By the MARQUIS OF GRAHAM.

I.
Help! help! I say, Apollo!
To you I call, to you I hollo;
My Muse would fain bring forth;
God of Midwives come along
Bring into light my little song,
See how its parent labours with the birth;
My brain! my brain!
What horrid pain;
Come, now prithee come, I say: }
Nay, if you won’t, then stay away— }
Without thy help, I’ve sung full many a lay. }

II.
To lighter themes let other bards resort;
My verse shall tell the glories of the Court.
Behold the Pensioners, a martial band;
Dreadful, with rusty battle-axe in hand—
Quarterly and daily waiters,
A lustier troop, ye brave Beefeaters,
Sweepers, Marshals, Wardrobe brushers,
Patrician, and Plebeian ushers;
Ye too, who watch in inner rooms;
Ye Lords, ye Gentlemen, and Grooms;
Oh! careful guard your royal Master’s slumber,
Lest factious flies his sacred face incumber.
But ah! how weak my song!
Crouds still on crouds impetuous rush along,
I see, I see, the motly group appear,
Thurlow in front, and Chandos in the rear;
Each takes the path his various genius guides—
O’er Cabinets this, and that o’er Cooks presides!

III.
Hail! too, ye beds, where, when his labour closes,
With ponderous limbs great CINCINNATUS doses!
Oh! say what fate the Arcadian King betides
When playful Mab his wandering fancy guides,
Perhaps he views his HOWARD’s wit
Make SHERIDAN submissive sit;
Perhaps o’er foes he conquest reaps:
Perhaps some ditch he dauntless leaps;
Now shears his people, now his mutton;
Now makes a Peer, and now a button.
Now mightier themes demand his care;
HASTINGS for assistance flies;
Bulses glittering skim the air;
Hands unstretch’d would grasp the prize,
But no diamond they find there;
For awak’d, by amorous pat,
Good lack! his gentle CHARLOTTE cries,
What would your Majesty be at?
The endearing question kindles fierce desire,
And all the monarch owns the lover’s fire;
The pious King fulfils the heav’nly plan,
And little annual BRUNSWICKS speak the mighty man!

IV.
At Pimlico an ancient structure stands,
Where Sheffield erst, but Brunswick now commands;
Crown’d with a weathercock that points at will,
To every part but Constitution-hill—
Hence Brunswick, peeping at the windows,
Each star-light night,
Looks with delight,
And sees unseen,
And tells the Queen,
What each who passes out or in, does,
Hence too, when eas’d of Faction’s dread,
With joys surveys,
The cattle graze,
At half a crown a head—
Views the canal’s transparent flood,
Now fill’d with water, now with mud;
Where various seasons, various charms create,
Dogs in the summer swim, and boys in winter skait.

V.
Oh! for the pencil of a Claud Lorrain,
Apelles, Austin, Sayer, or Luke the saint—
What glowing scenes;—but ah! the grant were vain,
I know not how to paint——
Hail! Royal Park! what various charms are thine—
Thy patent lamps pale Cynthia’s rays outshine—
Thy limes and elms with grace majestic grow,
All in a row;
Thy Mall’s smooth walk, and sacred road beside,
Where Treasury Lords by Royal Mandate ride.
Hark! the merry fife and drum:
Hark! of beaus the busy hum;
While in the gloom of evening shade,
Gay wood-nymphs ply their wanton trade;
Ah! nymphs too kind, each vain pursuit give o’er—
If Death should call—you then can walk no more!
See the children rang’d on benches;
See the pretty nursery wenches;
The cows, secur’d by halters, stand,
Courting the ruddy milk-maid’s hand.
Ill-fated cows, when all your milk they’ve ta’en,
At Smithfield sold, you’ll fatten’d be and slain.—

VI.
Muse, raise thine eyes and quick behold,
The Treasury-office fill’d with gold;
Where Elliot, Pitt, and I, each day }
The tedious moments pass away, }
In business now, and now in play—— }
The gay Horse-guards, whose clock of mighty fame,
Directs the dinner of each careful dame,
Where soldiers with red coats equipp’d,
Are sometimes march’d, and sometimes whipp’d.
Let them not doubt——
’Twas heav’n’s eternal plan
That perfect bliss should ne’er be known to man.
Thus Ministers, are in—are out,
Turn and turn about——
Even Pitt himself may lose his place, }
Or thou, Delpini, sovereign of grimace, }
Thou, too, by some false step, may’st meet disgrace. }

VII.
Ye feather’d choristers, your voices tune,
’Tis now, or near the fourth of June;
All nature smiles—the day of Brunswick’s birth
Destroy’d the iron-age, and made an heav’n on earth.
Men and beasts his name repeating,
Courtiers talking, calves a-bleating;
Horses neighing,
Asses braying,
Sheep, hogs, and geese, with tuneful voices sing,
All praise their King,
George the Third, the Great, the Good.
France and Spain his anger rue;
Americans, he conquer’d you,
Or would have done it if he cou’d.
And ’midst the general loyal note,
Shall not his gosling tune his throat;
Then let me join the jocund hand,
Crown’d with laurel let me stand;
My grateful voice shall their’s as far exceed,
As the two-legg’d excels the base four-footed breed.