O Holkam! blest, belov’d abode!

Productive of an Annual Ode,

If C—d inspire:

Clio and I will club for Wit,

Beneath the spreading Oak we’ll sit,

And thrumb the Lyrick Lyre.

 

How beauteous is this rural Scene!

With constant Verdure ever green,

How healthy, gay and pleasant!

A clean, tho' an ungrateful Soil,

Rewarding well the Sportsman's Toil,

With Partridges and Pheasant.

 

To you, my Lord, I send my Lays,

Fondly conceiv'd in Flavia's Praise,

Flavia can make a Poet.

Happy the Man, of choicest Taste,

Who sees whate'er's above the Waist,

Much happier, what's below it.

 

But hold! to Love I bid adieu,

A greater Theme is now in view,

I feel my Country's Ruin:

Next Winter I'll resign my Place,

Nor longer share the sad Disgrace,

And blush for what is doing.

 

The Cries of an insulted Land,

Redress of Injuries demand.

Let's out for England's Glory!

I'm ready to take part with you,

And am become a Patriot too,

But neither Whig nor Tory.

 

Let honest Men together join,

And since we have it, keep that Line,

Fixt by the Revolution;

Let us defend our Sov'reign's Cause,

Assert our Rights, preserve our Laws,

And save the Constitution.

 

On Me you have obtain'd your Ends,

I freely now give up my Friends,

As wretched Politicians;

Never to bite, yet show their Teeth,

In senseless Camps on Hounslow-Heath,

And Spithead Expeditions.

 

Millions to raise, then arm in vain,

By Fears inciting France and Spain,

(Like Him of Pope's describing)

Willing to hurt, afraid to strike,

Just hint, and hesitate dislike,

While all our Skill is bribing.

 

Of Filth each House then let us glean,

Keep those Augean Stables clean;

And strike off every Pension:

Let us be Sovereigns of the Seas,

Our Merchants sail where-e'er they please,

Nor fear a New Convention.

 

This Boon alone, my Lord, I crave,

May will join us, do but save

One single Sinner for us:

Grant for our sakes this only Job,

Some Mercy show our old Friend B—b,

Do what you will with H—e.