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ODE TO LORD M-RA.

I. I

on your head* some vengeance fell, M-ra, for every

tale
you

tell
The listening Lords to cozen :
If but one whisker lost its hue,
Chang'd (like Moll Coggin's tail) to blue,

I'd hear them by the dozen.

II. But still, howe'er you draw your bow,t Your charms improve, your triumphs grow, New grace adorns

your figure; More stiff your boots, more black your stock, Your hat assumes a prouder cock,

Like Pistol's (if 'twere bigger.)

HORACE. ODE VIII. BOOK II.

IN BARINEN.

* Ulla si juris tibi pejerati

Pæna, Barine, nocuisset unquam ;
Dente si nigro fieres, vel uno

Turpior ungui,

Crederem. + Sed tu simul obligāsti
Perfidum votis caput, enitescis
Pulchrior multo, juvenumque prodis

Publica cura.

III.
Tell then your stories, strange and new,
Your father's fame* shall vouch them true,

So shall the Dublin Papers :
Swear by the starst that saw the sight,
Tbat infant thousands die each night,

While troops blow out their tapers.

IV.
Sh-br-hi shall cheer you with a smile,
M-cph-rs-ný simpering all the while,

With B-st-rdg and with Bruin:
And fierce N-ch—11,|| who wields at will
Th’emphatic stick, or powerful quill,

To prove his country's ruin.

V.

Each day new followers I crowd your board, And lean expectants hail my Lord

* Expedit matris cineres opertos

Fallere, et toto † taciturna noctis
Signa cum cælo, gelidâque Divos

Morte carentes.

Ridet hoc, inquam, # Venus ipsa, rident
Simplices $ Nymphæ; ferus et || Cupido,
Semper ardentes acuens sagittas

Cote cruenta.

Adde quod pubes tibi crescit omnis
Servitus crescit nova ;-

With adoration fervent:
Old Th-r1-w,* though he swore by G-
No more to own a master's nod,

Is still your humble servant.

VI.
Old P-It-n-yt too your influence feels,
And asks from you th’Exchequer seals,

To tax and save the nation :
T-ke trembles,* * lest your potent charms
Should lure C—s F-x * from his fond arms,

To your Administration.

-nec priores Impiæ tectum dominæ relinquunt

Sæpe minati.

Te suis matres metuunt juvencis
Te † senes parci, miseræque f nuper
Virgines nupta, tua ne retardet

Aura Maritos.

** The trepidation of Mr. T—ke, though natural, was not necessary; as it appeared from the ever-memorable “ Letter " to Mr. Mac Mahon,” (which was published about this time in the Morning Chronicle, and threw the whole town into paroxysms of laughter) that in the Administration which his Lordship was so gravely employed in forming, Mr. Fox was to have no place!

No. XII.

Jan. 29. The following Ode was dropped into the letter-box in our

Publisher's window. From its title_6 A BIT OF AN “ Ode to Mr. Fox”-we were led to imagine there was some mistake in the business, and that it was meant to have been conveyed to Mr. Wright's neighbour, Mr. Debrett, whom we recollected to have been the Publisher of theHalf of a Letter to the same Gentleman, which occasioned so much noise (of horse-laughing) in the world. Our politics certainly do not entitle us to the honourable distinction of being made the channel for communicating such a production to the public. But for our parts, as we ure not at war with Genius," on whatever side we find it, we are happy to give this Poem the earliest place in our Paper; and shall be equally ready to pay the same attention to any future favours of the same kind, and from the same quarter. The Poem is a free translation, or rather, perhaps, imitation, of the 20th Ode of the 2d Book of Horace. We have taken the liberty to subjoin the passages of which the parallel is the most striking.

A BIT OF AN ODE TO MR. FOX.

I.
Or*grey goose quills sublime I'll soar,
To metaphors unreach'd before,

That scare the vulgar reader :
With style well-form'd from Burke's best books
From rules of grammar (e'en Horne Tooke's)

A bold and free Seceder.

II.
It whom, dear Fox, you condescend
To call your Honourable Friend,

Shall live for everlasting :
That Stygian gallery I'll quit,
Where Printers crowd me as I sit

Half-dead with rage and fasting,

III.
I feel the growing down descends,
Like goose-skin, to my fingers' ends-

* Non usitatâ nec tenui ferar

Penna, biformis per liquidum æthera

Vates. 十

Non ego, quam vocas
Dilecte, Mæcenas, obibo,
# Nec Stygiâ cohibebor undâ.

Jamjam residunt cruribus asperæ
Pelles : et album mutor in alitem

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