ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
The Bellman, "Old New-Year's-Day. An irregular Burlesque Ode" Morning Chronicle and London Advertiser (12 January 1774).
1755: Rev. William Mason
1757: William Shenstone
1757: Richard Owen Cambridge
1757: Bp. Richard Hurd
1757: Rev. John Free
1757: Horace Walpole
1761: R. S.
1762: Rev. Charles Churchill
1762: Thomas Gray
1765: Cuthbert Shaw
1769: W. G. E.
1770 ca.: William Cole
1772: Paul Pinchwell
1773: Christopher Anstey
1774: Rev. John Langhorne
1774: The Bellman
1785: C. J.
1785: Edmond Malone
1785: Anna Seward
1786: Rev. Robert Potter
1788: Rev. William Mason
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1804: Joseph Dennie
1804: Rev. William Tooke
1806: Rev. George Richards
1807: Robert Southey
1809: Dr. Nathan Drake
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1860: George Gilfillan
1880: Thomas Humphry Ward
1910: Ralph Straus
1774: William Whitehead
Attend me now, ye virgin choir,
Whether ye're warbling to the lyre,
On Parnassus top — or higher.
Say, will ye bear a bob, or strike a jarring string,
Such as your Laureat's Odes require,
Which chear us like a sea-coal fire,
And give eternity unto a British —
A modern Solomon, the Muse, tho' hoarse, will sing.
Haste away each wrong, or right head,
Join ev'ry heavy, or light head,
To assist good Master Wh—d:
Be ready ev'ry pension'd, ev'ry minor bard,
Swell high your strains with true bombast,
Such as shall strike the world aghast!
Let nothing your impetuous loyalty retard,
But rack your addle brains with impositions hard.
For why, observe, 'tis New-Year's-Day!
Then loudly sound a Monarch's sway,
Whom all the elements obey;
Greater by far than Canute, Lord of sea and land,
On whom the ocean rolling fleet,
Dar'd once to wet his royal feet;
As in his chair he sat, Old Southampton's strand,
The tide rebellious proving to his high command.
The Patagonians tall,
And Lilliputians small,
With ev'ry Indian squall,
Smit to the soul, on hearing G—'s name
With adoration fall,
And most obsequious sprawl;
With ev'ry servile nation fierce and tame,
Together headlong run to do the same.
Thus Wh—d, and his wond'rous Odes,
Of men, meer animated clods,
Twice ev'ry year can make 'em gods.
The antient poets thus did Daemons deify;
Say, can a single butt of sack
Inspire such a curious knack
Of sighing so, of fibbing so confoundedly,
While ev'ry honest fellow cries, "'Tis all my eye."
O never more abuse,
Or cramp with wooden shoes,
The free-born British Muse.
In time repent, nor dare to prostitute,
Or thus rudely teise her,
By harping on Caesar;
Ye fawning things, ye'd better far be mute,
Or dedicate your ragged rhimes to B—e.