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I hear, in varied cadence still,
The loud discordant bray ;
Amid the wild affray.
Hail, Busby, hail ! eccentric Wight!
Unfading laurels yield;
And impudence thy shield.
Lucretius calls thee from the shades,
“For vanity, or bribe,
And bid the town subscribe ?.
“Think'st thou my philosophic Muse,
Was e'er design’d by fate,
To strut in empty state ?
· By nature form'd for low debate, To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate, .
Impertinence thy crest;
Apollo's scorn and jest.
“ Since 'twas ordain’d by angry fate That, Dunce! thou should'st my works translate,
(With common sense at strife :) What now remains to blast my fame, And brand with infamy my name,
But Bowles to write my Life ?
“ If thou would’st wound me deeper still, Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill,
Arch rogue ! supply the notes; And Master George, thy hopeful son, The flatt'rer play, as thou hast done,
And dedicate to Coates.”
ODE XIV. BOOK III.
ON THE RETURN OF THE PRINCE REGENT
“ Herculis ritu modo dictus, ô plebs.”
HARK! the merry bugles sound
Ev'ry heart to lighten; Beat the drums, His Highness comes,
The Prince returns to Brighton !
Now for Fêtes and Routs a score,
Prom'nades, Balls, Outridings; Bloomfield in a chaise and four,
Proclaims the joyful tidings.
Crowds of gazers walk the Steyne,
Prim Mammas and Misses ;
Beheld her lost Ulysses:
Doctor T-*** a motion makes
Let ev'ry beau and belle come,
And join his pranks, a vote of thanks
To bid His Highness welcome!
Pierce a cask of gen'rous wine,
Claret, Port, or Sherry;
'Fore George, we will be merry !
shall rule the day, Unless our rev'rend Vicar, A rosy Put, has pierc'd the butt,
And drank up all the liquor.
Call Fitzherbert, ancient fair!
From her Cytherean border, Bid the Sybil bind her hair,
And put her charms in order :
Jersey to the feast invite,
For such a painted beldam At fifty-six, on this side Styx,
We surely see but seldom.
Margate, boast thy lofty pier,
Thy cliff, and castle, Dover; Bath, thy fashionable cheer,
And many a Bond-Street rover !
Brighton, highly-favour'd spot!
Shall still outshine the million; Happy since she boasts a Prince,
To grace her long pavilion.
Arthur, valor's fav’rite son,
Bold, intrepid, brave, he Cudgels Frenchmen till they run, And makes them cry
Col'nel Bloomfield, stout and tall,
(Was e'er a hero prouder?) Though his head escape the ball,
It does not miss the powder.
May old age, a tyrant fell!
That fills the bones with dryness, Vanquish'd by some magic spell,
Politely pass your Highness.
Long may Britain own your sway;
merry sort all, Shall wish our Prince as Horace
gay, And, like his strains, immortal.