Thro’out the whole what matchless Graces shine; _Paraphonalia_ sparkles in each Line; Native to _Cibber_, we admire The style and fancy, wit and fire, In each maturing Word we find Something soft for thought design’d. _Recitativo._ Complain not Sol, of fruitless ages past, Think your self blest in such a Son at last! Thrice happy Poets, if you knew your state; _Britain_ alone can boast a _Laureat_. For if, like him, to Grandeur you aspire, By his Example reach your own desire. Let criticks then their self born views lay down; And Bards in chorus thus sing round the town. _Air._ Hail! Matchless _Colley_, hail! Like this may ev’ry New Year’s Day Add fresher Honour to the Bay, ’Till Bay itself shall fail. _Recitativo._ May Heaven preserve thy Genius clear, For _Christmas_ comes but once a Year. Give the Poet then some Ale. _Ale_, &c. From _Fog_’s Journal, _Jan. 9._ An Ode on _Twelfth Day_. In Imitation of an Ode on _New Year’s-Day_. _Past Two o’Clock, and a frosty Morning._ _Recitativo._ Once more the Bell-man bids us wake, With Prophesy of Ale and Cake; Tells us before we sleep again, _Tom_ shall be King, and _Nancy_ Queen, While good Sir Knight a Knave appears, And Madam the Slut’s Ensign wears. Such Kings and Queens should _Colly_ sing, Such Worthies in his numbers ring; While both the _British_ soil and Foreign Shores, To form the Cake, unite their grateful Stores. _Air._ Ye grateful Footmen, bless the Day, That such Preferments give; Ye joyful Cook-maids drink away, While ye your Title lives. Good Ale you to the Brewer owe, The Cake’s the Baker’s care, And all above, and eke below, Combine to give good fare. _Recitativo._ _Tom_ thinks himself a real Monarch grown, And, pleas’d looks round the Kitchen as his own. While _Nancy_ with him royal Honour shares, And on the other Maids majestick stares. The New King’s Health is first, the Queen’s succeed: And most he triumphs, who most freely feeds. Then all are truly great when Ale supplies The want of Riches and of Dignities, And the exhausted Jugg gives victories. Turn happy _Will_, _Jack_, _Kate_, and _Doll_, your eyes On yon Two Chairs, and there observe How well the new rais’d prince the place supplies Which both, as you must own, deserve. _Air._ Behold in each pleas’d face what lovely graces shine, How on their little realm they look with air benign, Such, _Will_, must you and _Kate_ appear, If Fortune the ensuing Year, Convinces us she is not blind, By proving to your merit kind. _Recitativo._