To Juries, Bench, Exchequer, Seals,

To Chanc'ry Court, and Lords, I'll bid adieu;

No more demurrers nor appeals;

My writs of error shall be judg'd by you.

V.

And if perchance great Doctor Arnold should retire,
Fatigu'd with all the troubles of St. James's Choir,
My Odes two merits shall unite;

BEARCROFT *, my friend,

His aid will lend,

And set to music all I write;

Let me then, Chamberlain without a flaw,

For June the fourth prepare

The praises of the King
In legal lays to sing,

Until they rend the air,

And prove my equal fame in poesy and law!

*This Gentleman is a great performer upon the Piano Forte, as well

as the Speaking Trumpet and Jew's Harp.

NUMBER IX.

ODE,

BY NATHANIEL WILLIAM WRAXALL, Esa. M. P.

I.

MURRAIN seize the House of Commons!

Hoarse catarrh their windpipes shake!
Who, deaf to travell'd Learning's summons,
Rudely cough'd whene'er I spake!
North, nor Fox's thund'ring course,

Nor e'en the Speaker, tyrant, shall have force
To save thy walls from nightly breaches,
From Wraxall's votes, from Wraxall's speeches.
Geography, terraqueous maid,

Descend from globes to statesmen's aid!
Again to heedless crowds unfold

Truths unheard, though not untold:

Come, and once more unlock this vasty world-
Nations attend! the map of Earth's unfurl'd!

II.

Begin the song, from where the Rhine,

The Elbe, the Danube, Weser rolls-
Joseph, nine circles, forty seas are thine-
Thine, twenty million souls-

Upon a marish flat and dank

States, Six and One,

Dam the dykes, the seas embank,
Maugre the Don!

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 Rajahs 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.