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I hear, in varied cadence still,
The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill,

The loud discordant bray ;
I see the spouting Pedant stand
Unmov'd, his Prologue in his hand,

Amid the wild affray.

Hail, Busby, hail ! eccentric Wight!
The feats of that tumultuous night

Unfading laurels yield;
When boldly thou withstood’st the brunt,
A coat of mail, thy brazen front,

And impudence thy shield.

Lucretius calls thee from the shades,
In hollow voice he thus upbraids-

For vanity, or bribe,
How durst thou murder my sublime,
Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme !

And bid the town subscribe ?.

“Think'st thou my philosophic Muse,
To teach the lessons of the stews

Was e'er design’d by fate,
To charm the ears of modern jilts,
Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts

To strut in empty state ?

N

· By nature form'd for low debate, To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate, .

Impertinence thy crest;
O ! surely thou wert born to shine
A Petit-maître of the Nine,

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

TO BRIGHTON.

“ 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 ;
Such were seen, when Greece again

Beheld her lost Ulysses:

Doctor T-*** a motion makes

Let ev'ry beau and belle come,

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And join his pranks, a vote of thanks

To bid His Highness welcome!

Pierce a cask of gen'rous wine,

Claret, Port, or Sherry;
Drink his health in bumpers nine,

'Fore George, we will be merry !

Bacchus gay

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

peccavi !"

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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;
While

we,

of

merry sort all, Shall wish our Prince as Horace

gay, And, like his strains, immortal.

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