Ode to Mr. Pinchbeck, upon His Newly Invented Patent Candle-Snuffers

Illustrious Pinchbeck! condescend,
Thou well-belov'd, and best King's-Friend,
These Lyric Lines to view;
O! may they prompt thee, e'er 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-Candlestick
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,
(Though 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 his Bole as black as Pitch,
And makes a silthy pother;
When curst with such a sorry Fiend,
And lighted too at either End,
'Twill soon be in a smother.

I fear me much in sucha plight,
Those Tapers blest would lose 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 hallowed Image! bless,
And surely thou canst do no less,
He is thy Faith's Defender;
Thou owest thy Place to him alone,
As other Jacobites have done,
And not to the Pretender.

Haste then, and quash the hot Turmoil,
That flames 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 PINCHBECK's own Mixt-metal make
A huge Extinguisher.

To form the Mass—,thy Zeal
Shall furnish that well-temper'd Steel,
Thou didst at Minden brandish;
Nor yet shall G—'s reverend 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 mold the mighty Cone;
But how transport it, when 'tis cast
Across the deep Atlantic Vast,
'Twill 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.

"Swift to the Congress with my Freight
"I'll speed, and on their Heads its Weight
"Souse with such Skill and Care;
"That PUTTNAM, WASHINGTON beneath,
"And grasping LEE shall wish to breathe
" A Pint of PRIESTLEY's Air.

"The Deed is done, thy Foes are dead,
"No longer England, shalt thou dread
"Such Presbyterean Huffers;
"Thy Candle's Radiance ne'er shall fade,
"With now and then a little Aid,
"From PINCHBECK's Patent-snuffers."