The WORDS by SIR CECIL WRAY, BART.

The SPELLING by Mr. GROJAN, Attorney at Law.

HARK! hark!—hip! hip!—hoh! hoh!
What a mort of bards are a-singing!
Athwart—across—below——
I’m sure there’s a dozen a dinging!
I hear sweet Shells, loud Harps, large Lyres—
Some, I trow, are tun’d by Squires—
Some by Priests, and some by Lords!—while Joe and I
Our bloody hands, hoist up, like meteors, on high!
Yes, Joe and I
Are em’lous—Why?
It is because, great CÆSAR, you are clever—
Therefore we’d sing of you for ever!
Sing—sing—sing—sing
God save the King!
Smile then, CÆSAR, smile on Wray!
Crown at last his poll with bay!——
Come, oh! bay, and with thee bring
Salary, illustrious thing!——
Laurels vain of Covent-garden,
I don’t value you a farding!——
Let sack my soul cheer
For ’tis sick of small beer!
CÆSAR! CÆSAR! give it—do!
Great CÆSAR giv’t all, for my Muse ’doreth you!—
Oh fairest of the Heavenly Nine,
Enchanting Syntax, Muse divine!
Whether on Phoebus’ hoary head,
By blue-ey’d Rhadamanthus led,
Or with young Helicon you stray,
Where mad Parnassus points the way;—
Goddess of Elizium’s hill,
Descend upon my PÆan’s quill.——
The light Nymph hears—no more
By Pegasus’ meand’ring shore,
Ambrosia playful boy,
Plumbs her jene scai quoi!——
I mount!—I mount!—
I’m half a Lark—I’m half an Eagle!
Twelve stars I count——
I see their dam— she is a Beagle!
Ye Royal little ones,
I love your flesh and bones—
You are an arch, rear’d with immortal stones!
Hibernia strikes his harp!
Shuttle, fly!—woof! wed! warp!
Far, far, from me and you,
In latitude North 52.—
Rebellion’s hush’d,
The merchant’s flush’d;—
Hail, awful Brunswick, Saxe-Gotha, hail!
Not George, but Louis, now shall turn his tail!
Thus, I a-far from mad debate,
Like an old wren,
With my good hen,
Or a young gander,
Am a by-stander,
To all the peacock pride, and vain regards of state!—
Yet if the laurel prize,
Dearer than my eyes,
Curs’d Warton tries
For to surprize,
By the eternal God I’ll SCRUTINIZE!