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,

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.

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!

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,

Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!
Wha, gifted by the gods abuin,

Wi' meikle taste and meikle airt,

Fairst garr'd his canny peipe to lilt a tune; To the sweet whussel join'd the pleesan drane, And made the poo'rs of music aw his ain. On thee, on thee I caw-thou deathless spreight! Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight; Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm: And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm, Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue. I feel, I feel thy poo'r divine!

Laurels! kest ye to the groond,

Aroond my heed, my country's pride I tweine
Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon'd

Sa sud great GEOURGE be sung!

III.

Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim
Speite o' the northern blaist;

Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!
Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,

weel;

That soonds sa sweetly, and sa w

Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o' sic a King;

Lugs that in music's soonds ha' mickle taste.
Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,

Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;
Now, laddies! lood blaw up your chanters;
For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa leel,
Canny Montrose's son leads on the ranters.
Thoo Laird o' Graham! by manie a cheil ador'd,
Wha boasts his native fillabeg restor'd;

I croon thee-maister o' the sport!

Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,

Weind the reel, and wave the daunce ;
Noo they rant, and noo they loup,

And noo they shew their brawny doup,

And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o' the court.
Sa in the guid buik are we tauld,
Befoor the halie ark,

The guid King David, in the days of auld,
Daunc'd, like a wuid thing, in his sark;
Wheil Sion's dowghters ('t is wi' sham I speak 't)
Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain,
Keck'd, and lawgh'd,

And lawgh'd, and keck'd,

And lawgh'd, and keck'd again.

Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight, Sa mickle did the King their glowran eyne delight. ༣༧༣ IV.

Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!

And stint your spowrts awee:

Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,
O'ersheenan aw the lave;

He comes, he comes!

Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!
Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks;

Fain wad my peipe its loudest note,"
My tongue its wunsome poo'rs, devote

To gratitude and thee;

To thee, the sweetest o' thy ain parfooms,
Orixa's preide sud blaze

On thee, thy gems of purest rays;

Back fra this saund their genuine feires sud shed,

And Rumbold's Crawdle vie wuth Hastings' Bed.