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Sic as stand single, (a state sae lik'd by you,)
Beneath ilk storm frae every airt1 man bow.

Jenny. I've done.-I yield, dear lassie, I man

yield,

Your better sense has fairly won the field,

With the assistance of a little fae

Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner!-Jenny, that's no fair,

That ye'll no let the wie thing take the air:
Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well 's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.

Jenny. Anither time's as good; for see the sun
Is right far up, and we're not yet begun
To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt,
Come up the burn, she'll gie us a wicked rant:
But when we've done, I'll tell you
For this seems true-nae lass can be unkind.

a' my

mind;

[Exeunt.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

BORN 1709.-DIED 1759.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS was the son of John Hanbury, Esq. a South Sea Director. He sat in several parliaments, was, in 1744, installed a knight of the bath, and was afterwards minister at the courts of Berlin and Petersburgh.

Quarter.

ODE.

TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE.

SEE, a new progeny descends

From Heaven, of Britain's truest friends:
Oh Muse! attend my call!

To one of these direct thy flight,
Or, to be sure that we are right,
Direct it to them all.

O Clio! these are golden times;
I shall get money for my rhymes;
And thou no more go tatter'd :
Make haste then, lead the way, begin,
For here are people just come in,
Who never yet were flatter'd.

But first to Carteret fain you'd sing ;
Indeed he's nearest to the King,

Yet careless how you use him;
Give him, I beg, no labour'd lays;
He will but promise if you praise,
And laugh if you abuse him,

Then (but there's a vast space betwixt)
The new-made Earl of Bath comes next,

Stiff in his popular pride:

His step, his gait, describe the man ;
They paint him better than I can,
Waddling from side to side.

Each hour a different face he wears,
Now in a fury, now in tears,

Now laughing, now in sorrow;
Now he'll command, and now obey,
Bellows for liberty to-day,

And roars for power to-morrow.

At noon the Tories had him tight,
With staunchest Whigs he supp'd at night,
Each party try'd to 'ave won him ;
But he himself did so divide,
Shuffled and cut from side to side,
That now both parties shun him.

See yon old, dull, important Lord,
Who at the long'd-for money-board
Sits first, but does not lead:
His younger brethren all things make;
So that the Treasury's like a snake,
And the tail moves the head.

Why did you cross God's good intent?
He made you for a President;

Back to that station go:

Nor longer act this farce of power,
We know you miss'd the thing before,
And have not got it now.

See valiant Cobham, valorous Stair,
Britain's two thunderbolts of war,

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But oh! their strength and spirits flown, They, like their conq'ring swords, are grown Rusty with laying by.

Dear Bat, I'm glad you've got a place,

And since things thus have chang'd their face, You'll give opposing o'er:

'Tis comfortable to be in,

And think what a damn'd while you've been, Like Peter, at the door.

See who comes next-I kiss thy hands,
But not in flattery, Samuel Sandys;
For since you are in power,

That gives you knowledge, judgment, parts,
The courtier's wiles, the statesman's arts,
Of which you'd none before.

When great impending dangers shook
Its state, old Rome dictators took
Judiciously from plough:

So we, (but at a pinch thou knowest)
To make the highest of the lowest,
Th' Exchequer gave to you.

When in your hands the seals you found,
round?

Did they not make your brains go

Did they not turn your head?

1 fancy (but you hate a joke)
You felt as Nell did when she woke
In Lady Loverule's bed.

See Harry Vane in pomp appear,
And, since he's made Vice-Treasurer,
Grown taller by some inches:
See Tweedale follow Carteret's call;
See Hanoverian Gower, and all
The black funereal Finches.

And see with that important face
Berenger's clerk, to take his place,
Into the Treasury come:

With pride and meanness act thy part,
Thou look'st the very thing thou art,
Thou Bourgeois Gentilhomme.

Oh, my poor Country! is this all
You've gain'd by the long-labour'd fall
Of Walpole and his tools?

He was a knave indeed-what then?
He'd parts-but this new set of men
A'n't only knaves, but fools.

More changes, better times this isle Demands: Oh! Chesterfield, Argyle, To bleeding Britain bring 'em: Unite all hearts, appease each storm; 'Tis yours such actions to perform, My pride shall be to sing 'em.

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