ODE

TO MR. PINCHBECK,

UPON IIIS NEWLY-INVENTED PATENT CAN

DLE-SNUFFERS.

By MALCOLM M GREGOR, Esq.

Quousque ergo frustrà pascemus ignigenum istum ?

APULEII MET. Lib. 7. Why should a Patent be granted to this Candle-Snuffer in

vain?

ILLUSTRIOUS Pinchbeck! condescend,
Thou well-belov’d, and best King's-Friend,

These lyric lines to view ;
0! may they prompt thee, ere too late,
To snuff the candle of the State,

That burns a little blue.

It once had got a stately wick,
When in its patent candle-stick

The Revolution put it:

As white as wax we saw it shine

Thro' two whole lengths of BRUNSWICK's line,

Till B-first dar'd to smut it.

Since then-but wherefore tell the tale ?

Enough, that now it burneth pale,

And sorely wastes its tallow : Nay, if thy poet rightly weens, (Tho' little skill'd in Ways and Means)

Its Save-all is but shallow.

Come then, ingenious artist, come,
And put thy finger and thy thumb

Into each polish'd handle ;
On thee alone our hopes depend,
Thy King's and eke thy Country's friend,

To trim Old ENGLAND's candle.

But first, we pray, for its relief,
Pluck from its wick each Tory thief,

It else must quickly rue it ;
While N— and M- sputter there,
Thou’lt ne'er prevent, with all thy care,

The melting of the suet.

There's TWITCHER too, that old he-witch,
Sticks in its bole as black as pitch,

And makes a filthy pother;
When curs’d with such a sorry fiend,
And lighted too at either end,

"T will soon be in a smother.

I fear me much, in such a plight,
Those tapers blest would loose their light,

Canadian fanes that deck;
Which pious

ordains to blaze, And gild with their establish'd rays,

Our Lady of QUEBEC.

His arms, thou hallow'd image, bless !
And surely thou canst do no less,

He is thy Faith's Defender ;
Thou ow'st thy place to him alone,
As other Jacobites have done,

And not to the Pretender.

Ilaste, then, and quash the hot turmoil,
That Aames in Boston's angry soil,

And frights the Mother Nation :
Know, Lady ! if its rage you stop,
PINCHBECK shall send you, from his shop,

A most superb oblation.

His patent snuffers, in a dish
Of burnish'd gold ; if more you wish,

His Cyclops shall bestir
Their brawny stumps, and, for thy sake,
Of Pinch BECK's own mixt-metal make

A huge Extinguisher.

Shall furnish that well-temper'd steel,

Thou didst at Minden brandish ;
Nor yet shall G 's rev'rend Dean,
Counting its worth, refuse, I ween,

His ponderous leaden standish.

Poor Doctor JOHNSON, I'm afraid,
Can give but metaphoric aid;

His style's case-harden'd graces !
M'PHERSON, without shame or fear,
Sir JOHN DALRYMPLE, and SHEBBEARE,

Shall melt their brazen faces.

And sure, this mixt metallic stuff,
Will yield materials large enough

To mould the mighty cone.
But how transport it, when 'tis cast,
Across the deep Atlantic vast?

’T will weigh some thousand stone.

“ Leave that to me,” our Lady cries, “ Howe'er gigantic be its size,

“ I have a scheme in petto: “ I'll fly with it from shore to shore, “ Safe as my sooty sister bore

“ Her cottage to Loretto.