The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
255
[PART I.]
When Johnson sought (as Shakspeare says) that bourn,
From whence, alas! no travellers return;
In humbler English, when the Doctor died,
Apollo whimper'd, and the Muses cried;
Parnassus mop'd for days, in business slack,
And like a hearse, the hill was hung with black;
Minerva, sighing for her fav'rite son,
Pronounc'd, with lengthen'd face, the world undone;
Her owl too, hooted in so loud a style,
That people might have heard the bird a mile;
Jove wip'd his eyes so red, and told his wife,
He ne'er made Johnson's equal in his life;
And that 'twould be a long, long time, if ever,
His art could form a fellow half so clever;
Venus, of all the little Doves the dam,
With all the Graces, sobb'd for brother Sam:
Such were the heav'nly howlings for his death,
As if Dame Nature had resign'd her breath.
Nor less sonorous was the grief, I ween,
Amidst the natives of our earthly scene:
From beggars, to the great who hold the helm,
One Johnso-mania rag'd through all the realm!
From whence, alas! no travellers return;
In humbler English, when the Doctor died,
Apollo whimper'd, and the Muses cried;
Parnassus mop'd for days, in business slack,
And like a hearse, the hill was hung with black;
Minerva, sighing for her fav'rite son,
Pronounc'd, with lengthen'd face, the world undone;
Her owl too, hooted in so loud a style,
That people might have heard the bird a mile;
Jove wip'd his eyes so red, and told his wife,
He ne'er made Johnson's equal in his life;
And that 'twould be a long, long time, if ever,
His art could form a fellow half so clever;
Venus, of all the little Doves the dam,
With all the Graces, sobb'd for brother Sam:
Such were the heav'nly howlings for his death,
As if Dame Nature had resign'd her breath.
Nor less sonorous was the grief, I ween,
Amidst the natives of our earthly scene:
From beggars, to the great who hold the helm,
One Johnso-mania rag'd through all the realm!
256
‘Who,’ cry'd the world, ‘can match his prose or rhime?
O'er wits of modern days he tow'rs sublime!
An oak, wide spreading o'er the shrubs below,
That round his roots, with puny foliage, blow;
A pyramid, amidst some barren waste,
That frowns o'er huts, the sport of ev'ry blast;
A mighty Atlas, whose aspiring head
O'er distant regions casts an awful shade.
By kings and beggars, lo! his tales are told,
And ev'ry sentence glows a grain of gold!
Blest! who his philosophic phiz can take,
Catch ev'n his weaknesses—his noddle's shake,
The lengthen'd lip of scorn, the forehead's scowl,
The low'ring eye's contempt, and bear-like growl.
In vain, the critics aim their toothless rage!
Mere sprats, that venture war with whales to wage:
Unmov'd he stands, and feels their force no more
Than some huge rock amidst the wat'ry roar,
That calmly bears the tumults of the deep,
And howling tempests, that as well may sleep.’
O'er wits of modern days he tow'rs sublime!
An oak, wide spreading o'er the shrubs below,
That round his roots, with puny foliage, blow;
A pyramid, amidst some barren waste,
That frowns o'er huts, the sport of ev'ry blast;
A mighty Atlas, whose aspiring head
O'er distant regions casts an awful shade.
By kings and beggars, lo! his tales are told,
And ev'ry sentence glows a grain of gold!
Blest! who his philosophic phiz can take,
Catch ev'n his weaknesses—his noddle's shake,
The lengthen'd lip of scorn, the forehead's scowl,
The low'ring eye's contempt, and bear-like growl.
In vain, the critics aim their toothless rage!
Mere sprats, that venture war with whales to wage:
Unmov'd he stands, and feels their force no more
Than some huge rock amidst the wat'ry roar,
That calmly bears the tumults of the deep,
And howling tempests, that as well may sleep.’
Strong, 'midst the Rambler's cronies, was the rage,
To fill with Sam's bons mots and tales the page:
Mere flies, that buzz'd around his setting ray,
And bore a splendor, on their wings away:
Thus round his orb the pigmy planets run,
And catch their little lustre from the sun.
To fill with Sam's bons mots and tales the page:
Mere flies, that buzz'd around his setting ray,
And bore a splendor, on their wings away:
Thus round his orb the pigmy planets run,
And catch their little lustre from the sun.
At length, rush'd forth two candidates for fame;
A Scotchman one, and one a London dame;
That, by th' emphatic Johnson, christ'ned Bozzy;
This, by the bishop's license, Dame Piozzi;
Whose widow'd name, by topers lov'd, was Thrale,
Bright in the annals of election ale;
A name, by marriage, that gave up the ghost!
In poor Pedocchio ,—no!—Piozzi, lost!
Each seiz'd with ardour wild, the grey goose quill;
Each sat to work the intellectual mill;
That pecks of bran so coarse began to pour,
To one poor solitary grain of flour.
A Scotchman one, and one a London dame;
That, by th' emphatic Johnson, christ'ned Bozzy;
This, by the bishop's license, Dame Piozzi;
Whose widow'd name, by topers lov'd, was Thrale,
Bright in the annals of election ale;
A name, by marriage, that gave up the ghost!
In poor Pedocchio ,—no!—Piozzi, lost!
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Each sat to work the intellectual mill;
That pecks of bran so coarse began to pour,
To one poor solitary grain of flour.
Forth rush'd to light their books—but who should say,
Which bore the palm of anecdote away?
This, to decide, the rival wits agreed
Before Sir John their tales and jokes to read,
And let the knight's opinion in the strife,
Declare the prop'rest pen to write Sam's life:
Sir John, renown'd for musical palavers ;
The prince, the king, the emperor of quavers!
Sharp in solfeggi, as the sharpest needle;
Great in the noble art of tweedle-tweedle;
Of music's college form'd to be a fellow,
Fit for Mus. D. or Maestro di Capella:
Whose volume, though it here and there offends,
Boasts German merit—makes by bulk amends.
High plac'd the venerable quarto sits,
Superior frowning o'er octavo wits
And duodecimos, ignoble scum!
Poor prostitutes to ev'ry vulgar thumb!
Whilst undefil'd by literary rage,
He bears a spotless leaf from age to age.
Which bore the palm of anecdote away?
This, to decide, the rival wits agreed
Before Sir John their tales and jokes to read,
And let the knight's opinion in the strife,
Declare the prop'rest pen to write Sam's life:
Sir John, renown'd for musical palavers ;
The prince, the king, the emperor of quavers!
Sharp in solfeggi, as the sharpest needle;
Great in the noble art of tweedle-tweedle;
Of music's college form'd to be a fellow,
Fit for Mus. D. or Maestro di Capella:
Whose volume, though it here and there offends,
Boasts German merit—makes by bulk amends.
High plac'd the venerable quarto sits,
Superior frowning o'er octavo wits
And duodecimos, ignoble scum!
Poor prostitutes to ev'ry vulgar thumb!
Whilst undefil'd by literary rage,
He bears a spotless leaf from age to age.
Like school-boys, lo! before a two-arm'd chair
That held the knight wise judging, stood the pair:
Or like two ponies on the sporting ground,
Prepar'd to gallop when the drum should sound,
The couple rang'd—for vict'ry, both as keen,
As for a tott'ring bishopric, a dean,
Or patriot Burke, for giving glorious bastings
To that intolerable fellow Hastings.
Thus with their songs contended Virgil's swains,
And make the valleys vocal with their strains,
Before some grey-beard sage whose judgment ripe,
Gave goats for prizes to the prettiest pipe.
That held the knight wise judging, stood the pair:
Or like two ponies on the sporting ground,
Prepar'd to gallop when the drum should sound,
The couple rang'd—for vict'ry, both as keen,
As for a tott'ring bishopric, a dean,
Or patriot Burke, for giving glorious bastings
To that intolerable fellow Hastings.
Thus with their songs contended Virgil's swains,
And make the valleys vocal with their strains,
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Gave goats for prizes to the prettiest pipe.
‘Alternately in anecdotes go on;
But first, begin you, Madam,’ cry'd Sir John:
The thankful dame low curt'sied to the chair,
And thus, for vict'ry panting, read the fair:
MADAME PIOZZIBut first, begin you, Madam,’ cry'd Sir John:
The thankful dame low curt'sied to the chair,
And thus, for vict'ry panting, read the fair:
Sam Johnson was of Michael Johnson born;
Whose shop of books did Litchfield town adorn:
Wrong-headed, stubborn as a halter'd ram;
In short, the model of our hero Sam:
Inclin'd to madness too—for when his shop
Fell down, for want of cash to buy a prop,
For fear the thieves might steal the vanish'd store,
He duly went each night and lock'd the door!
Whose shop of books did Litchfield town adorn:
Wrong-headed, stubborn as a halter'd ram;
In short, the model of our hero Sam:
Inclin'd to madness too—for when his shop
Fell down, for want of cash to buy a prop,
For fear the thieves might steal the vanish'd store,
He duly went each night and lock'd the door!
BOZZY
Whilst Johnson was in Edinburgh, my wife,
To please his palate, studied for her life:
With ev'ry rarity she fill'd her house,
And gave the doctor, for his dinner, grouse.
To please his palate, studied for her life:
With ev'ry rarity she fill'd her house,
And gave the doctor, for his dinner, grouse.
MADAME PIOZZI
Dear Doctor Johnson was in size an ox;
And from his uncle Andrew learn'd to box:
A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear,
Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year.
The doctor had an uncle too, ador'd
By jumping gentry, call'd Cornelius Ford;
Who jump'd in boots, which jumpers never choose
Far as a famous jumper jump'd in shoes.
And from his uncle Andrew learn'd to box:
A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear,
Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year.
The doctor had an uncle too, ador'd
By jumping gentry, call'd Cornelius Ford;
Who jump'd in boots, which jumpers never choose
Far as a famous jumper jump'd in shoes.
259
At supper rose a dialogue on witches,
When Crosbie said, there could not be such b*tch*s;
And that 'twas blasphemy to think such hags
Could stir up storms, and on their broomstick nags
Gallop along the air with wondrous pace,
And boldly fly in God Almighty's face:
But Johnson answer'd him, ‘There might be witches,
Nought prov'd the non-existence of the b*tch*s.’
When Crosbie said, there could not be such b*tch*s;
And that 'twas blasphemy to think such hags
Could stir up storms, and on their broomstick nags
Gallop along the air with wondrous pace,
And boldly fly in God Almighty's face:
But Johnson answer'd him, ‘There might be witches,
Nought prov'd the non-existence of the b*tch*s.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
When Thrale, as nimble as a boy at school,
Leap'd, though fatigu'd with hunting, o'er a stool;
The doctor, proud the same grand feat to do,
His pow'rs exerted, and jump'd over too;
And though he might a broken back bewail,
He scorn'd to be eclips'd by Mr. Thrale.
Leap'd, though fatigu'd with hunting, o'er a stool;
The doctor, proud the same grand feat to do,
His pow'rs exerted, and jump'd over too;
And though he might a broken back bewail,
He scorn'd to be eclips'd by Mr. Thrale.
BOZZY.
At Ulinish, our friend, to pass the time,
Regal'd us with his knowledges sublime;
Show'd that all sorts of learning fill'd his nob,
And that in butch'ry he could bear a bob.
He sagely told us of the diff'rent feat
Employ'd to kill the animals we eat:
‘An ox,’ says he, ‘in country and in town,
Is by the butchers constantly knock'd down;
As for that lesser animal, a calf,
The knock is really not so strong by half;
The beast is only stunn'd; but, as for goats,
And sheep, and lambs, the butchers cut their throats.
Those fellows only want to keep them quiet,
Not choosing that the brutes should breed a riot.’
Regal'd us with his knowledges sublime;
Show'd that all sorts of learning fill'd his nob,
And that in butch'ry he could bear a bob.
He sagely told us of the diff'rent feat
Employ'd to kill the animals we eat:
‘An ox,’ says he, ‘in country and in town,
Is by the butchers constantly knock'd down;
As for that lesser animal, a calf,
The knock is really not so strong by half;
The beast is only stunn'd; but, as for goats,
And sheep, and lambs, the butchers cut their throats.
Those fellows only want to keep them quiet,
Not choosing that the brutes should breed a riot.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
When Johnson was a child, and swallow'd pap,
'Twas in his mother's old maid Cath'rine's lap;
There, whilst he sat, he took in wondrous learning;
For much his bowels were for knowledge yearning;
There heard the story which we Britons brag on,
The story of St. George and eke the Dragon.
'Twas in his mother's old maid Cath'rine's lap;
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For much his bowels were for knowledge yearning;
There heard the story which we Britons brag on,
The story of St. George and eke the Dragon.
Bozzy.
When Foote his leg, by some misfortune, broke,
Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke,
‘Sam, sir, in paragraph, will soon be clever,
And take off Peter better now than ever.’
On which, says Johnson, without hesitation,
‘George will rejoice at Foote's depeditation.’
On which, says I, a penetrating elf!
‘Doctor, I'm sure you coin'd that word yourself.’
On which he laugh'd, and said, I had divin'd it,
For, bonâ fidê, he had really coin'd it.
‘And yet, of all the words I've coin'd,’ says he,
‘My Dictionary, sir, contains but three.’
Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke,
‘Sam, sir, in paragraph, will soon be clever,
And take off Peter better now than ever.’
On which, says Johnson, without hesitation,
‘George will rejoice at Foote's depeditation.’
On which, says I, a penetrating elf!
‘Doctor, I'm sure you coin'd that word yourself.’
On which he laugh'd, and said, I had divin'd it,
For, bonâ fidê, he had really coin'd it.
‘And yet, of all the words I've coin'd,’ says he,
‘My Dictionary, sir, contains but three.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
The doctor said, ‘in literary matters,
‘A Frenchman goes not deep—he only smatters:’
Then ask'd, what could be hop'd for from the dogs;
Fellows that liv'd eternally on frogs.
‘A Frenchman goes not deep—he only smatters:’
Then ask'd, what could be hop'd for from the dogs;
Fellows that liv'd eternally on frogs.
BOZZY.
In grave procession to St. Leonard's College,
Well stuff'd with ev'ry sort of useful knowledge,
We stately walk'd, as soon as supper ended:
The landlord and the waiter both attended:
The landlord, skill'd a piece of grease to handle,
Before us march'd and held a tallow candle;
A lantern (some fam'd Scotsman its creator)
With equal grace was carried by the waiter:
Next morning, from our beds we took a leap,
And found ourselves much better for our sleep.
Well stuff'd with ev'ry sort of useful knowledge,
We stately walk'd, as soon as supper ended:
The landlord and the waiter both attended:
The landlord, skill'd a piece of grease to handle,
Before us march'd and held a tallow candle;
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With equal grace was carried by the waiter:
Next morning, from our beds we took a leap,
And found ourselves much better for our sleep.
MADAME PIOZZI.
In Lincolnshire, a lady show'd our friend
A grotto, that she wish'd him to commend;
Quoth she, ‘How cool in summer this abode!’
‘Yes Madam (answer'd Johnson), for a toad.’
A grotto, that she wish'd him to commend;
Quoth she, ‘How cool in summer this abode!’
‘Yes Madam (answer'd Johnson), for a toad.’
BOZZY.
Between old Scalpa's rugged isle and Rasay's,
The wind was vastly boist'rous in our faces:
'Twas glorious Johnson's figure to set sight on—
High in the boat, he look'd a noble Triton!
But, lo! to damp our pleasure Fate concurs,
For Joe, the blockhead, lost his master's spurs:
This for the Rambler's temper was a rubber,
Who wonder'd Joseph could be such a lubber.
The wind was vastly boist'rous in our faces:
'Twas glorious Johnson's figure to set sight on—
High in the boat, he look'd a noble Triton!
But, lo! to damp our pleasure Fate concurs,
For Joe, the blockhead, lost his master's spurs:
This for the Rambler's temper was a rubber,
Who wonder'd Joseph could be such a lubber.
MADAME PIOZZI.
I ask'd him if he knock'd Tom Osborn
down;
As such a tale was current through the town—
Says I, ‘Do tell me, doctor, what befell.’—
‘Why, dearest lady, there is nought to tell:
I ponder'd on the prop'rest mode to treat him—
The dog was impudent, and so I beat him!
Tom, like a fool, proclaim'd his fancied wrongs;
Others that I belabour'd, held their tongues.’
As such a tale was current through the town—
Says I, ‘Do tell me, doctor, what befell.’—
‘Why, dearest lady, there is nought to tell:
I ponder'd on the prop'rest mode to treat him—
The dog was impudent, and so I beat him!
Tom, like a fool, proclaim'd his fancied wrongs;
Others that I belabour'd, held their tongues.’
Did any one, that he was happy, cry—
Johnson would tell him plumply, 'twas a lie:
A lady told him she was really so;
On which he sternly answer'd, ‘Madam no!
Sickly you are, and ugly—foolish, poor;
And therefore can't be happy, I am sure.
'Twould make a fellow hang himself, whose ear
Were, from such creatures, forc'd such stuff to hear,’
Johnson would tell him plumply, 'twas a lie:
A lady told him she was really so;
On which he sternly answer'd, ‘Madam no!
Sickly you are, and ugly—foolish, poor;
And therefore can't be happy, I am sure.
262
Were, from such creatures, forc'd such stuff to hear,’
BOZZY.
Lo! when we landed on the Isle of Mull,
The megrims got into the doctor's skull:
With such bad humours he began to fill,
I thought he would not go to Icolmkill:
But, lo! those megrims (wonderful to utter!)
Were banish'd all by tea and bread and butter!
The megrims got into the doctor's skull:
With such bad humours he began to fill,
I thought he would not go to Icolmkill:
But, lo! those megrims (wonderful to utter!)
Were banish'd all by tea and bread and butter!
MADAME PIOZZI.
Quoth I to Johnson—Doctor, tell me true,
Who was the best man that you ever knew?
He answer'd me at once, George Psalmanazar!
Keen in the English language as a razor.
Such was the strange, the strangest of replies,
That rais'd the whites of both my wond'ring eyes;
As this same George, in imposition strong,
Beat the first liars that e'er wagg'd a tongue.
Who was the best man that you ever knew?
He answer'd me at once, George Psalmanazar!
Keen in the English language as a razor.
Such was the strange, the strangest of replies,
That rais'd the whites of both my wond'ring eyes;
As this same George, in imposition strong,
Beat the first liars that e'er wagg'd a tongue.
BOZZY.
I wonder'd yesterday, that one John Hay.
Who serv'd as Ciceroné on the way,
Should fly a man of war—a spot so blest—
A fool! nine months, too, after he was prest.
Quoth Johnson, ‘No man, sir, would be a sailor,
With sense to scrape acquaintance with a jailor.’
Who serv'd as Ciceroné on the way,
Should fly a man of war—a spot so blest—
A fool! nine months, too, after he was prest.
Quoth Johnson, ‘No man, sir, would be a sailor,
With sense to scrape acquaintance with a jailor.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
I said, I lik'd not goose, and mention'd why:—
One smells it roasting on the spit, quoth I:—
‘You, madam,’ cry'd the doctor, with a frown,
‘Are always gorging—stuffing something down:
Madam, 'tis very nat'ral to suppose,
If in the pantry you will poke your nose,
Your maw with ev'ry sort of victuals swelling,
That you must want the bliss of dinner smelling.’
One smells it roasting on the spit, quoth I:—
‘You, madam,’ cry'd the doctor, with a frown,
‘Are always gorging—stuffing something down:
Madam, 'tis very nat'ral to suppose,
If in the pantry you will poke your nose,
263
That you must want the bliss of dinner smelling.’
BOZZY.
As at Argyle's grand house my hat I took,
To seek my alehouse, thus began the duke:
‘Pray, Mr. Boswell, won't you have some tea?’
To this I made my bow, and did agree—
Then to the drawing-room we both retreated,
Where Lady Betty Hamilton was seated
Close by the duchess, who, in deep discourse,
Took no more notice of me than a horse.
Next day, myself and Doctor Johnson took
Our hats, to go and wait upon the duke.—
Next to himself the duke did Johnson place,
But I, thank God, sat second to his grace.
The place was due most surely to my merits—
And, faith, I was in very pretty spirits:
I plainly saw (my penetration such is)
I was not yet in favour with the duchess.
Thought I, I am not disconcerted yet—
Before we part, I'll give her grace a sweat—
Then looks of intrepidity I put on,
And ask'd her, if she'd have a plate of mutton.
This was a glorious deed must be confess'd!
I knew I was the duke's, and not her guest!
Knowing—as I'm a man of tip-top breeding,
That great folks drink no healths while they are feeding;
I took my glass, and looking at her grace,
I star'd her like a devil in the face;
And in respectful terms, as was my duty,
Said I, my Lady Duchess, I salute ye:
Most audible, indeed, was my salute,
For which some folks will say I was a brute;
But faith, it dash'd her, as I knew it wou'd;
But then I knew that I was flesh and blood.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Once at our house, amidst our attic feasts,
We liken'd our acquaintances to beasts:
264
And some to bears, and monkeys, cats and dogs;
We said (which charm'd the doctor much, no doubt),
His mind was like of elephants, the snout,
That could pick pins up, yet possess'd the vigour
For trimming well the jacket of a tiger.
BOZZY .
August the fifteenth, Sunday, Mr. Scott
Did breakfast with us—when upon the spot;
To him, and unto Doctor Johnson, lo!
Sir William Forbes, so clever, did I show;
A man that doth not after roguery hanker;
A charming Christian, though by trade a banker;
Made too, of good companionable stuff,
And this, I think, is saying full enough;
And yet it is but justice to record,
That when he had the measles—'pon my word,
The people seem'd in such a dreadful fright,
His house was all surrounded day and night,
As if they apprehended some great evil,
A general conflagration, or the devil.
And when he better'd—oh! 'twas grand to see 'em
Like mad folks dance, and hear 'em sing te deum.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Quoth Johnson, ‘Who d'ye think my life will write.”
‘Goldsmith,’ said I—quoth he, ‘The dog's vile spite,
Besides the fellow's monstrous love of lying,
Would doubtless make the book not worth the buying.’
BOZZY .
That worthy gentleman, good Mr. Scott,
Said, 'twas our Socrates's luckless lot
To have the waiter, a sad nasty blade,
To make, poor gentleman, his lemonade;
265
Put with his paws the sugar in the dish:
The doctor vex'd at such a filthy fellow,
Began, with great propriety to bellow;
Then up he took the dish, and nobly flung
The liquor out of window on the dung.
And Doctor Scott declar'd, that, by his frown,
He thought he would have knock'd the fellow down.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Dear Doctor Johnson left off drinks fermented;
With quarts of chocolate and cream contented;
Yet often down his throat's prodigious gutter,
Poor man! he pour'd a flood of melted butter!
BOZZY.
With glee the doctor did my girl behold;
Her name Veronica, just four months old;
This name Veronica, a name though quaint,
Belong'd originally to a saint;
But to my old great grandam it was giv'n;
As fine a woman as e'er went to heav'n;
And what must add to her importance much,
This lady's genealogy was Dutch.
The man who did espouse this dame divine,
Was Alexander, Earl of Kincardine;
Who pour'd along my body like a sluice,
The noble, noble, noble blood of Bruce!
And who that own'd this blood could well refuse
To make the world acquainted with the news?
But to return unto my charming child:—
About our Doctor Johnson she was wild;
And when he left off speaking, she would flutter,
Squawl for him to begin again, and sputter!
And to be near him a strong wish express'd,
Which proves he was not such a horrid beast.
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On which I loud exclaim'd, in language stately,
Nay, if I recollect aright, I swore,
I'd to her fortune add five hundred more!
MADAME PIOZZI .
One day, as we were all in talking lost,
My mother's fav'rite spaniel stole the toast;
On which, immediately, I scream'd ‘Fie on her,—
Fie, Belle,’ said I, ‘you us'd to be on honour.’—
‘Yes,’ Johnson cry'd; ‘but, madam, pray be told,
The reason for the vice is—Belle grows old’
But Johnson never could the dog abide,
Because my mother wash'd and comb'd his hide.
The truth on't is—Belle was not too well bred,
Who always would insist on being sed;
And very often too, the saucy slut
Insisted upon having the first cut.
BOZZY.
Last night much care for Johnson's cold was us'd,
Who, hitherto, without his nightcap snooz'd;
That nought might treat so wonderful a man ill,
Sweet Miss M'Leod did make a cap of flannel;
And after putting it about his head,
She gave him brandy as he went to bed.
MADAME PIOZZI .
One night we parted at the doctor's door,
When thus I said, as I have said before,
‘Don't forget Dicky, doctor;—mind poor Dick.’
On which he turn'd round on his heels so quick,
‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘and when I've serv'd that elf,
‘I guess I then may go and hang myself.’
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At night, well soak'd with rain, and wondrous weary,
We got as wet as shags to Inverary,
We supp'd most royally—were vastly frisky,
When Johnson order'd up a gill of whisky:
Taking the glass, says I, ‘Here's Mrs. Thrale.’—
‘Drink her in whisky not,’ said he, ‘but ale.’
MADAME PIOZZI .
The doctor had a cat, and christen'd Hodge,
That at his house in Fleet-street us'd to lodge—
This Hodge grew old, and sick, and us'd to wish
That all his dinners might be form'd of fish;
To please poor Hodge, the doctor, all so kind,
Went out, and bought him oysters to his mind;
This every day he did—nor ask'd black Frank ,
Who deem'd himself of much too high a rank,
With vulgar fish-fags to be forc'd to chat,
And purchase oysters for a mangy cat.
SIR JOHN.
For God's sake stay each anecdotic scrap;
Let me draw breath, and take a trifling nap;
With one half hour's reflecting slumber blest,
And Heav'n's assistance, I may bear the rest. Aside]
—What have I done, inform me, gracious Lord,
That thus my ears with nonsense should be bor'd?
Oh! if I do not in the trial die,
The devil and all his brimstone I defy,
No punishment in other worlds I fear,
My crimes will all be expiated here.
Ah! ten times happier was my lot of yore,
When, rais'd to consequence that all adore,
I sat, each session, king-like, in the chair,
Aw'd ev'ry rank, and made the million stare:
268
In causes, with a Turkish sway, deciding!
Yes, like a noble bashaw, of three tails,
I spread a fear and trembling through the jails!
Blest, have I brow-beaten each thief and strumpet.
And blasted on them like the last day's trumpet.
I know no paltry weakness of the soul—
No sniv'ling pity dares my deeds control—
Asham'd, the weakness of my king I hear;
Who, childish, drops on ev'ry death a tear.
Return , return again, thou glorious hour,
That to my grasp once gav'st my idol, pow'r;
When at my feet the humble knaves would fall;
The thund'ring Jupiter of Hicks' Hall.
The knight, thus finishing his speech so fair,
Sleep pull'd him gently backwards in his chair;
Op'd wide the mouth that oft on jail-birds swore,
Then rais'd his nasal organ to a roar.
That actually surpass'd in tone and grace,
The grumbled ditties of his fav'rite base .
Sleep pull'd him gently backwards in his chair;
Op'd wide the mouth that oft on jail-birds swore,
Then rais'd his nasal organ to a roar.
That actually surpass'd in tone and grace,
The grumbled ditties of his fav'rite base .
The author was nearly committing a blunder—fortunate, indeed, was his recollection; as Pedocchio signifies, in the Italian language, that most contemptible of animals, a louse.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |