[Illustration: _LORD LONGBOW, the Alarmist, discovering the Miseries of IRELAND.——with the puffing out of the little farthing Rush-light, & ye story of Moll Coggin._] ODE TO LORD MOIRA. I. If on your head[62] some vengeance fell, MOIRA, for every tale you tell, The listening Lords to cozen;[63] If but one whisker lost its hue, Changed (like Moll Coggin’s tail) to blue, I’d hear them by the dozen. II. But still, howe’er you draw your bow,[64] Your charms improve, your triumphs grow, New grace adorns your figure; More stiff your boots, more black your stock, 10 Your hat assumes a prouder cock, Like Pistol’s (if ’twere bigger). III. Tell then your stories, strange and new,[65] Your Fathers fame[66] shall vouch them true; So shall the _Dublin Papers_; Swear by the stars[67] that saw the sight, That infant thousands die each night,[68] While troops _blow out their tapers_. IV. SHUCKBURGH[69][70] shall cheer you with a smile, MACPHERSON[71][71] simpering all the while, 20 With BASTARD[71][72] and with Bruin:[73] And fierce NICHOLL,[74] who wields at will Th’ emphatic stick, or powerful quill, To prove his country’s ruin. V. Each day new followers[75] crowd your board, And lean expectants hail my Lord With adoration fervent: Old THURLOW,[76] though he swore by G— No more to own a master’s nod, Is still your humble servant. 30 VI. Old PULTENEY[77][78] too, your influence feels, And asks from you th’ Exchequer Seals, To tax and save the nation: TOOKE trembles,[79] lest your potent charms Should lure CHARLES FOX from _his_ fond arms, To YOUR Administration.[81] 36 [TRANSLATION OF HORACE, BOOK II., ODE VIII. BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. Avenger of insulted truth, Had Heaven, Barine, dimm’d one tooth; Or bade, in justice bade, thee wail A speck upon a single nail— I’d trust thee: but ere well the vow Has passed those treacherous lips, there glow New beauties mantling o’er thy cheek; And thee the youth, thee only seek. It profits thee to be forsworn By thy dead mother’s hallowed urn; By heaven, and each mute nightly sign, And every deathless power divine. Yes: Venus laughs well-pleased, and lo! The gentle Nymphs are laughing too; And Cupid, who his burning darts Whets with fresh blood from lovers’ hearts.