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 Buonaparte, 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 Milbank he crossed the river Thames :
Thy hatch, O Halfpenny! pass'd in a trice,
Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's
Then buzzing on thro' æther, 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 Surry.)
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 pig-tails, tho' they're now cut off; And oh, in Downing-Street should old Nick revel, England's prime minister, then bless the Devil!
Thy lisping prattle and tby mincing gait,
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate,
For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she
Who is right foolish hath the better plea;
Nature's true Idiot I prefer to thee.
[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise, by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]
My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on new-year's-day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa, (he's my papa and Jack's,)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,
He thinks mine came to more than his,
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, Oh, my
He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg top's peg,
And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlour door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite:
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg top's tooth!
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