IRREGULAR ODE,
FOR THE
KING’S BIRTH-DAY,
By SIR GEORGE HOWARD, K. B.

CHORUS.
Re mi fa sol,
Tol de rol lol.

I.
My Muse, for George prepare the splendid song,
Oh may it float on Schwellenburgen’s voice!
Let Maids of Honour sing it all day long,
That Hoggaden’s fair ears may hear it, and rejoice.

II.
What subject first shall claim thy courtly strains?
Wilt thou begin from Windsor’s sacred brow,
Where erst, with pride and pow’r elate,
The Tudors sate in sullen state,
While Rebel Freedom, forc’d at length to bow,
Retir’d reluctant from her fav’rite plains?
Ah! while in each insulting tower you trace
The features of that tyrant race,
How wilt thou joy to view the alter’d scene!
The Giant Castle quits his threat’ning mien;
The levell’d ditch no more its jaws discloses, }
But o’er its mouth, to feast our eyes and noses, }
Brunswick hath planted pinks and roses; }
Hath spread smooth gravel walks, and a small bowling green!

III.
Mighty Sov’reign! Mighty Master!
George is content with lath and plaister!
At his own palace-gate,
In a poor porter’s lodge, by Chambers plann’d,
See him with Jenky, hand in hand,
In serious mood,
Talking! talking! talking! talking!
Talking of affairs of state,
All for his country’s good!
Oh! Europe’s pride! Britannia’s hope!
To view his turnips and potatoes,
Down his fair Kitchen-garden’s slope
The victor monarch walks like Cincinnatus.
See, heavenly Muse! I vow to God
’Twas thus the laurel’d hero trod—
Sweet rural joys! delights without compare!
Pleasure shines in his eyes, }
While George with surprize, }
Sees his cabbages rise, }
And his ’sparagus wave in the air!

IV.
But hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The Levee’s hour approaches—
Haste, ye Postillions! o’er the turnpike road;
Back to St. James’s bear your royal load!
’Tis done—his smoaking wheels scarce touch’d the ground—
By the Old Magpye and the New, }
By Colnbrook, Hounslow, Brentford, Kew, }
Half choak’d with dust the monarch flew, }
And now, behold, he’s landed safe and sound.—
Hail to the blest who tread this hallow’d ground!
Ye firm, invincible beefeaters, }
Warriors, who love their fellow-creatures, }
I hail your military features! }
Ye gentle, maids of honour, in stiff hoops,
Buried alive up to your necks,
Who chaste as Phoenixes in coops,
Know not the danger that await your sex!
Ye Lords, empower’d by fortune or desert,
Each in his turn to change your sovereign’s shirt!
Ye Country Gentlemen, ye City May’rs,
Ye Pages of the King’s back-stairs,
Who in these precincts joy to wait—
Ye courtly wands, so white and small,
And you, great pillars of the State,
Who at Stephen’s slumber, or debate,
Hail to you all!!!

CHORUS.
Hail to you all!!!

V.
Now, heavenly Muse, thy choicest song prepare:
Let loftier strains the glorious subject suit:
Lo! hand in hand, advance th’ enamour’d pair,
This Chatham’s son, and that the drudge of Bute;
Proud of their mutual love,
Like Nisus and Euryalus they move,
To Glory’s steepest heights together tend,
Each careless for himself, each anxious for his friend!
Hail! associate Politicians!
Hail! sublime Arithmeticians!
Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish Propositions!
Sooner our gracious King
From heel to heel shall cease to swing;
Sooner that brilliant eye shall leave its socket;
Sooner that hand desert the breeches pocket,
Than constant George consent his friends to quit,
And break his plighted faith to Jenkinson and Pitt!

CHORUS.
Hail! most prudent Politicians!
Hail! correct Arithmeticians!
Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish propositions!

VI.
Oh! deep unfathomable Pitt!
To thee Ierne owes her happiest days!
Wait a bit,
And all her sons shall loudly sing thy praise!
Ierne, happy, happy Maid!
Mistress of the Poplin trade!
Old Europa’s fav’rite daughter,
Whom first emerging from the water,
In days of yore,
Europa bore,
To the celestial Bull!
Behold thy vows are heard, behold thy joys are full!
Thy fav’rite Resolutions greet,
They’re not much changed, there’s no deceit!
Pray be convinc’d, they’re still the true ones,
Though sprung from thy prolific head,
Each resolution hath begotten new ones,
And like their sires, all Irish born and bred!
Then haste, Ierne, haste to sing,
God save great George! God save the King!
May thy sons’ sons to him their voices tune,
And each revolving year bring back the fourth of June!