SONGS.

A BACCHANALIAN.
SUNG BY MR. REINHOLD.

BACCHUS, ever smiling power,
Patron of the festive hour!
Here thy genuine nectar roll
To the wide capacious bowl,
While gentility and glee

Make these gardens worthy thee.
Bacchus, ever mirth and joy,
Laughing, wanton, happy boy!
Here advance thy clustered crown,
Send thy purple blessings down;
With the Nine to please conspire,
Wreath the ivy round the lyre.

THE INVITATION.

TO BE SUNG BY MRS. BARTHELEMON AND
MASTER CHENEY.

AWAY to the woodlands, away!
The shepherds are forming a ring
To dance to the honour of May,
And welcome the pleasures of Spring.
The shepherdess labours a grace,
And shines in her Sunday's array,
And bears in the bloom of her face
The charms and the beauties of May.
Away to the woodlands, away!

The shepherds are forming a ring, &c.

Away to the woodlands, away!
And join with the amorous train:
'Tis treason to labour to day,

Now Bacchus and Cupid must reign.
With garlands of primroses made,

And crown'd with the sweet blooming spray,
Thro' woodland, and meadow, and shade,
We'll dance to the honour of May.
Away to the, &c.

Young Colin has a comely face,
And cudgels with an active grace,
In every thing complete;
But Hobbinol can dance divine,
Gods! how his manly beauties shine,
When jigging with his feet.
Roger is very stout and strong,
And Thyrsis sings a heavenly song,
Soft Giles is brisk and small.

Who shall I choose? who shall I shun?
Why must I be confin'd to one?
Why can't I have them all?

THE HAPPY PAIR.
STREPHON.

Lucy, since the knot was ty'd,
Which confirm'd thee Strephon's bride,
All is pleasure, all is joy,

Married love can never cloy;
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is the road to bliss.

LUCY.

Whilst thy kindness ev'ry hour
Gathers pleasure with its power,
Love and tenderness in thee
Must be happiness to me.
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is substantial bliss.

BOTH.

Godlike Hymen, ever reign,
Ruler of the happy train,
Lift thy flaming torch above,
All the flights of wanton love,
Peaceful, solid, blest, serene,
Triumph in the married scene.

STREPHON.

Blest with thee, the sultry day
Flies on wings of down away,
Lab'ring o'er the yellow plain,
Open to the sun and rain,
All my painful labours fly,
When I think my Lucy's nigh.

LUCY.

O my Strephon, could my heart
Happiness to thee impart,
Joy should sing away the hour,
Love should ev'ry pleasure show'r,
Search my faithful breast, and see,
I am blest in loving thee.

вотн.

Godlike Hymen, ever reign,
Ruler of the happy train,
Lift thy flaming torch above
All the flights of wanton love,
Peaceful, solid, blest, serene,
Triumph in the married scene.

RESIGNATION.

[Copied from a poem in Chatterton's hand-writing in the British Museum.]

HAIL Resignation, hail ambiguous dame,
Thou Parthian archer in the fight of fame!

When thou hast drawn the mystic veil between,
'Tis the poor minister's concluding scene.
Sheltered beneath thy pinions he withdraws,
And tells us his integrity's the cause.
Sneaking to solitude he rails at state,
And rather would be virtuous than be great,
Laments the impotence of those who guide,
And wishes public clamours may subside.
But while such rogues as North or Sandwich steer,
Our grievances will never disappear.

Hail Resignation! 'tis from thee we trace
The various villanies of power and place,
When rascals, once but infamy and rags,
Rich with a nation's ruin, swell their bags,
Purchase a title and a royal smile,
And pay to be distinguishably vile.
When big with self importance' thus they shine,
Contented with their gleanings they resign.
When ministers, unable to preside,
The tott'ring vehicle no longer guide,
The powerful Thane prepares to kick his grace
From all his glorious dignities of place,
But still the honour of the action's thine,
And Grafton's tender conscience can resign.
Lament not Grafton that thy hasty fall
Turns out a public happiness to all,
Still by your emptiness of look appear
The ruins of a man who used to steer,
Still wear that insignificance of face
Which dignifies you more than power or place.
Whilst now the constitution tott'ring stands
And needs the firm support of able hands,
Your grace stood foremost in the glorious cause
To shake the very basis of our laws,
But thanks to Camden, and a noble few,
They stemm'd oppression's tide and conquer'd
you.

How can your prudence be completely prais'd
In flying from the storm yourself had rais'd,
When the black clouds of discord veil'd the sky,
'Twas more than prudence in your grace to fly,
For had the thunders burst upon your head
Soon had you mingled with the headless dead.
Not Bute tho' here, the deputy of fate,
Could save so vile a minister of state.

Oft has the Carlton sybil prophesy'd
How long each minister of state should guide,
And from the dark recesses of her cell,
When Bute was absent, would to Stuart tell
The secret fates of senators and peers,
What lord's exalted but to lose his ears,
What future plans the junto have design'd,
What writers are with Rockingham combin'd,
Who should accept a privy seal or rod,
Who's lord lieutenant of the Land of Nod,
What pension'd nobleman should hold his post,
What poor dependant scor'd without his host,
What patriot big with popular applause
Should join the ministry and prop the cause,
With many secrets of a like import,
The daily tittle tattle of a court,
By common fame retail'd as office news
In coffee-houses, taverns, cellars, stews.
Oft from her secret casket would she draw
A knotty plan to undermine the law,
But tho' the council sat upon the scheme,
Time has discovered that 'tis all a dream.

A pen drawn through these words. ? Query, wretches?

Long had she known the date of Grafton's power,
And in her tablet mark'd his flying hour,
Rumour reports, a message from her cell
Arrived but just three hours before he fell.
Well knew the subtle minister of state
Her knowledge in the mysteries of fate,
And catching every pension he could find,
Obey'd the fatal summons and resign'd.

Far in the north amidst whose dreary hills
None hear the pleasant murm'ring sound of rills
Where no soft gale in dying raptures blows,
Or ought which bears the look of verdure grows,
Save where the north wind cuts the solemn yew
And russet rushes drink the noxious dew,
Dank exhalations drawn from stagnant moors,
The morning dress of Caledonia's shores.
Upon a bleak and solitary plain

Expos'd to every storm of wind and rain,
A humble cottage rear'd its lowly head,
Its roof with matted reeds and rushes spread,
The walls were osiers daub'd with slimy clay,
One narrow entrance open'd to the day;
Here liv'd a laird the ruler of his clan,
Whose fame thro' every northern mountain ran;
Great was his learning, for he long had been
A student at the town of Aberdeen,
Professor of all languages at once,
To him some reckoned Chappellow a dunce.
With happy fluency he learn'd to speak
Syriac or Latin, Arabic or Greek.
Not any tongue in which Oxonians sing
When they rejoice, or blubber with the king,
To him appear'd unknown: with sapient look
He taught the Highland meaning of each crook.
But often when to pastimes he inclin'd,
To give some relaxation to his mind,
He laid his books aside; forgot to read
To hunt wild goslings down the river Tweed,
To chase a starving weezel from her bed,
And wear the spoil triumphaut on his head.
'Tis true his rent roll just maintain'd his state,
But some in spite of poverty are great.
Tho' Famine sunk her impress on his face,
Still you might there his haughty temper trace,
Descended from a catalogue of kings
Whose warlike arts Mac Pherson sweetly sings;
He bore the majesty of monarchs past,
Like a tall pine rent with the winter's blast,
Whose spreading trunk and withered branches show
How glorious once the lordly tree might grow,
Of all the warring passions in his breast
Ambition still presided o'er the rest,
This is the spur which actuates us all,
The visionary height whence thousands fall,
The author's hobby-horse, the soldier's steed,
Which aids him in each military deed,
The lady's dresser, looking glass and paint,
The warm devotion of the seeming saint.

Sawney, the nobler ruler of the clan,
Had number'd o'er the riper years of man,
Graceful in stature, ravishing his mien,
To make a conquest was but to be seen.
Fir'd by ambition, he resolv'd to roam
Far from the famine of his native home,
To seek the warmer climate of the south,
And at one banquet feast his eyes and mouth,
In vain the am'rous Highland lass complain'd,
The son of monarchs would not be restrain'd,
Clad in his native many-colour'd suit
Forth struts the walking majesty of Bute.

His spacious sword, to a large wallet strung,
Across his broad capacious shoulders hung:
As from the hills the Land of Promise rose
A secret transport in his bosom glows,
A joy prophetic until then unknown
Assur'd him all he view'd would be his own.
New scenes of pleasure recreate his sight,
He views the fertile meadows with delight,
Still in soliloquy he prais'd the view,
Nor more was pleas'd with future scenes at Kew.
His wonder broke in murmurs from his tongue,
No more the praise of Highland hills he sung,
Till now a stranger to the cheerful green,
Where springing flowers diversify the scene,
The lofty elm, the oak of lordly look,
The willow shadowing the bubbling brook,
The hedges blooming with the sweets of May
With double pleasure mark'd his gladsome way.
Having thro' varying rural prospects past,
He reach'd the great metropolis at last.
Here Fate beheld him as he trudg'd the street,
Bare was his buttocks and unshod his feet,
A lengthening train of boys displayed him great,
He seem'd already minister of state.
The Carlton sybil saw his graceful mien,
And straight forgot her hopes of being queen.

She sigh'd, she wish'd, swift virtuous Chudleigh flew
To bring the Caledonian swain to Kew,
Then introduced him to her secret cell;
What further can the modest numbers tell?

None rid the broomstaff with so good a grace,
Or pleas'd her with such majesty of face,
Enraptur'd with her incubus she sought
How to reward his merit as she ought,
Resolved to make him greatest of the great
She led him to her hidden cave of state,
There spurs and coronets were placed around
And privy seals were scatter'd on the ground,
Here piles of honorary truncheons lay
And gleaming stars 3 artificial day,
With mystic rods whose magic power is such
They metamorphose parties with a touch.
Here hung the princely of garter'd blue
With flags of all varieties of hue.
"These," said the sybil," from this present hour
Are thine, with every dignity of power.
No statesman shall be titulary great,
None shall obtain an office in the state
But such whose principles and manners suit
The virtuous temper of the earl of Bute,
All shall pursue thy interest, none shall guide
But such as you repute are qualify'd.
No more on Scotland's melancholy plain
Your starving countrymen shall drink the rain,
But hither hasting on their naked feet
Procure a place, forget themselves, and eat.
No southern patriot shall oppose my will,
If not my look, my treasurer can kill,
His pistol never fails in time of need,

And who dares contradict my power shall bleed.
A future Barrington will also rise

With blood and death to entertain my eyes.
But this forestalls futurity and fate,

I'll chuse the present hour to make thee great."
He bow'd submission, and with eager view
Gaz'd on the wither'd oracle of Kew.

She seiz❜d a pendant garter and began
To elevate the ruler of the clan,

Girt round his leg the honour'd trifle shone
And gather'd double lustre from the throne,
With native dignity he fill'd the stall,
The wonder, jest, and enmity of all.
Not yet content with honorary grace
The sybil, busy for the sweets of place,
Kick'd out a minister, the people's pride,
And lifted Sawney in his place to guide.
The leader of the treasury he rose,

Whilst Fate mark'd down the nation's future

woes,

Mad with ambition, his imperious hand
Scatter'd oppression thro' a groaning land,
Still taxes followed taxes, grants supplies,
With ev'ry ill resulting from excise.
Not satisfied with this unjust increase,
He struck a bolder stroke and sold the peace.
The Gallic millions so convinced his mind
On honourable terms the treaty's sign'd.

But who his private character can blame,
Or brand his titles with a villain's name.
Upon an estimation of the gains
He stoop'd beneath himself to take the reins,
A good economist, he serv'd the crown
And made his master's interest his own,
His starving friends and countrymen apply'd,
To share the ministry, assist to guide,
Nor ask'd in vain:-his charitable hand
Made plenty smile in Scotland's barren land,
Her wandering sons for poverty renown'd
Places and pensions, bribes or titles found.
Far from the south was humble merit fled
And on the northern mountains rear'd her head,
And genius having rang'd beyond the Tweed
Sat brooding upon bards who could not read,
Whilst courage boasting of his Highland might
Mentions not Culloden's inglorious fight.
But whilst his lordship fills the honour'd stall
Ample provision satisfies them all.
The genius sings his praise, the soldier swears
To mutilate each murm'ring caitiff's ears,
The father of his country they adore,
And live in elegance unknown before,

Around this mystic Sun of liquid gold
A swarm of planetary statesmen roll'd,
Tho' some have since as ministers been known
They shone with borrow'd lustre, not their own.
In ev'ry revolution day and night
From Bute they caught each particle of light,
He destin'd out the circles they fulfil,
Hung on the bulky nothing of his will.

How shall I brand with infamy a name
Which bids defiance to all sense of shame?
How shall I touch his iron soul with pain,
Who hears unmov'd a multitude complain?
A multitude made wretched by his hand,
The common curse and nuisance of the land.
Holland, of thee I sing: infernal wretch,
Say, can thy power of mischief further stretch?
Is there no other army to be sold,
No town to be destroy'd for bribes and gold?
Or wilt thou rather sit contented down,
And starve the subject to enrich the crown?
That when the treasury can boast supplies
Thy pilfering genius may have exercise,
Whilst unaccounted millions pay thy toil
Thou art secure if Bute divides the spoil,

Catching his influence from the best of kings,
Vice broods beneath the shadow of his wings,
The vengeance of a nation is defy'd
And liberty and justice set aside.
Distinguish'd robber of the public, say,
What urg'd thy timid spirit's hasty way?
She in the protection of a king,
Did recollection paint the fate of Byng?
Did conscience hold that mirror to thy sight,
Or Aylyffe's ghost accompany thy flight?
Is Bute more powerful than the sceptred hand,
Or art thou safer in a foreign land?

In vain the scene relinquish'd now you grieve,
Cursing the moment you were forced to leave
Thy ruins on the isle of Thanet built,
The fruits of plunder, villany and guilt.
When you presume on English ground to tread,
Justice will lift her weapon at your head.
Contented with the author of your state,
Maintain the conversation of the great.
Be busy in confederacy and plot,
And settle what shall be on what is not,
Display the statesman in some wild design,
Foretell when North will tumble and resign,
How long the busy Sandwich, mad for rule,
Will lose his labour and remain a fool.
But your accounts, the subject of debate,
Are sunk beneath the notice of the great,
Let brib'd exchequer tellers find 'em just,
While on the penalty of place they must,
Before you're seen your honesty is clear,
And all will evidently right appear.

When as a minister you had your day,
And gather'd light from Bute's superior ray,
His striking representative you shone,
And seem'd to glimmer in yourself alone.
The lives of thousands barter'd for a bribe,
With villanies too shocking to describe,
Your system of oppression testify'd
None but the conscientious Fox could guide.
As Bute is fix'd eternal in his sphere
And ministers revolve around in air,
Your infamy with such a lasting ray
Glow'd thro' your orb in one continued day,
Still ablest politicians hold dispute,
Whether you gave, or borrow'd light from Bute.
Lost in the blaze of his superior parts,
We often have descry'd your little arts.
But at a proper distance from his sphere
We saw the little villain disappear,
When drest in titles, the burlesque of place
A more illustrious rascal show'd his face,
Your destin'd sphere of ministry now run,
You dropt like others in the parent Sun,
There as a spot you purpose to remain,
And seek protection in the sybil's swain.
Grafton his planetary life began,
Tho' foreign to the system of the clan,
Slowly he roll'd around the fount of light,
Long was his day, but longer was his night.
Irregular, unequal in his course,

Now languid he revolves, now rolls with force,
His scarce-collected light obliquely hurl'd
Was scatter'd ere it reach'd his frozen world.
Thro' all his under offices of place,
All had conspir'd to represent his grace,
Lifeless and dull the wheels of state were driv'n,
Slow as a courtier on his road to Heaven.
If expedition urg'd the dull machine
He knew so little of the golden mean,

Swift hurry and confusion wild began
To discompose the Thane's determin'd plan.
Errour, his secretary, lent his aid

To undermine each plot his cunning laid;
He wrote dispatches in his grace's name,
And ruin'd every project North could frame.
Yet as he blunder'd thro' the lengthen'd night
He seriously protested all was right.

Since dissipation is thy only joy,
Go, Grafton, join the dance and act the boy;
'Tis not for fops in cabinets to shine,
And justice must confess that title's thine.
Dress to excess and powder into fame,
In drums and hurricanes exalt your name.
There you may glitter, there your worth may rise
Above the little reach of vulgar eyes.

But in the high departments of the state
Your talents are too trifling to be great.
There all your imperfections rise to view,
Not Sandwich so contemptible as you.
Bute from the summit of his power descry'd
Your glaring inability to guide,

And mustering every rascal in his gang,
Who might for merit all together hang,
From the black catalogue and worthy crew,
The jesuitical and scheming few,
Selected by the leader of the clan,
Received instructions for their future plan,
And after proper adoration paid

Were to their destin'd sphere of state convey'd,
To shine the minister's satellites,

Collect his light, and give his lordship ease,
Reform his crooked politics and draw
A more severe attack upon the law,
Settle his erring revolutions right,
And give in just proportion day and night.

Alas! the force of Scottish pride is such,
These mushrooms of a day presum'd too much.
Conscious of cunning and superior arts
They scorn'd the minister's too trifling parts,
Grafton resents a treatment so unjust,
And damns the Carlton sybil's fiery lust,
By which a scoundrel Scot opprest the realm,
And rogues below contempt disgrac'd the helm.
Swift scandal caught the accents as they fell,
And bore them to the sybil's secret cell.
Enrag'd she wing'd a messenger to Bute,
Some minister more able to depute;
Her character and virtue was a jest,
Whilst Grafton was of useless power possest.
This done, her just desire of vengeance warm,
She gave him notice of the bursting storm;
Timid and dubious Grafton faced about,
And trembled at the thoughts of being out.
But as no laws the sybil's power confin'd,
He drop'd his blushing honours and resign'd.
Step forward, North! and let the doubtful see.
Wonders and miracles reviv'd in thee.
Did not the living witness haunt the court,
What ear had given faith to my report?
Amidst the rout of ministerial slaves
Rogues who want genius to refine to knaves,
Who could imagine that the wretch more base
Should fill the highest infamy of place?
That North the vile domestic of a peer,
Whose name an Englishman detests to hear,
Should leave his trivial share of Bedford's gaips
Become a minister and take the reins,
And from the meanest of the gang ascend
Above his worthy governor and friend?