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TO HIS AL H-SS THE P-CE OF W—5, R-5-T OF THÈ UNITED K-DOM OF G-T B-TAIN AND I-LAND.

THE WOFUL ADDRESS AND LAMENTATION

OF

PETER GRIEVOUS, SAWNEY M'CHOAKER, CARRICK
O'GRUNT, AND OTHERS.

A1

[From the Morning Post, March 9.]

H! with what qualms and sneaking shyness
Do we approach your R-1 H-

Though grievous is our disappointment,

-ss!

Yet shall our words be smooth as ointment;
And we shall, in the sequel, prove

Warm as an oyster in our love.

Our hearts with strong affection run sick

Towards your illustrious house of Br-sw-k;

For, under its indulgent sway,

Each ass about his rights may bray,

Whilst now (though 't is but nolens volens,)

We feign to offer our condolence;

That by divine sad visitation

Our King can't govern this great nation,

We are right glad to have a Prince

Who never did the matter mince,

But always, though oft sorely tried,
Hath kept the people on his side.
Yet, ah! our fears are realiz'd,
Our expectations all capsis'd.

Sure, were your powers not elipt so small,
For us you would have us'd them all,
Nor thus have left those in the lurch,
Who hop'd to rule both State and Church
But now the ministerial check
Hangs, like a millstone, round your neck.
Who dare deny that we have shown
Attachment to your Father's throne?
Not less our love to you we'd show,
Could we contrive to tell you how;

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We can't express it in its fulness;
For 't is indeed a bitter pill,
Thus to address against our will.

That our first dawn should be so clouded,
In dismal night our hopes be shrouded,
Fills us with grief; which must have vent,
Or time so precious were mispent.
Once on a time we were respected,
And state affairs by us directed;
But now, insulted and debas'd,
In us great London is disgrac'd!
But, oh, behold our condescension!

We make of our own wrongs no mention.
By grievances we 're sore oppress'd,
That make this land a land unbless'd;
Taxes on taxes pil'd, exacted

(By laws "the Talents" once enacted)
With sore oppression, past relief,
For, I set a thief to catch a thief."
'Tis of those ills, the plans and plots

Of ministerial Hottentots,

By which our blood and treasure 's wasted,
As our bills prove, on Newgate pasted,

Showing decisions by the quorum,

Of the renowned British Forum;

Which still, though gagg'd and jawlock'd, croaks,

And shilling orators convokes.

Must we not rave to see the Minister

With glossy speech, yet cunning sinister,

On royal stilts uplifted, gull

With vile deception good John Bull:
And (as he lately did) command,
With regal power, this wretched land;
When illness dire, lamented, smiting,
Withheld His Majesty from writing;
When we have been asham'd to see
The fruits of his vile jealousy,
Prerogatives withheld, curtail'd,
As if in you all merit fail'd.

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We've

We've seen the rogues in power create
A new and dangerous estate;

Alas! we've seen their power employ'd
To stem a revolution's tide.

Since to these tricks, so fraught with danger,
Your R-H-ness is no stranger,

We praise that courage, strength, and virtue,
Acknowledg'd never to desert you,
With which you undertake your task,
Nor deign our leave or aid to ask.
Strong grow our grievances and stronger,
And we should keep your H-ness longer,
Were we to talk of place and pension,
And half our other ills but mention.
Yet there's one trespass, more accurst
Than others, we must state or burst.
Its odiousness, its mischiefs, might
E'en your undaunted soul affright.
The Commons' House we see a tool,
By which all ministers now rule,
Whether by strange nullification
Of regal power, or degradation
Of rights, far more important, claim'd
By us, "the sov'reign people" nam'd!
Then, mighty Prince! O pray reform us,
Remove this grievance so enormous;
Quash parliaments, the land's disgrace,
Put British Forums in their place.
The present state of things deploring,
True patriots all asleep and snoring,
We yet rely, you surely will,
However crainpt, regard us still;
And sometime hence us extricate,
To make us rulers of the state.
A pot-pourri of cheers and groans,
And sorrows rankling in our bones,
We thus present, though 't is most grievous
To all our hearts (if you 'll believe us).
But soon, O Prince, by change of system,
The modern Whigs hope you'll inlist 'em ;
And grant them long in wealth to roll,
And King and Nation to control.

O how

THE LAMENTATIONS OF TRAGEDY. $53

O bow content we then shall be,
From every check and burden free ;

And our warm gratitude we 'll show,
By crying up whate'er they do.

THE LAMENTATIONS OF TRAGEDY

ON THE SUCCESS OF THE HORSES NOW PERFORMING WITH SUCH UNLIMITED APPLAUSE AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.

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HUNG

[From the Morning Herald, March 9.]

UNG be our stage with black!" weep, two-legg'd
mutes;

Mourn for your queen, thus levell'd with the brutes
Nought now avails our Isabella's call-
The public fly, to see the cattle fall.
And ye, attendant virgins, hence no more
On fierce Calista, or repentant Shore,
Shall ye obsequious wait in tinsell'd pride;
Ye're useless now, unless you'll wear a hide.
Seeing what I have seen," ah, woe to me,
Such plaudits to unmeaning mummery!

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That Cawdor's wife, the Moor's lamented bride,
The sweet Cordelia, every parent's pride;
The lovely Juliet, Imogen sincere,

No more attract, or claim their former tear :
Shakspeare's all-soaring page is far below

The nightly scenes the dewlap'd fav'rites show.
Now taught by governesses sage and kind,

Each little Miss, of op'ning docile mind,

Asks dear papa to let her see the play

Where nature strikes, though dumb, and melts the sense away,

Far, far beyond what Otway's strains explore,
Though thrice Castalio strikes the harred door.
Hopeless sinkin vain the Muse may sing:
The hoof surpasses e'en the buskin'd king.
Richard, give way! Banquo, avannt! begone!
Romeo, depart; and let the horses on.

Oh! could I think-I who have made men weep,
So fast-they stood in tears, full ancle-deep,

H 5

Should

Should e'er behold, what sense must see with rage,
Smithfield become the nursery of the stage!

J. S. PS.

AN HIBERNIAN'S REFLECTIONS

ON HEARING of the oVERFLOWING AUDIENCES AT COVENT GARDEN.

[From the Morning Post, March 11]

NOT Mother Goose, in all her glory, drew

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Such nightly crowds as Blue Beard's horses do;
For then, indeed, the house, 't is pretty plain,
Receiv'd as many as it could contain.
"Arrah, but now," quoth Paddy, "I am told,
The house is fuller far than it can hold."

W

TO THE GREAT ORATOR.

[From the same, March 14.]

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thy great and patriotic name

Will stand recorded on the lists of fame,
When Pitt and Fox, and such illustrious men,
Have been long since forgotten-not till then..

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