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We'll have a royal greasy chin!
t.i.t bits so nice and rare-- Prepare! prepare!
Let none abstain, Refrain!
I'll give 'em pork in plenty--cut, and come again!
RECITATIVE.
Hog! Porker! Roaster! Boar-stag! Barbicue!
Cheeks! Chines! Crow! Chitterlings! and Ha.r.s.elet new!
Springs! Spare-ribs! Sausages! Sous'd-lugs! and Face!
With piping-hot Pease-pudding--plenteous place!
Hands! Hocks! Hams! Haggis, with high seas'ning fill'd!
Gammons! Green Griskins! on gridirons grill'd!
Liver and Lights! from Plucks that moment drawn Pigs' Puddings! Black and White! with Canterbury Brawn!--
TRIO.
Fall too, Ye Royal crew!
Eat! Eat your bellies full! pray do!
At treats I never winces:-- The Queen shall say, Once in a way, Her maids have been well cramm'd--her young ones din'd like Princes!
FULL CHORUS--_accompanied by the whole_ HOGGERY.
For this BIG MORN GREAT GEORGE was born!
The tidings all the Poles shall ring!
Due homage will I pay, On this, thy native day, GEORGE! _by the grace of G.o.d, my rightful_ KING!!!!
_NUMBER IV._
ODE,
_By_ SIR RICHARD HILL, BART.
Hail, pious Muse of saintly love, Unmix'd, unstain'd with earthly dross!
Hail Muse of _Methodism_, above The Royal Mews at Charing-cross!
Behold both hands I raise; Behold both knees I bend; Behold both eye-b.a.l.l.s gaze!
Quick, Muse, descend, descend!
Meek Muse of _Madan_, thee my soul invokes-- Oh point my pious puns! oh sanctify my jokes!
II.
Descend, and, oh! in mem'ry keep-- There's a time to wake--a time to sleep-- A time to laugh-a time to cry!
The _Bible_ says so--so do I!-- Then broad awake, oh, come to me!
And thou my _Eastern star_ shalt be!
III.
MILLER, bard of deathless name, MOSES, wag of merry fame; Holy, holy, holy pair, Harken to your vot'ry's pray'r!
Grant, that like Solomon's of old, My faith be still in _Proverbs_ told; Like his, let my religion be Conundrums of divinity.
And oh! to mine, let each strong charm belong, That breathes salacious in the _wise man_'s song; And thou, sweet bard, for ever dear To each impa.s.sioned love-fraught ear, Soft, luxuriant ROCHESTER; Descend, and ev'ry tint bestow, That gives to phrase its ardent glow; From thee, thy willing _Hill_ shall learn Thoughts that melt, and words that burn: Then smile, oh, gracious, smile on this pet.i.tion!
So _Solomon_, gay _Wilmot_ join'd with thee, Shall shew the world that such a thing can be As, strange to tell!--_a virtuous Coalition!_
IV.
Thou too, thou dread and awful shade Of dear departed WILL WHITEHEAD, Look through the blue aetherial skies, And view me with propitious eyes!
Whether thou most delight'st to loll On _Sion_'s top, or near the _Pole_!
Bend from thy _mountains_, and remember still The wants and wishes of a lesser _Hill_!
Then, like _Elijah_, fled to realms above, To me, thy friend, bequeath my hallow'd cloak, And by its virtue Richard may improve, And in _thy habit_ preach, and pun, and joke!
_The Lord doth give--The Lord doth take away._-- Then good _Lord Sal'sbury_ attend to me-- Banish these sons of _Belial_ in dismay; And give the praise to a true _Pharisee_: For sure of all the _scribes_ that Israel curst, These _scribes_ poetic are by far the worst.
To thee, my _Samson_, unto thee I call---- Exert thy _jaw_--and straight disperse them all-- So, as in former times, the _Philistines_ shall fall!
Then as 'twas th' beginning, So to th' end 't shall be; My Muse will ne'er leave singing The LORD of SAL'SBURY!!!
_NUMBER V._
DUAN, IN THE TRUE OSSIAN SUBLIMITY,
_By_ MR. MACPHERSON.
Does the wind touch thee, O HARP?
Or is it some pa.s.sing Ghost?
Is is thy hand, Spirit of the departed _Scrutiny_?
Bring me the harp, pride of CHATHAM!
Snow is on thy bosom, Maid of the modest eye!
A song shall rise!
Every soul shall depart at the sound!!!
The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!!!
I behold thee, O King!
I behold thee sitting on mist!!!
Thy form is like a watery cloud, Singing in the deep like an oyster!!!!
Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon!
Thy eyes are of two decaying flames!
Thy nose is like the spear of ROLLO!!!
Thy ears are like three bossy s.h.i.+elds!!!
Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin!
The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear me In their airy hall!
The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!
Bring me the Harp, Son of CHATHAM!
