MAGOG'S PROPHECY.

Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus.

HOR. _lib._ i. _od._ 15.


As late, of civic glory vain,
The Lord Mayor drove down Mincing-lane,
The progress of the baimer'd train
To lengthen, not to shorten:

Gigantic Magog, vex'd with heat,
Thus to be made the rabble's treat,
Check'd the long march in Tower-street,
To tell his Lordship's fortune.

"Go, man thy barge for Whitehall Stair;
Salute th' Exchequer Barons there,
Then summon round thy civic chair
To dinner Whigs and Tories--
Bid Dukes and Earls thy hustings climb;
But mark my work, Matthias Prime,
Ere the tenth hour the scythe of Time
Shall amputate, thy glories.

"Alas! what loads of food I see,
What Turbots from the Zuyder Zee,
What Calipash, what Calipee,
What Salad and what Mustard: