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We shall quote but one more poem of the witty Bishop's; and this we recommend to the serious attention of that learned body, The Provost and Fellows of Trinity College, Dublin, cock-a-hoop, as they must be, from the Royal visit. Indeed we know how much the slightest hint promulgated in these pages would influence them; and we feel particularly flattered by Dr Kyle's following our advice in discountenancing The Historical Society. T'he important piece we recommend, is entitled “A certain Poem, as it was presented in Latin by divines and others, before his Majesty in Cambridge, by way of interlude, styled Liber Novus de Adventu Regis ad Cantabrigiam, faithfully done into English, with some liberal additions."
“ It is not yet a fortnight since
What cries the town? what we ? (said he,) Lutetia entertain'd our prince,
What cries the University ? And vented hath a studied toy,
What cry the boys ? what, every thing ? As long as was the siege of Troy, Behold, behold, yond' comes the King !
And spent herself for full five days, And every period he bedecks
With Een et Ecce venit Rer.
Oft have I warn'd (quoth he) our dirt,
Unless your Grace's sun doth shine,
And with the beams of your bright eye, No proverb would give more than he. You will be pleased our streets to dry. Their colleges were new be-painted,
Now come we to the wonderment Their founders eke were new be-sainted;
Of Christendom, and eke of Kent, Nothing escaped, nor post, nor door,
The Trinity, which to surpass, Nor gate, nor rail, nor bawd, nor
Doth deck her spokesman by a glass, You could not know (O strange mis.
Who, clad in gay and silken weeds, hap !)
Thus opes his mouth, hark, how he Whether you saw the town or map.
speeds! But the pure House of Emanuel
I wonder what your Grace doth here,
Who have expected been twelve year, Would not be like proud Jesabel, Nor shew herself before the King
And this your son, fair Carolus,
Who is so Jacobissimus :
Here's none, of all, your Grace refuses,
You are most welcome to the Muses.
Although we have no bells to jangle, Upon the look'd-for seventh of March,
Yet we can show a fair quadrangle, Out went the townsmen all in starch,
Which, though it ne'er was graced with Both band and beard, into the field,
. King, Where one a speech could hardly wield; Yet sure it was a goodly thing; For needs he would begin his style,
My warning's short, no more I'll say, The King being from him half a mile.
Soon you shall see a gallant play. They gave the King a piece of plate, But nothing was so much admired Which they hoped never came too late; As were their plays so well attired; But cry'd, Oh! look not in, Great King, Nothing did win more praise of mine, For there is in it just nothing;
Than did their acting most divine;
So did they drink their healths di-
vinely, Now as the King came near the town,
So did they dance and skip so finely. Each one ran crying up and down, Their plays had sundry grave wise factors, Alas, poor Oxford I thou’rt undone, A perfect diocess of actors For now the King's past Trompington, Upon the stage; for I am sure that
And rides upon his braw gray dapple, There were both bishop, pastor, curate; Seeing the top of King's College Nor was their labour light or small, Chappel.
The charge of some was pastoral. Next rode his lordship on a nag,
Our plays were certainly much worse,
A wond'rous witty ambling pace.
Which was six hours of, God knows
Now pass we to the Civil Law,
But to conclude the King was pleased, And eke the Doctors of the Spaw,
And of the court the town was eased; Who all perform'd their parts so well, Yet, Oxford, though, (dear sister) hark Sir Edward Ratcliff bore the bell,
yet, Who was, by the King's own ap- The King is gone but to Newmarket, pointment,
And comes again ere it be long, To speak of spells and magic oynt Then you may make another song. ment.
The King being gone from Trinity, The Doctors of the Civil Law
They make a scramble for degree; Urged ne'er a reason worth a straw;
Masters of all sorts, and all ages, And though they went in silk and sattin,
Keepers, subcizers, lacqueys, pages, They, Thomson-like, clipp'd the King's
Who all did throng to come aboard,
With " Pray, now make me, good
They press'd his lordship wondrous hard, Here no man spake ought to the point,
His lordship then did want the guard; But all they said was out of joint;
So did they throng him for the nonce, Just like the chappel ominous,
Until he blest them all at once,
And cry'd, Hodiissime
Omnes Magistri estote.
Nor is this all which we do sing,
For of your praise the world must ring; Which proved them masters of their arts;
• Reader, unto your tackling look, Their Moderator was no fool,
For there is coming forth a book,
Will spoil Joseph Barnesius
The sale of Rex Platonicus.
To this Cantab felicitation we subjoin two effusions from Limerick and Cork, the harbingers of a joyous series, expressive of the loyal commotion which agitates the Green Isle.
ODE ON THE KING'S LANDING IN IRELAND,
TWELFTA AUGUST, MDCCCXXI.
By John Howley, Esq. of Garry Owen.
Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,
And leave your wonted labours for this day;
The poet flab. As I was sitting on the Shannon side,
Galloping by as quickly as he could ;
Still urging on his steed, a gallant grey,
Back towards his horse's tail, and thus did say,
Which leaveth him in ane awkward doldrum, alter the manner of W. Wordsworth,
He scarce had spoken, ere away he pass'd
Out of my sight as rapid as a bird,
Looking, perhaps, in some degree absurd;
The horse, the hasty rider, all did seem,
Like the thin shadowy figments of a dream;
Shaketh it oft, and marcheth homewards.
By the exertion of judicious thought,
At last I from this mental trance awoke, Marvelling much how in that lonely spot,
Upon my eyes so strange a vision broke; From the green bank immediately I went,
And into Limerick's ancient city sped;
I thought on what the rapid horseman said;
When I arrived in brick-built George's Street,
Instinctively I there put forth my hand
Did all upon an oaken table stand ;
I gazed like Docter Brinkley on the sky,
Of holy harpings of deep poesy ;
A very glorious day this is indeed !.
upon Ireland This is indeed a very glorious day!
to rejoice in For now our gracious monarch will proceed
the fashion of
a pot of portOn Irish ground his royal foot to lay. Rejoice then, O my country, in a tide
Of buoyant, foaming, overflowing glee;
So let your joy swell up as jovially ;
2. Come down, ye mountains, bend your numbsculls low,
Ye little hills run capering to the shore, Now on your marrow bones, all in a row,
From all your caves a royal welcome roar.
Inviteth the mountains to ane saraband.
* Professor of Astronomy, in T. C. D.
Howth is already at the water-side,
Such is that loyal mountain's duteous haste;
Come, I repeat, there's little time to waste;
Maketh of Down should dispatch Morne's snowy-vested peaks,
Cork, the Galtees, studded with many a still,
From Wexford, bloody Vinegart the sour!
St Patrick made the snakes from Ireland scour,
rivers, in the
A word of Rivers, dear rivers, in meandring roll,
A very neat Address from either Bull,l|
Shall flow around in currents deep and full,
Anent lakes. Killarney sulkily remains behind,
Thinking the King should come to wait on her ;
That not one step to visit him she'll stir.
From mighty Neagh, ** the stone-begetting lake,
• Which being interpreted, signifies, the hill of the fairy calf ; there is many a story about it.
+ Vinegar Hill, where a decisive battle was fought in 1798, with the rebels, who were totally defeated.
# Croagh-Patrick, in Mayo.
(Mole hight that mountain gray
Collin Clout & come home again.
|| In Dublin Bay are two sand banks, called the North and South Bulls. Not far from them is a village called Ring's-End, which gives occasion to the facete to say, that you enter Dublin between two bulls and a blunder. Something Homeric
Wigi dè góos 'Slusavio
'Aopo pogueuquy pésv.K. 2. ** Est aliud stagnum quod facit ligna dunrescere in lapides ; homines autem findunt ligna, et postquam formaverunt in eo usque ad caput anni, et in capite anni lapis inve. nitur, et vocatur Loch-Each, ac (Lough Neagh.) See Mirab. Hib.
++ i. e. The hermitage of St Finbar, who lived there as a recluse. He was first Bishop of Cork. It is a most beautiful and romantic lakc, containing a pretty island. It is a great place of pilgrimage.
Its lovely course, join in the general hum
come !". .
O ye blest bogs, * true sons of Irish soil,
i How can I e'er your loyal zeal express ? You have already risen, despising toil,
And travell’d up, your Sovereign to address. Clara has led the way, immortal bog,
Now Kilmalady follows in his train; Allen himself must soon to join them jog
From Geashil barony, with might and main, In turfy thunders, shouting as they roam, “ Our Sovereign has arrived at last-King George the Fourth has
Ha! what's this woeful thumping that I hear? !
to the Giant's Oh! 'tis the Giant's Causeway moving on,
Causeway not Heavily pacing, with a solemn cheer,
to tread upon
the learned On clumsy hoofs of basalt octagon.
weavers of (Gigantic wanderer ! lighter be your tramp,
Belfast. Or you may press our luckless cities down: 'Twould be a pity, if a single stamp
Smash'd bright Belfast-sweet linen-vending town.) Why have you travelled from your sea-beat dome? “ Because our monarch has arrived-King George the Fourth has come !"
, , 8. Last slopes in, sailing from the extremest south,
Shewing how Gallant Cape Clear, a most tempestuous isle ;
becometh ane Certain am I, that when she opes her mouth,
Marcus Tul She will harangue in oratoric style. So North, and South, and East, and West combine,
+ Ulster, and Connaught, Leinster, Munster, Meath, or i To hail the King, who, first of all his line,
Was ever seen old Ireland's sky beneath. All shall exclaim, for none shall there be mum, “ Our monarch has arrived at last-King George the Fourth has
Mocke commendation on Various folk.
1. How living people joy, I shall not tell,
Else I should make my song a mile in length; Plebeian bards that theme may answer well,
Chaunting their lays with pertinacious strength: . They may describe how all, both man and beast,
Have in the general glee respective shares;
Of sharks and lawyers-asses and Lord Mayors-
* Every body has heard of the movements of the Irish bogs.
+ The five ancient kingdoms of Ireland. Vol. X.