By MICHAEL ANGELO TAYLOR, ESQ. M. P.

Only Son of SIR ROBERT TAYLOR, Knt. and late Sheriff—also Sub-Deputy,
Vice-Chairman to the Irish Committee, King’s Counsel, and Welsh
Judge Elect, &c, &c.

I.
Hail, all hail, thou natal day!
Hail the very half hour, I say,
On which great GEORGE was born!
Tho’ scarcely fledg’d, I’ll try my wing—
And tho’, alas! I cannot sing,
I’ll crow on this illustrious morn!
Sweet bird, that chirp’st the note of folly,
So pleasantry, so drolly!—
Thee, oft the stable yards among,
I woo, and emulate thy song!
Thee, for my emblem still I choose!
Oh! with thy voice inspire a Chicken of the Muse!

II.
And thou, great Earl, ordain’d to sit
High arbiter of verse and wit,
Oh crown my wit with fame!
Such as it is, I prithee take it;
Or if thou can’st not find it, make it:
To me ’tis just the same.
Once a white wand, like thine, my father bore:
But now, alas! that white wand is no more!
Yet though his pow’r be fled,
Nor Bailiff wait his nod nor Gaoler;
Bright honour still adorns the head
Of my Papa, Sir Robert Tayler!
Ah, might that honour on his son alight!
On this auspicious day
How my little heart would glow,
If, as I bend me low,
My gracious King wou’d say,
Arise, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO!
O happiest day, that brings the happiest Knight!

III.
Thee, too, my fluttering Muse invokes,
Thy guardian aid I beg.
Thou great ASSESSOR, fam’d for jokes,
For jokes of face and leg!
So may I oft thy stage-box grace,
(The first in beauty as in place)
And smile responsive to thy changeful face!
For say, renowned mimic, say,
Did e’er a merrier crowd obey
Thy laugh-provoking summons,
Than with fond glee, enraptur’d sit,
Whene’er with undesigning wit,
I entertain the Commons?
Lo! how I shine St. Stephen’s boast!
There, first of Chicks, I rule the roast!
There I appear,
Pitt’s Chanticleer.
The Bantam Cock in opposition!
Or like a hen
With watchful ken,
Sit close and hatch—the Irish propositions!

IV.
Behold for this great day of pomp and pleasure,
The House adjourns, and I’m at leisure!
If thou art so, come muse of sport,
With a few rhymes,
Delight the times,
And coax the Chamberlain, and charm the Court!
By Heaven she comes!—more swift than prose,
At her command, my metre flows;
Hence, ye weak warblers of the rival lays!
Avaunt, ye Wrens, ye Goslings, and ye Pies!
The Chick of Law shall win the prize!
The Chick of Law shall peck the bays!
So, when again the State deminds our care,
Fierce in my laurel’d pride, I’ll take the chair!—
GILBERT, I catch thy bright invention,
With somewhat more of sound retention[1]!
But never, never on thy prose I’ll border—
Verse, lofty-sounding Verse, shall “Call to Order!”
Come, sacred Nine, come one and all,
Attend your fav’rite Chairman’s call!
Oh! if I well have chirp’d your brood among,
Point my keen eye, and tune my brazen tongue!
And hark! with Elegiac graces,
“I beg that gentlemen may take their places!”
Didactic Muse, be thine to state,
The rules that harmonize debate!
Thine, mighty CLIO, to resound from far,
“The door! the door!—the bar! the bar!”
Stout Pearson damns around at her dread word;—
“Sit down!” cries Clementson, and grasps his silver sword.

V.
But lo! where Pitt appears to move
Some new resolve of hard digestion!
Wake then, my Muse, thy gentler notes of love,
And in persuasive numbers, “put the Question.”
The question’s gain’d!—the Treasury-Bench rejoice!
“All hail, thou least of men” (they cry), with mighty voice!
—Blest sounds! my ravish’d eye surveys
Ideal Ermine, fancied Bays!
Wrapt in St. Stephens future scenes
I sit perpetual chairman of the Ways and Means!
Cease, cease, ye Bricklayer crew, my sire to praise,
His mightier offspring claims immortal lays!
The father climb’d the ladder, with a hod;
The son, like General Jackoo, jumps alone, by God!

[1] No reflection on the organization of Mr. Gilbert’s brain is intended here; but rather a pathetic reflection an the continual Diabetes of so great a Member!