II.

The great Pomposo rose To utter his Harangues, Writhing with oratorial pangs, Puffing as when a Bellows blows, Or when a bagpipe twangs. His speech from Bregah he begun To flatter Prancer――Bregah’s son, (Though one would think it all was Fun) He shew’d what a fine nimble Lad Was Bregah――this our Prancer’s Dad, How long ago he was stark wild To get his Sheelah great with child; And when he had with Raptures entranc’d her He stamp’d an image of himself, a mighty Prancer. The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound, Great Prancer’s fame they shout around, Great Prancer’s name the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravish’d ears McBregah hears, Adjusts his wig, Looks bluff and big; Anon he smiles and leers. Pomposo then held forth in Praise of Prancer, Both as a Fencer and a Dancer, In minuet step how he advances! Strike up the Fiddles, see, see how he dances! With his well-turn’d Pumps How he skips and he jumps! Clear tables and chairs, for he prances, he prances. He dancing lectures did ordain And drove out all the Muses’ Train; Dancing is a Prancer’s Pleasure. Rich the Treasure! Sweet the Pleasure! Sweet the Pleasure that requires no Brain!

* * * * *

――――

“To commemorate the Naval Review at Portsmouth, the Oratorio of Alexander’s Feast is to be performed at one of the Theatres Royal, by command of his Majesty, with the following alterations, by William Whitehead, Esq; Poet Laureate.”

ALEXANDER’S FEAST, PARODIED;

OR, THE GRAND PORTSMOUTH PUPPET-SHEW.

’Twas at the royal show, and grand display Of all the navy which at Portsmouth lay; Aloft in laughing state, Britain’s monarch sat, And look’d serenely gay. Goldstick, and other peers were plac’d around, Their hair in bags of silken ribbons bound; So should, ye fair, our men of arms be crown’d! Charlotte smil’d sweetly at his side, Yet inwardly, alas! she sigh’d At George’s folly, and at Twitcher’s pride.

_Air._

Happy, happy, happy pair, How they rejoice! How they rejoice! To see the weather grown so fair!

Then Sandwich plac’d on high, Amid the tuneful band, Struck the loud kettle-drums with mighty hand; The deaf’ning notes ascend the sky, And sound along the strand. From Fred’rick began the strain, Who left Germania’s bleak domain For England――such the pow’r of Stuart’s reign! Augusta then his Highness woo’d, Got children, as all Princes should, When he to Saxe-Gotha press’d, And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her waist his arms he spread, And stamp’d an image of himself――a Prince without a head. The list’ning tars admire the lofty sound; A Prince without a head――they shout around; A Prince without a head――the vaulted skies rebound.

_Air._

Not us’d to hear Such truths sincere, At first he shrinks Before he thinks, That tars must have their jeer.

* * * * *

From _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit._ 1786.

――――

THE COVENT GARDEN ROW.

’Twas at a _glorious row_, for Clifford won, By german Wienholt’s son, After the play was done, Aloft in drunken state Was placed the stupid candidate, For O.P. fame and fun.

* * * * *

This parody, relating to the famous O. P. riots, will be found in _The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810, which contains a full account of that curious theatrical episode.

A long political parody of Dryden’s Ode, relating to Irish affairs, and entitled _Ode to St. Patrick’s Day_, appeared in Vol. ix. of _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1806, and in Vol. xvi. of the same series, (1813) was a parody describing a law case. It commenced:――

“’Twas where the fam’d Home Circuit is begun.”

Neither of these parodies possesses any interest for modern readers.

Another parody, of which only the title can be given, was “W――――S’s Feast, or Dryden Travesti; a mock Pindarick: addressed to his most Incorruptible Highness, Prince Patriotism.”

――――

SIR FRANCIS’S[35] FEAST. _An Ode for the anniversary of a Westminster Election._

’Twas at a feast, giv’n to their Baronet By his own factious set, Placed by the chairman’s side, Sate Piccadilly’s pride, With airs of coy regret. His noisy friends were ranged about, With dirty shirts, and pots of heady stout: Meet dress, meet drink for such a rout! The valiant Cochrane, by his side, Sate, snappish, yet self satisfied, In naval garb and northern pride. Happy, happy, happy day! None but the mob, None but the mob, None but the mob are fit to sway!

Cobbett, exalted high, Amid that unwash’d train, Roar’d lies and libels out amain; Yet still he ’scapes the pillory, And sells the sland’rous strain. The King he first assail’d:

Gold, in this reign, he said, had fail’d (For gold such patriots ever rail’d!) Your flimsy notes, he cried, bely a King: Old England was another thing, When her great Monarch had a mint, And stamp’d an image of himself, the money of the World! The gaping mob admire the lofty sounds. “Burdett and Bullion!” all the street rebounds: With ravish’d ears The Bar’net hears, Affects to rouse The Commons House, And wake the torpid Peers.

The muse of Cobbett then extoll’d the drabs and rogues, Whom Cold-bath prison disembogues: From them the Bar’nets honours flow Salt-box play, and whistle blow! Deck’d with St. Giles’s graces, They shew their greasy faces. They come! stop, salt-box! whistle, cease to blow! Cold-bath prison disembogues Glorious food for discontent: Any grievance is a treasure, A patriot’s instrument and pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet a charge in Parliament. Swell’d with the puff, Sir Frank grew vain, Spoke all his speeches o’er again, And thrice he damned the Ministers, and thrice the war in Spain.

Cobbett[36] saw the madness rise, His open mouth, his rolling eyes, And, while he heaven and earth defied, Chang’d the tune, and check’d his pride. He chose an awkward story, To damp his blazing glory: He sang this chief, so fond of pow’r, With notable disgrace, Taken, taken, taken, taken, Taken by the Speaker’s mace, And caged within the Tower: Afraid at his return to meet Th’ expectant rabble in the street, He skulks incog to Piccadilly―― Did ever patriot look so silly? Long, long, and longer grows the hero’s face: He meditates, in sullen mood, On fickle popularity: He’d blush, if blush reformer could, And lets the toast go by!

* * * * *

The remainder of this parody refers to political events of little interest to modern readers.

It is taken from _Posthumous Parodies_, an anonymous collection of poems having a strong Tory bias, published in London by John Miller, 1814.

――――

COMMEMORATION DAY.

Commemoration day: a day devoted to prayers and _good living_, _i.e._, feasting.

“_Who leads a good life is sure to live well._”――_Old Song._

The following Ode on a College Feast Day, will hardly be read with dry _lips_, or _mouths_ that do not _water_. Whoever was the author of it, he certainly appears to have been a man of taste.