LETTER FROM THE RT. HON. LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, TO THE EARL OF SALISBURY.
MY LORD, Being informed from undoubted authority, that the learned _Pierot_, whom your Lordship has thought proper to nominate to the dignity of your Assessor, knows no language but his own, it seemed to me probable he might not understand _Irish_.--Now as I recollect my last Ode to have proceeded on the orthography of that kingdom, I thought his entire ignorance of the tongue might perhaps be some hindrance to his judgment, upon its merit. On account of this unhappy ignorance, therefore, on the part of the worthy _Buffo_, of any language but _Italian_, I have taken the liberty to present your Lordship and him with a second Ode, written in _English_; which I hope he will find no difficulty in understanding, and which certainly has the better chance of being perfectly correct in the true English idiom, as it has been very carefully revised and altered by my worthy friend, Mr. _Henry Dundas_. I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship's devoted servant, MOUNTMORRES.
_By the_ RT. HON. HARVEY REDMOND MORRES, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND, &c.
I. Ye gentle Nymphs, who rule the Song, Who stray _Thessalian_ groves among, With forms so bright and airy; Whether you pierce _Pierian_ shades, } Or, less refin'd, adorn the glades, } And wanton with the lusty blades } Of fruitful _Tipperary_; Whether you sip Aonias' wave, Or in thy stream, fair _Liffy_, lave; Whether you taste ambrosial food; Or think _potatoes_ quite as good, Oh, listen to an _Irish_ Peer, Who has woo'd your sex for many a year.
II. _Gold!_--thou bright benignant pow'r! Parent of the jocund hour, Say, how my breast has heav'd with many a storm, When thee I worship'd in a _female_ form! Thou, whose high and potent skill, Turns things and persons at thy will! Thou, whose omnipotent decree, Mighty as Fate's eternal rule, Can make a wise man of a fool, And grace e'en loath'd deformity: Can straitness give to her that's crook'd, And _Grecian_ grace to nose that's hook'd; Can smooth the mount on _Laura_'s back, And wit supply to those that lack: Say, and take pity on my woes, Record my throbs, recount my throes; How oft I sigh'd, How oft I dy'd: How oft dismiss'd, How seldom kiss'd; How oft, fair _Phyllida_, when thee I woo'd With cautious foresight all thy charms I view'd. O'er many a sod, How oft I trod, To count thy acres o'er; Or spent my time, For marle or lime, With anxious zeal to bore[1]! How _Cupid_ then all great and powerful sate, Perch'd on the vantage of a rich estate; When, for his darts, he us'd fair spreading trees, Ah! _who_ cou'd fail that shot with shafts like these!