From two domestic acts of pious zeal Learn what calamities sad mortals feel. When Lord GEORGE GORDON of the Pope afeard, (That was before he show’d a Jewish beard) When he his Whiggish Mob had raised, they fly On poor Lord MANSFIELD’S harmless Library. Then were his legal Writings, precious store, Burnt, or dispersed as Sibyl’s leaves of yore. Twelve years elapsed from that disastrous tide, And lo! another storm from t’other side! In vengeance on their Presbyterian foes The loyal Mob of Birmingham arose; And as their zeal for _Church and King_ grew hot, All PRIESTLEY’S books and papers went to pot. Losses like these till then we never saw; Priestley’s Divinity and Mansfield’s Law. ON TWO ENGLISH POETS, WHO FLOURISHED IN THE FORMER HALF OF THE LAST CENTURY, AND PUBLISHED COMPLIMENTARY VERSES ON EACH OTHER. Edward, thy Ode’s too long by half, Stephen’s Reply might spare a quarter: Now, in my judgment, Stephen’s song Is as much better, as ’tis shorter. Edward declares, though Milton’s lines Rise to an unexampled height, That, in heroics, Stephen shines Like Milton, and almost as bright. Stephen for quittance makes reply, That nothing in the world could hinder (Except his native modesty) Edward from taking place of Pindar. Stephen and Edward all this while Are lying to each other’s face; Edward can do ’t in bolder style, But Stephen with a better grace. VERSES TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED “NO POPERY” ON HIS PIES, &C. I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺, Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church, Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot, Starts from his counter, piping hot, To warn us of the dire intent, And, like himself, is eloquent. Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread Th’ alarm of danger widely spread; Then quaking Custards join the cry, And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!” Defender of the Faith! rare Cook, Who mak’st thy Pastry-shop a Book As formidable, and much more read Than that which our eighth HENRY made, Whose Church-of-England oven bakes Protestant Appletarts and Cakes! Children that feed upon thy Pies Grow in religion as in size; While, often as their mouths they ope, They chew destruction to the Pope. Fame shall desert th’ ingenious Quaker To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker; Whose willing Pupils, apter far Than all the school of Lancaster, Shall read, and eat, his name enroll’d On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold. ON THE FUNERAL OF ⸺, IN A HEARSE AND SIX, FOLLOWED BY A MOURNING COACH AND FOUR. What, SAVE-ALL in a Hearse convey’d! And _six_ brave Nags to draw _the Dead_! ’Tis ruin!—Why, ’tis more by _five_ Than e’er convey’d him while _alive_. And look, what follows!—more and more Profusion, in a _Coach and Four_!