriage for her Major!
By the RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, Esq.
Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.
HOOT! hoot awaw!
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Ye lawland Bards! who' are ye aw?
What are your sangs? what aw your lair too boot?
Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din;
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,
I'll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I
Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring,
Coom hither aw, and round me thrang,