"His forfeit crown, by just decree,
"Was doom'd to William and to me,
'To save a sinking nation.

'The Bigot King shall now no more 'Hold Commerce with Rome's scarlet Whore, 'And back her superstition; 'No more shall Stuart's perjur'd house 'Britain's credulity abuse,

" While plotting her perdition.

But foes, subdued, my pity meet, 'William's fam❜d Boyne gave one defeat, 6 And my Dunblain another:

'My coward Cousin now I own,

'Since Scotland proves him James's son, "Whoever was his mother.

'Nay, frauds forgotten, I'm content
'He should be rank'd in right descent :
'Let but the British ocean

'Still roar between his sons and mine,
And let the royal exiles reign
"Where they can find promotion.

'Since Tyranny has met its fate, And Liberty in church and state, Now triumphs o'er its ruin;

'Britain shall stand most truly great,
' And see her foes bow at her feet,
For peace most humbly suing.

'Her fleets shall all around proclaim
To distant shores her dreaded name,
In peals of British thunder:
Cross from the Old World to the New,
"There sails shall fly, her fame pursue,
And fill both worlds with wonder.

"Nor shall she seek for golden mines,
That base alloy to grand desigus,
That stain to the victorious!
Should heroes, after actions bold,
"Turn misers, and now thirst for gold,
'How must they fall inglorious!

"No bounds shall check her conqu❜ring arms, "Whenever a just cause alarms,

And wrongs are to be righted:

'Nor scorching suns, nor freezing poles,
Shall bar my Britons' daring souls,
"When once to war excited.

'But these great things that I relate
Can only be her glorious fate,
'On this express condition:

<That with false zeal no more she burns, No more to Stuart's race returns, And papal imposition.

To raise again that hated line, Should e'er a factious people join, 'Grown mad with too much freedom; 'Again my Powers shall take the field, Again the coward Chiefs shall yield, And sword or axe shall bleed 'em.

'Thrice should Rebellion rear her head, 'With front of brass, but heart of lead, "Still bent upon restoring: 'Before my sons thrice shall she fly, Thrice at their feet in vain shall lie, 'Wives for their lords imploring.'

But whither would my Muse aspire?
Forbear to tune the merry lyre

To themes past thy attaining:
For to attempt, in humble odes,
The acts of Heroes, speech of Gods,
At best is but profaning.

ODE III.

THE

COUNTRY GIRL.

BY SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, K. B.

THE Country Girl that's well inclin'd
To love, when the young 'squire grows kind,
Doubts between joy and ruin;

Now will, and now will not comply,
To raptures now her pulse beats high,
And now she fears undoing.

But when the lover, with his pray'rs,
His oaths, his sighs, his vows, and tears,
Holds out the proffer'd treasure;
She quite forgets her fear and shame,
And quits her virtue, and good name,
For profit mix'd with pleasure.

So virtuous Pulteney, who had long,
By speech, by pamphlet, and by song,
Held patriotism's steerage;

Yields to ambition mix'd with gain,
A treasury gets for Harry Vane,
And for himself a peerage.

Tho' with joint lives and debts before,
Harry's estate was covered o'er,
This Irish place repairs it;
Unless that story should be true,
That he receives but half his due,
And the new Countess shares it.

'Tis said, besides, that t' other Harry
Pays half the fees of Secretary
To Bath's ennobled doxy;

If so-good use of power she makes,
The Treasury of each kingdom takes,
And holds them both by proxy.

Whilst her dear Lord obeys the summons,
And leaves the noisy House of Commons,
Amongst the Lords to nod;
Where, if he's better than of old,
His hands perhaps a stick may hold,
But never more a rod.

Unheard of, let him slumber there,
As innocent as any peer,

As prompt for any job: