Classic Poem

Imitated from H ORACE , Ode XVI. Book II.

For quiet, Y — ke, the Sailor crys,
When gath'ring storms obscure the skies,
The stars no more appearing:
The Candidate for quiet prays,
Sick of the bumpers and huzzas,
Of blest electioneering.

Who thinks that from the Sp — k — r's chair
The sergeant's mace can keep off care,
Is wond'rously mistaken.
Alas! he is not half so blest,
As those who've liberty and rest,
And dine on beans and bacon.

Why should we then to London run,
And quit our chearful country sun,
For bus'ness, dirt, and smoke!
Can we, by changing place and air,
Ourselves get rid of, or our care?
In troth, 'tis all a joke.

Care climbs proud ships of might'est force,
And mounts behind the gen'ral's horse,
Outstrips Hussars and Pandours:
Far swifter than the flying hind,
Swifter than clouds before the wind,
Or C — PE before th' Highlanders.

A man, when once he's safely chose,
Should laugh at all his threat'ning foes,
Nor think of future evil.
Each good has its attendant ill;
A feat is no bad thing — but still
Elections are the devil.

Its gifts, with hand impartial, heaven
Divides — T O O RFORD it was given,
To die in full-blown glory;
To B — TH , indeed, a longer life,
But tho' he lives — 'tis with his wife,
And shun'd by Whig and Tory.

The Gods to you with bounteous hand,
Have granted seats, and parks and land;
Brocades and silk you wear;
With claret and ragoats you treat;
Six neighing steeds with nimble feet,
Whirl on your gilded car.

To me they've given a small retreat,
Good port, and mutton (best of meat)
With broad-cloth on my shoulders;
A soul that scorns a dirty job,
Loves a good rhyme, and hates a mob;
I mean — that an't freeholders.