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'So let him stand, through ages yet unborn,

Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn; Though not for him alone revenge shall wait,

But fits thy country for her coming fate: Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son


To do what oft Britannia's self had done. Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, Or break the compact which herself had made; Far from such councils, from the faithless field She fled - but left behind her Gorgon shield:

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On the grim smile of comfortless despair: Your city saddens ; loud though Revel howls, Here Famine faints and yonder Rapine prowls.


See all alike of more or less bereft; No misers tremble when there's nothing left.

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"Blest paper credit;" who shall dare to sing?

It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear; But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, On Pallas calls, but calls, alas! too late: Then raves for . . . ; to that Mentor bends, Though he and Pallas never yet were friends.


Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd.

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domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which, by the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d-d see-saw upand-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the Black-joke,' only more affetuoso,' till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down: but no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his shoulder, 'quam familiariter '1 (as Terence said, when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach) said, 'Lord! Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing?' or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morn

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ing). 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), 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.

1 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.

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for George the Third

and last, not least in

We bless thee still is left! Of kings the best worth, For graciously begetting George the Fourth. To Germany, and highnesses serene,

Who owe us millions - don't we owe the queen?


To Germany, what owe we not besides ?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides;
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic

Who sent us so be pardon'd all her

faults A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and Waltz.

But peace to her, her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's 'fiat!'

Back to my theme. - O Muse of motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

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