My trembing Muse can ne'er aspire
To tune an ode with Whitehead's fire,
Or sing these glorious days:
Besides, your cars, my Lord, are nice,
They shrink from flattery in a trice,
And scarce bear modest praise.
Else should I hail this lucky hour,
Lo, SAYRE Committed to the Tower!
Britain shall Paeans sing:
A meal-tub plot young Oates shall prove,
Since Kate Macaulay basely strove
To ravish George our King!
Can I describe the Atlantic sea,
Green as a leek with India's tea,
Dire cause of civil rage?
The dust and sweat on Putnam's brow,
Who in the battle equals Howe,
But kneels to Madam Gage?
Enough for me if I rehearse
Some Whiggish maxim in my verse,
And prove my patriot zeal:
I've no fond wish to lose an ear,
(Or gain a pension, like Shebbeare)
Though the King's touch might heal.
UPON HIS NEWLY INVENTED
PATENT CANDLE-SNUFFERS.
BY MALCOLM M'GREGOR, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF THE HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM
BERS, AND THE HEROIC POSTSCRIPT.
Quousque ergo frustra pascemus ignigenum istum ?
Why should a Patent be granted to this Candle-snuffer in vain ?
ILLUSTRIOUSs Pinchbeck! condescend
Thou well-belov'd, and best King's-Friend,
These lyric lines to view;
O! may they prompt thee, ere too late,
To snuff the candle of the state,
That burns a little blue.
It once had got a stately wick,
When in its patent candlestick
The Revolution put it:
As white as wax we saw it shine
Thro' two whole lengths of BRUNSWICK's line, Till Bute first dar'd to smut it.
Since then-but wherefore tell the tale ?
Enough, that now it burneth pale,
And sorely wastes its tallow:
Nay, if thy poet rightly weens,
(Tho' little skill'd in ways and means) Its Save-all is but shallow.
Come then, ingenious artist, come,
And put thy finger and thy thumb
Into each polish'd handle;
On thee alone our hopes depend,
Thy King's, and eke thy Country's friend,
To trim Old England's candle.
But first we pray for its relief,
Pluck from its wick each Tory thief,
It else must quickly rue it;
While N- and M-sputter there,
Thou'lt ne'er prevent, with all thy care,
The melting of the suet.
There's Twitcher too, that old he witch,
Sticks in its bole as black as pitch,
And makes a filthy pother;
When curs'd with such a sorry fiend,
And lighted too at either end,
'Twill soon be in a smother.
I fear me much, in such a plight,
Those tapers blest would lose their light,
Canadian fanes that deck;
Which pious *- ordains to blaze,
And gild with their establish'd rays
Our Lady of Quebec.
His arms, thou hallow'd image! bless,
And surely thou canst do no less,
He is thy Faith's Defender;
Thou ow'st thy place to him alone,
As other Jacobites have done,
And not to the Pretender.
Haste then, and quash the hot turmoil,
That flames in Boston's angry soil,
And frights the mother-nation:
Know, Lady! if its rage you stop,
Pinchbeck shall send you, from his shop,
A most superb oblation.
His patent-snuffers, in a dish
Of burnish'd gold; if more you wish
His Cyclops shall bestir
Their brawny stumps, and for thy sake, Of Pinchbeck's own mixt-metal make A huge Extinguisher.
To form the mass, Germain, thy zeal
Shall furnish that well-temper'd steel,
Thou didst at Minden brandish;
Nor yet shall Gloster's reverend Dean,
Counting its worth, refuse, I ween,
His ponderous leaden standish.
Poor Doctor Johnson, I'm afraid,
Can give but metaphoric aid;
His style's case-harden'd graces!
M'Pherson, without shame, or fear,
Sir John Dalrymple, and Shebbeare
Shall melt their brazen faces.
And sure, this mixt metallic stuff,
Will yield materials large enough
To mold the mighty cone ;
But how transport it, when 't is cast,
Across the deep Atlantic vast,
'Twill weigh some thousand stone?
Leave that to me,' our Lady cries, 'Howe'er gigantic be its size,
I have a scheme in petto:
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