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sadly deficient in fun, and have nå the anachronisms of his biographers, longer the humour they used to have. the negligence of his editors, and the This change may be for the better, we malice of his enemies; and thrown hope so, considering it was ourselves that light upon his real character, of who had the chief hand in producing which he has been so long and so unit. We have out-witted the whole justly deprived. Mr Octavius Gilworld, and there is no use in attempt- christ, who last edited this reverend ing humour, if it be not equal to Black- poet-but we must not weigh down wood, which is “a moral impossible.” our buoyant publication with squabbles Therefore we are not surprised at the about editors and editions. To make clerics having degenerated in this qua- a long story short, Dr Corbet, afterlity from their predecessors, and we wards Bishop of Norwich, was present fear there is no hope of seeing a hu- in Windsor, not at a coronation feast, morous account of the coronation feast but something very like it, seemingly issue from the bench of Bishops. It an installation of the Garter, about was otherwise of old, as thou shalt two hundred years ago, and has left a know, my public, when you come to humorous' account of it in a poetic it.
epistle to the Lord Mordaunt. Our We trust, that we have thus far sa- readers may judge for themselves, what tisfactorily illustrated the genius and little alteration two centuries have writings of Bishop Corbet,-proved made in royal feasts and beef-eaters.
" To this good sport rode I, as being allow'd
To thrust, and to be trode on by my place.”
Imagine now the scene lies in the Hall,
hangings they stand near,
Wherefore on run 1, afresh they fall, and show
And now I breathe, my lord, and have the time
“ Much more good service was committed yet,
“ But as it stands, the persons and the cause
For at all feasts and masques the doom hath been,
A man thrust forth, and a gay cloak let in.'' The author of “ The Specimens of British Poets,” has summarily given the merits of this author, saying merely, that he has left some good strokes of humour against the Puritans.” In our opinion, the only bad things he has left, are those little ballads against the Puritans; the wittiest of his poems, his Journey to France, quoted by that author of the Specimen, is a satire on the
Roman Catholics, which, as it has appeared there,'we need not give. The“ Iter
“ To the inn we came, where our best cheer
Brought us six miles, and turn'd tail to Nun-Eaton.”.
received by us from thence, of some cockneys who visited it about two months ago in a one-horse chay, and spoiled the tree in the greenery, by engraving on them Arry and Mariar, and plucking laurels for what end we dare not conjecture. But to our Bishop.
“ No other hindrance now, but we may pass
* Bosworth Field.
We shall quote but one more poem of the witty Bishop's; and this we recommend to the serious attention of that learned body, The Provost and Fellows of Trinity College, Dublin, cock-a-hoop, as they must be, from the Royal visit. Indeed we know how much the slightest hint promulgated in these pages would influence them; and we feel particularly flattered by Dr Kyle's following our advice in discountenancing The Historical Society. The important piece we recommend, is entitled " A certain Poem, as it was presented in Latin by divines and others, before his Majesty in Cambridge, by way of interlude, styled Liber Novus de Adventu Regis ad Cantabrigiam, faithfully done into English, with some liberal additions." “ It is not yet a fortnight since
What cries the town? what we ? (said he,) Lutetia entertain'd our prince,
What cries the University ? And vented hath a studied toy,
What cry the boys ? what, every thing ? As long as was the siege of Troy, Behold, behold, yond' comes the King !
And spent herself for full five days, And every period he bedecks
With Een et Ecce venit Rex.
Oft have I warn'd (quoth he) our dirt, Was ta'en by the Lord Vice-Chancellour; That no silk stockings should be hurt; Both morn and even he clean'd the way;
But we in vain strive to be fine,
And with the beams of your bright eye, No proverb would give more than he. You will be pleased our streets to dry.
Now come we to the wonderment
Of Christendom, and eke of Kent,
The Trinity, which to surpass,
Doth deck her spokesman by a glass,
Who, clad in gay and silken weeds, hap!)
Thus opes his mouth, hark, how he Whether you saw the town or map.
I wonder what your Grace doth here, But the pure House of Emanuel
Who have expected been twelve year, Would not be like proud Jesabel,
And this your son, fair Carolus, Nor shew herself before the King
Who is so Jacobissimus : An hypocrite or painted thing ;
Here's none, of all, your Gracerefuses, But that the ways might all prove fair,
You are most welcome to the Muses. Conceived a tedious mile of prayer.
Although we have no bells to jangle, Upon the look'd-for seventh of March,
Yet we can show a fair quadrangle, Out went the townsmen all in starch,
Which, though it ne'er was graced with Both band and beard, into the field,
King, Where one a speech could hardly wield;
Yet sure it was a goodly thing ; For needs he would begin his style,
My warning's short, no more I'll say, The King being from him half a mile.
Soon you shall see a gallant play. They gave the King a piece of plate,
But nothing was so much admired Which they hoped never came too late ;
As were their plays so well attired ; But cry'd, Oh! look not in, Great King, Nothing did win more praise of mine, For there is in it just nothing ;
Than did their acting most divine ; And so preferr'd with tune and gait, So did they drink their healths di. A speech as empty as their plate.
vinely, Now as the King came near the town,
So did they dance and skip so finely. Each one ran crying up and down, Their plays had sundry grave wise factors, Alas, poor Oxford ! thou'rt undone, A perfect diocess of actors Por now the King's past Trompington, Upon the stage ; for I am sure that
And rides upon his braw gray dapple, There were both bishop, pastor, curate; Seeing the top of King's College Nor was their labour light or small, Chappel.
The charge of some was pastoral. Next rode his lordship on a nag,
Our plays were certainly much worse, Whose coat was blue, whose ruff was shag, For they had a brave hobby-horse, And then began his reverence
Which did present unto his grace, To speak most eloquent nonsense :
A wond'rous witty ambling pace. See how, (quoth he,) most mighty But we were chiefly spoil'd by that Prince,
Which was six hours of, God knows For very joy my horse doth wince.
Now pass we to the Civil Law,
But to conclude the King was pleased, And eke the Doctors of the Spaw,
And of the court the town was eased; Who all perform’d their parts so well, Yet, Oxford, though, (dear sister) hark Sir Edward Ratcliff bore the bell,
And comes again ere it be long, To speak of spells and magic oynt- Then you may make another song. ment.
The King being gone from Trinity, The Doctors of the Civil Law
They make a scramble for degree; Urged ne'er a reason worth a straw; Masters of all sorts, and all ages, And though they went in silk and sattin,
Keepers, subcizers, lacqueys, pages, They, Thomson-like, elipp'd the King's
Who all did throng to come aboard,
With “ Pray, nor make me, good
They press'd his lordship wondrous hard, Here no man spake ought to the point,
His lordship then did want the guard ; But all they said was out of joint;
So did they throng him for the nonce, Just like the chappel ominous,
Until he blest them all at once,
And cry'd, Hodiissime
Omnes Magistri estote.
Nor is this all which we do sing,
For of your praise the world must ring; Their Moderator was no fool,
For there is coming forth a book,
Will spoil Joseph Barnesius
The sale of Rex Platonicus.
To this Cantab felicitation we subjoin two effusions from Limerick and Cork, the harbingers of a joyous series, expressive of the loyal commotion which agitates the Green Isle.
ode ON THE KING'S LANDING IN IRELAND,
TWELFTH AUGUST, MDCCCXXI.
By John Howley, Esq. of Garry Ower.
Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,
And leave your wonted labours for this day;
1. The poet flab- As I was sitting on the Shannon side, bergasted by
Lull’d by the sound of that majestic flood,
Galloping by as quickly as he could ;
Still urging on his steed, a gallant grey,
Back towa his horse's tail, and thus did say;
I ride express with news to strike you dumb, « Our monarch has arrived at last--King George the Fourth