Revenge herself would blush at such a deed;
For Poets always were a dove-like breed.

Fire at a great Law Serjeant; then let fly,
Bounce, on a simple Rhymer such as I;

Great condescension verily requires :
What Sportsman at the Pheasant aims, and then
Hunts in his humble bush the twittering Wren?
On Grouse and Grasshoppers what mortal fires?

At London frequently we meet

A lofty Camel in the street,

Moving with state-unwieldiness along: We also see a Monkey on his hump,

Now, with an arch grimace, from head to rump Skipping, and drawing wonder from the throng; Against Lord Chesterfield's grave Maxim sinning, The merry Grig; that is to say, by grinning.

Now this same Camel, a well-judging beast,
Feels not of goading ridicule the least;
Calmly the ruminating creature goes,

Poking his head, and shaking it in guise
Much like great Doctor Johnson, (call'd the Wise,
For pulling every Scotchman by the nose;

When ponderous moving through the Northern track,

With dapper Jemmy Boswell on his back.)

Now would not every mortal smile,

To see this Camel, all so full of bile,

Bouncing unhappily about,

Dancing and staring, grunting, kicking, moaning,
And like a creature in the Colic groaning,
Making for playful Jacko all this rout?-

When Hawkesbury, Salisbury, Leeds, and more beside, Fearing the tinsel on the back of Pride

Might tarnish by an acid drop of Rhyme;

And consequently lose the magic rays

That call forth Admiration's gape and gaze,

And make her think she views the true sublime ;

I say, to Majesty when those great Lords
Pour'd forth a foaming torrent of hard words;
As, "Hang that Peter Pindar, if you please:
Sire, make the graceless varlet understand
What 'tis to smile at Rulers of the Land;
A Beggar that disgraces his own Fleas.

"Sire, sire, th' Attorney-general's Tiger gripe
Would quickly stop the ragamuffin's pipe;

Then for his laugh at Grandeur let him swing.""No," quoth the King:

"If I'm not hurt, my Lords, you may be quiet; 'Tis for yourselves, yourselves, you wish the riot : Yes, yes, you fear, you fear, that Peter's Muse Will hang your Grandeurs in her noose.

"No, no, my Lords, Macdonald* must not squeeze him:
You see I give up new-year Odes, to please him;
And faith, between me and the post and you,
I fear the knave will get the birth-day too.

"No, no; let Peter sing, and laugh, and live:

I like to read his Works; Kings are fair game.
What though he bites? "Tis glorious to forgive.-
Go, go, my Lords, go, go, and do the same.

"Should Peter's Verse be in the right,
Our conduct must be in the wrong.
Poor, poor's the triumph of a little spite:
We must not hang a Subject for a Song.

"My Lords, my Lords, a whisper I desire: Dame Liberty grows stronger, some feet higher;

The Attorney-general.

She will not be bamboozled, as of late: Aristocrate, and la lanterne,

Are very often cheek by jowl, we learn,

Within a certain neighbouring bustling State.
I think your Lordships and your Graces
Would not much like to dangle with wry faces.

66 But

mum, my Lords; mum, mum, my Lords; mum,

mum:

You must be cautious for the time to come :

The People's brains are losing their old fogs.
Juries before the Judges won't look slink:
No, no; they fancy they've a right to think :

They say, indeed they won't be driven like Hogs.

"No Star-chambers, no Star-chambers, for them: Slavery's the Devil, and Liberty a Gem.

"You see, my Lords, their heads are not so thick.
Take care, or soon you'll have a bone to pick;
And perhaps you would not like this same hard bone:
So let the laughing rhyming rogue alone.”—

Sweet Robin of the Muse's sacred Grove,

Whose Soul is Butter-milk, and Song is Love;

So blest when Beauty forms the smiling theme: Who wouldst not Heaven accept (the sex so dear), Had charming Woman no apartments there;

Thy morning vision, and thy nightly dream :

Mild Minstrel, could their Lordships call thee rogue,
Varlet, and knave, and vagabond, and dog?
What! try to bring thee, for thy harmless wit,
Where Greybeards in their robes terrific sit,
With sanctified long fortune-telling faces;

While Erskine, eldest-born of Ridicule,

From solemn Irony's bewitching school,

Tears to unjudgelike grins the hanging-Graces?

Meek Poet, who, no prostitute for price,
Wilt never sanction fools, nor varnish vice;
Nor rob the Muse's altar of its flame,

To brighten with immortal beams a King
(If Freedom finds no shelter from his wing),
And meanly sing a Tyrant into fame!-

Thus, Lonsdale, thou behold'st a fair example
Of Greatness in a King, a noble sample.