Freely Translated By The Prince Regent.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains, About what your old crony, The Emperor Boney, Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries: Should there come famine, Still plenty to cram in You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may; For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, And then people get fat, And infirm, and--all that, And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!--alas, even they, Tho' so rosy they burn, Too quickly must turn (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget Your mind about matters you don’t understand? Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, Because "_you_," forsooth, "_have the pen in your hand_!"

Think, think how much better Than scribbling a letter, (Which both you and I Should avoid by the by,) How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust Of old Charley, my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan. To Crown us, Lord Warden, In Cumberland's garden Grows plenty of _monk's hood_ in venomous sprigs: While Otto of Roses Refreshing all noses Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau In that streamlet delicious, That down midst the dishes, All full of gold fishes, Romantic doth flow?-- Or who will repair Unto Manchester Square, And see if the gentle _Marchesa_ be there?

Go--bid her haste hither, And let her bring with her The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going-- Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of--Ackerman's Dresses for May!

This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public--entitled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

Charles Fox.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

The man who keeps a conscience pure, (If not his own, at least his Prince's,) Thro' toil and danger walks secure, Looks big and black and never winces.

No want has he of sword or dagger, Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb; Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, He doesn’t care one single damn.

Whether midst Irish chairmen going. Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim, Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing, No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally, Singing the praise of Church and State, Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big-- I did but frown and off he started, Scared at me even without my wig.

Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog Goes not to Mass in Dublin City, Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog, Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, The ragged royal-blood of Tara; Or place me where Dick Martin rules The houseless wilds of Connemara;

Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, So lovingly upon a hill-- Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble!

I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "_malus Jupiter_" of him.

There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

Jack fell down, And broke his _Crown_, And Jill came tumbling after.

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

--_nova monstra creavit_. OVID. "_Metamorph_." 1. i. v. 417.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac, With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back. And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni-- "Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext With the duties of empire,) "whom _shall_ I dress next?"

He looks in the glass--but perfection is there, Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair; Not a single _ex_-curl on his forehead he traces-- For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is, The _falser_ they are, the more firm in their places. His coat he next views--but the coat who could doubt? For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out; Every pucker and seam were made matters of state, And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother, Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other? And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes. Ah! no--here his ardor would meet with delays, For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays, So complete for the winter, he saw very plain 'Twould be devilish hard work to _un_pack him again.

So what's to be done?--there's the Ministers, bless 'em!-- As he _made_ the puppets, why shouldn’t he _dress_ 'em? "An excellent thought!--call the tailors--be nimble-- "Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble; "While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers, "The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."

So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest. While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition, Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!") And first _puts in hand_ my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW ON ONE'S SIDE."

_The Gentleman's Proposal_.

_Legge aurea, S'ei piace, ei lice_."

Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy To one frigid owner be tied; Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy, But, dearest, we've _Law_ on our side.

Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial, Whom no dull decorums divide; Their error how sweet and their raptures how _venial_, When once they've got Law on their side.

'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too: Then why should it now be decried? If the Father has done it why shouldn’t the Son too? For so argues Law on our side.

And even should our sweet violation of duty By cold-blooded jurors be tried, They can _but_ bring it in "misfortune," my beauty, As long as we've Law on our side.

_The Lady's Answer_.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly; For grant me so faithless a bride, Such sinners as we, are a little too _lovely_, To hope to have Law on our side.

Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em The People should look for their guide, Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum-- You'd always have Law on your side.

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary, Whose heart tho' it long ago died To the _pleasures_ of vice, is alive to its _glory_-- You still would have Law on your side.

But for _you_, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles; By _my_ advice therefore abide, And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles Who have _such_ a _Law_ on their side.

In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.