Æli, vetusto nobilis a Lamo, Quando et priores hinc Lamia ferunt Denominatos, &c.
ELI-JAH noblest of the race Of [1]IMPS, from whom the IMPEYS trace, If common fame says true, Their origin; and that they found Their claim on just and solid ground, Refer for _proof_ to you--
You, who could post nine hundred miles, To fathom an old woman's wiles, Possess'd of _dangerous_ treasure; Could hurry with a pedlar's pack Of affidavits at your back, In quest of health and pleasure.
And all because the jealous JOVE[2] Of Eastern climes thought fit to prove The _venom_ of his reign; On which, to minds of light esteem, _Some few severities_ might seem To leave a transient stain.
Soon [3] on your head from yon dark sky, Or WOODFALL'_s Hasty Sketches_ lye, The gather'd storm will break! Deep will the vengeful thunder be, And from the sleep he owes to thee, Shall NUNDCOMAR awake!
Then arm against the rude attack, Recall thy roving memory back, And all thy proofs collect!-- Remember that you cannot gain A second hearing to _explain_, And [4] _therefore_ be correct.
[1] MILTON makes honourable mention of the founder of the family: "Fit vessel, fittest _Imp_ of Fraud." _Paradise Lost, b._ IX.
It may be observed, in proof of the descent, as well as to the credit of the present Representative, that he has not degenerated from the characteristic "obliquity" of his Ancestor.
[3] Demissa tempestas ab Euro Sternet--Nisi fallit Augur Anosa Cornix.
[4] See Declaration of Sir E---- I----, offered to the House by Mt. DEMPSTER.
_To the Tune of_ "LET THE SULTAN SALADIN," _in_ RICHARD COEUR DE LION.
I. Let great GEORGE his porkers bilk, And give his maids the sour skim-milk; With her stores let CERES crown him, 'Till the gracious sweat run down him, Making butter night and day: Well! well! Every King must have his way; But to my poor way of thinking, True joy is drinking.
II. BILLY PITT delights to prose, 'Till admiring Grocers dose; Ancient Virgins all adore him, Not a woman falls before him; Never kissing night nor day: Well! well! Every child must have its way; But to my poor way of thinking, True joy is drinking.
III. You too, HASTINGS, know your trade! No vile fears your heart invade, When you rove for EASTERN plunder, Making Monarchs truckle under, Slitting windpipes night and day: Well! well! Governors will have their way; But to my poor way of thinking, True joy is drinking.