What though, with many a shriek, and dismal yell, At length must lure my guileless natives meek ? Of regions blest, Hesperian coasts, have told, In me shall be revealed. From Shore to Shore, From Pole to Pole, one Empire I behold! From Albion's Cliffs a mighty King shall send Secure Dominion: mid the brave career, Howe'er to Death his honoured Eld descend, A youthful Prince shall seize his massy spear, Shall rise his Grandsire's conquering race to run, To rule, to bless, the realms the hoary warrior won. The Right Hon. the Earl of DONEGAL, M.A. of Trinity College, Oxford. 1761. EPIGRAM, IMITATED FROM MARTIAL, B. II. EP. 53. Your beverage draw from Whitbread's but; STANZAS ON THE NIGHTLY UPROAR AT COVENT-GARDEN. OUR writers dramatic must welcome of course, Let them join the loud dunces in Boxes and Pit, And whose own is confin'd to their care of a shilling, And yet these curmudgeons, who willingly waste Must be asses with ears, or be spendthrifts without, Half-a-guinea for singers and shallow-pate scrapers, Whose resin, not reason, provides them with meals! Or a Pirouette puppet's ad libitum capers, Whose toe's in his head, and his head in his heels!! Ye critics, who jingle your bells at your ease, And flourish on foolscap appropriate wit, Put both round your noddle's instead of O. P.'s, And seem to the Stage what you act in the Pit. So I shall no more in astonishment gaze, * So ye will no longer the reason dissemble, Why guineas are thrown to Da Pont and Des Hayes, And shillings regretted to Shakspeare and Kemble, The Opera-house Poet A POETICAL JEU D'ESPRIT, Written in Dr. Whalley's Study, which had suffered muck disarrangement, from being converted to an EatingRoom. IN Babel of old, And the same we may say In tiers above tiers, Of English, French, Latin, and Greek, Shelves rang'd over shelves, When he balanc'd the pole, "Was said to sink under the weight. Oft a folio size O'er a quarto will rise, Have been fabled to dance, Here, the late "Doctor Mead Alas! it can hardly be read; So alike is the fate Of, both little and great, To be cover'd with dust when they're dead. There Maro, behind, Is with Flaccus consign'd Turn up their dog's ears In the front of those classical blades. See bottles placed here, With books in the rear, A Baccho subversus Apollo ! Ye Gods! who'd have thought That the tun-bellied sot, Could have ousted his brother, the Scholar.. To that oaken Bastile * To Lethe's somniferous shore. A bureau, into which the Doctor used to huddle the effusions of his pen. FROM off that delicate fair cheek, To steal a kiss, and lo! your face, At once your cheek and brow were flush'd, In that smooth neck, and all above: |