Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr. Busby, (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late successful "Drury Lane Address,")[1] I composed the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the Public; whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics. I am, Sir, yours, etc., etc. HORACE HORNEM. [Footnote 1: State of the poll (last day) 5. [General Tarleton (1754-1833) contested Liverpool in October, 1812. For three days the poll stood at five, and on the last day, eleven. Canning and Gascoigne were the successful candidates.]] [Footnote 2: More expressive.--[_MS_.] [Footnote 3: My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the pope, because we can't burn him any more.--[Revise No. 2.] ] [Footnote 4: See 'Rejected Addresses'.] THE WALTZ Muse of the many-twinkling feet! [1] whose charms Are now extended up from legs to arms; Terpsichore!--too long misdeemed a maid-- Reproachful term--bestowed but to upbraid-- Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, [i] The least a Vestal of the Virgin Nine. Far be from thee and thine the name of Prude: Mocked yet triumphant; sneered at, unsubdued; Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, If but thy coats are reasonably high! 10 Thy breast--if bare enough--requires no shield; Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults, Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz." Hail, nimble Nymph! to whom the young hussar, [2] The whiskered votary of Waltz and War, His night devotes, despite of spur and boots; A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes: Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz!--beneath whose banners A modern hero fought for modish manners; 20 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's [3] fame, Cocked, fired, and missed his man--but gained his aim; Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. Oh! for the flow of Busby, [4] or of Fitz, The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, To "energise the object I pursue," And give both Belial and his Dance their due! [ii]