NUMBER XII.

ODE,

By MAJOR JOHN SCOTT, M.P. &c. &c.

I.

WHY does the loitering sun retard his wain,
When this glad hour demands a fiercer ray?
Not so he pours his fire on Delhi's plain,
To hail the Lord of Asia's natal day.
There in mute pomp and cross-legg'd state,
The Raja Pouts MAHOMMED SHAH await.
There Malabar,

There Bisnagar,

There Oude and proud Bahar, in joy confederate.

11.

Curs'd be the clime, and curs'd the laws, that lay
Insulting bonds on George's sovereign sway!

Arise, my soul, on wings of fire,
To God's anointed tune the lyre;
Hail! George, thou all-accomplish'd King!
Just type of Him who rules on high!
Hail inexhausted, boundless spring

Of sacred Truth and holy Majesty!
Grand is thy form-'bout five feet ten,
Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men!

2

Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad-
Thy Pages view thee, and are aw'd!
Lo! how thy white eyes roll!
Thy whiter eyebrows stare!
Honest soul!

Thou 'rt witty, as thou'rt fair!

III.

North of the Drawing-room a closet stands :
The sacred nook St. James's Park commands !
Here, in sequester'd state, Great GEORGE receives
Memorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves!
Here all the force of sov'reign thought is bent,
To fix reviews, or change a government!
Heav'ns! how each word with joy Caermarthen takes!
Gods! how the lengthen'd chin of Sydney shakes!
Blessing and bless'd the sage associates see,
The proud triumphant league of incapacity.
With subtle smiles,

With innate wiles,

How do thy tricks of state, Great GEORGE, abound! So in thy Hampton's mazy ground,

The path that wanders

In meanders,

Ever bending,

Never ending,

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!

IV.

Now shall the levee's ease thy soul unbend,
Fatigu'd with Royalty's severer care!

O, happy few! whom brighter stars befriend,
Who catch the chat-the witty whisper share!
Methinks I hear,

In accents clear,

Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear→→→ what?

"What?what?

"Scott!-Scott!--Scott!

"Hot!hot!-hot!

"What?-what?-what?"

O fancy quick! O judgment true!
O sacred oracle of regal taste!

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!
That head that hangs on many a sign!

V.

Monarch of mighty Albion, check thy talk!
Behold the Squad approach, led on by Palk!
Smith, Barwell, Call, Vansittart, form the band-
Lord of Britannia !-let them kiss thy hand!-
For sniff*!-rich odours scent the sphere!
'Tis Mrs. Hastings' self brings up the rear!

Gods! how her diamonds flock
On each unpowder'd lock!

* Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling, x

On every membrane see a topaz clings!
Behold, her joints are fewer than her rings!
Illustrious dame! on either ear

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!

NUMBER XIII.

IRREGULAR ODE,

By the RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, Esq.

Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.

i.

HOOT! hoot awaw!

Hoot! hoot awaw!

Ye lawland Bards! who' are ye aw?

What are your sangs? what aw your lair too boot?
Vain are your thowghts the prize to win,

Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din;
Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! Hoot!

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,
Na will I moont your winged steed

I'll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I

leike!

II.

Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring,
Coom, lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing!
Ye canny,maidens tee; wha aw the wheile,
Sa sweetly luik, sa sweetly smeile,

Coom hither aw, and round me thrang,
Wheil I lug oot my peips, and gi' ye aw a canty sang,

coll