Proceed! proceed! and still our wond'ring eyes With deeds magnanimous like these surprize, And lest some wretch, phlegmatic, dull, and cold, Without applause such actions should behold, Aloud to list'ning crowds your worth proclaim, Yourself the herald of your deathless fame. To spacious Berks your dignity avow, From Buscot's meads, to Windsor's lofty brow, Till LOVEDEN's daring insolence is o'er, And POWNEY cross your fav'rite schemes no more; Your sacred game, till lawless SEYMOUR spare, Nor hot-brain'd PYE another challenge bear. Shall humble Squires presume, by act or word, T' oppose the wishes of a mighty LORD; On high affairs attempt to give their voice, Or in elections e'er avow their choice; Pour in your rabble to each factious town, And Freedom's sounds, by shouting numbers drown, Till Thames' unpeopled waves by READING glide, Without one bargeman left to chear the tide; And NEWBURY's desart streets lament in vain, Their servile inmates gone to swell your train. Stout FERDINANDO, your obsequious slave, Once a rude ruffian, now a pliant knave, With Stentor's voice shall swell your pageant pride, And boldly thunder nonsense on your side: The gentle Colonel, simpering SELLWOOD too, His face with port and patriot-ardor blue, With vacant eye shall view your great intent, Shall scratch his empty head, and smile assent. There too my muse, with rough, tho' honest song, Shall chant your virtues to the admiring throng, Display your various worth in humble lays, And teach the gaping rabble how to praise, Re-echo to their ears your fav'rite word, And shew respect should always wait MY LORD. Perhaps, (indulge your Poet's fairy dream), Perhaps my verse adorn'd by such a theme, May in some bark, our navy sail t' explore, Be safely wafted to the Atlantic shore: How will those pious Chiefs delight to hear The kindred virtues of a British Peer? How will thy deeds enchant, with gentle sway, The Patriot sons of Massachuset's Bay? For all your ardor fires the illustrious train, In Council bold, but bashful on the plain: How will their grateful bosoms love the verse, Whose honest lines such great exploits rehearse? I see their hands prepare the verdant bough, I feel their laurel wreaths surround my brow; While that long-honour'd strain, whose magic charms So oft has called the gallant race to arms, Shall now at length give place to newer lays, And Yanky-doodle yield to CRAVEN'S praise. THE END. FOOTNOTE: [A] A Gentleman who was Proctor, while his L------p was at the University, and to whom, after a long law suit, he was obliged to submit; and from whom his L------'s subsequent ill treatment drew a Pamphlet, stating the whole affair to the Public, to which the curious reader is referred. Transcriber's Note