  By W. T. F. Quiequid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant Laudo id quoque.—Terence. Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work! God bless the Regent and the Duke of York! Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox, Grant me in Drury Lane a private box, Where I may loll, cry bravo, and profess The boundless powers of England's glorious press; While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore, "Quashee ma boo!" the slave-trade is no more. In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony, Since ruined by that arch apostate, Boney), A phoenix late was caught: the Arab host Long ponder'd, part would boil it, part would roast: But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies, Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive, they see him rise To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies. So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed, Then by old renters to hot water doom'd, By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek, Soars without wings, and caws without a beak. Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance From Paris, the metropolis of France; By this day month the monster shall not gain A foot of land in Portugal or Spain. See Wellington in Salamanca's field Forces his favourite general to yield, Breaks thro' his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont Expiring on the plain without his arm on: Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth, And then the villages still further south. Base BuonapartÉ, fill'd with deadly ire, Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire; Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon; Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames, Next at Millbank he crossed the river Thames: Thy hatch, O halfpenny! pass'd in a trice, Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice; Then buzzing on thro' ether with a vile hum, Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the asylum, And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry,— ('Twas call'd the Circus then, but now the Surrey). Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane? Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork (God bless the Regent and the Duke of York), With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas, And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos? Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise? Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies? Who thought in flames St. James's Court to pinch? Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch? Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke, Reminds me of a line I lately spoke, "The tree of freedom is the British oak." Bless every man possessed of aught to give; Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live; God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet, God bless the navy, bless the Princess Charlotte, God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff, And bless their pigtails, tho' they're now cut off; And oh, in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, England's prime minister, then bless the Devil! |
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