Then Sandwich plac’d on high, Amid the tuneful band, Struck the loud kettle-drums with mighty hand; The deaf’ning notes ascend the sky, And sound along the strand. From Fred’rick began the strain, Who left Germania’s bleak domain For England――such the pow’r of Stuart’s reign! Augusta then his Highness woo’d, Got children, as all Princes should, When he to Saxe-Gotha press’d, And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her waist his arms he spread, And stamp’d an image of himself――a Prince without a head. The list’ning tars admire the lofty sound; A Prince without a head――they shout around; A Prince without a head――the vaulted skies rebound. _Air._ Not us’d to hear Such truths sincere, At first he shrinks Before he thinks, That tars must have their jeer. * * * * * From _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit._ 1786. ―――― THE COVENT GARDEN ROW. ’Twas at a _glorious row_, for Clifford won, By german Wienholt’s son, After the play was done, Aloft in drunken state Was placed the stupid candidate, For O.P. fame and fun. * * * * * This parody, relating to the famous O. P. riots, will be found in _The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810, which contains a full account of that curious theatrical episode. A long political parody of Dryden’s Ode, relating to Irish affairs, and entitled _Ode to St. Patrick’s Day_, appeared in Vol. ix. of _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1806, and in Vol. xvi. of the same series, (1813) was a parody describing a law case. It commenced:―― “’Twas where the fam’d Home Circuit is begun.” Neither of these parodies possesses any interest for modern readers. Another parody, of which only the title can be given, was “W――――S’s Feast, or Dryden Travesti; a mock Pindarick: addressed to his most Incorruptible Highness, Prince Patriotism.” ―――― SIR FRANCIS’S[35] FEAST. _An Ode for the anniversary of a Westminster Election._ ’Twas at a feast, giv’n to their Baronet By his own factious set, Placed by the chairman’s side, Sate Piccadilly’s pride, With airs of coy regret. His noisy friends were ranged about, With dirty shirts, and pots of heady stout: Meet dress, meet drink for such a rout! The valiant Cochrane, by his side, Sate, snappish, yet self satisfied, In naval garb and northern pride. Happy, happy, happy day! None but the mob, None but the mob, None but the mob are fit to sway! Cobbett, exalted high, Amid that unwash’d train, Roar’d lies and libels out amain; Yet still he ’scapes the pillory, And sells the sland’rous strain. The King he first assail’d: