The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

I think it necessary to inform thee if thou hast not read Mr. Warton's Ode, that I mean not to say that he hath, totidem verbis, sung what I have asserted of him; I therefore beg that my Ode may be considered as an amplification of the ingenious laureat's idea.

Quo me cunque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
HORACE.

Just as the maggot bites, I take my way—
To painters now my court respectful pay;
Now (ever welcome!) on the Muse's wings,
Drop in at Windsor, on the best of kings;
Now, at St. James's, about Handel prate,
Hear odes, see lords and 'squires, and smile at state.

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PROËMIUM.

Know, reader, that the laureat's post sublime
Is destin'd to record, in handsome rhime,
The deeds of British monarchs, twice a year:
If great—how happy is the tuneful tongue!
If pitiful—(as Shakspeare says) the song
‘Must suckle fools, and chronicle small beer.’

But bards must take the uphill with the down;
Kings cannot always oracles be hatching:
Maggots are oft the tenants of a crown—
Therefore, like those in cheese, not worth the catching.

O gentle reader! if, by God's good grace,
Or (what's more sought) good interest at court,
Thou get'st of lyric trumpeter the place,
And hundreds are, like gudgeons, gaping for't;
Hear! (at a palace if thou mean'st to thrive)
And of a steady coachman learn to drive.

Whene'er employ'd to celebrate a king,
Let fancy lend thy muse her loftiest wing—
Stun with thy minstrelsy th' affrighted sphere;
Bid thy voice thunder like a hundred batteries;
For common sounds, conveying common flatteries,
Are zephyrs whisp'ring to the royal ear.

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Know—glutton-like, on praise each monarch crams:
Hot spices suit alone their pamper'd nature:
Alas! the stomach, parch'd by burning drams,
With mad-dog terror starts at simple water.

Fierce is each royal mania for applause;
And, as a horse-pond wide, are monarch maws—
Form'd, therefore, on a pretty ample scale:
To sound the decent panegyric note,
To pour the modest flatt'ries down their throat,
Were off'ring shrimps for dinner to a whale.

And mind, whene'er thou strik'st the lyre to kings,
To touch to Abigails of courts, the strings;
Give the queen's toad-eater a handsome sop,
And swear she always has more grace
Than ev'n to sell the meanest place—
Swear too, the woman keeps no title-shop;

Sells not, like Jews in Paul's Church-yard their ware,
Who on each passenger for custom stare;
And, in the happy tones of traffic, cry,
‘Sher! vat you buy, sher?—Madam! vat you buy?’

Thus, reader, ends the prologue to my ode!
The true-bred courtiers wonder whilst I preach—
And, with grave vizards, and stretch'd eyes to God,
Pronounce my sermon a most impious speech:
With all my spirit—let them damn my lays—
A courtier's curses are exalted praise.

I hear a startled moralist exclaim,
‘Fie, Peter, Peter! fie for shame!
Such counsel disagrees with my digestion.’
Well! well! then, my old Socrates, to please thee,
For much I'm willing of thy qualms to ease thee,
I'll nobly take the other side the question.

289

Par exemple:

Fair praise is sterling gold—all should desire it—
Flatt'ry, base coin—a cheat upon the nation;
And yet, our vanity doth much admire it,
And really gives it all its circulation.

Flatt'ry's a sly insinuating screw—
The world—a bottle of Tokay so fine—
The engine always can its cork subdue,
And make an easy conquest of the wine.

Flatt'ry's an ivy wriggling round an oak—
This oak is often honest blunt John Bull—
Which ivy would its great supporter choak
Whilst John (so thick the walls of his dark soull)
Deems it a pretty ornament, and struts—
Till Master Ivy creeps into John's guts;
And gives poor thoughtless John a set of gripes:
Then, like an organ, opening all his pipes,
John roars; and, when to a consumption drain'd,
Finds out the knave his folly entertain'd.

Praise is a modest, unassuming maid,
As simply as a Quaker-beauty drest:—
No ostentation her's—no vain parade:
Sweet nymph! and of few words possest;
Yet, heard with rev'rence when she silence breaks,
And dignifies the man of whom she speaks.

Flatt'ry's a pert French milliner—a jade
Cover'd with rouge, and flauntingly array'd—
Makes saucy love to ev'ry man she meets,
And offers ev'n her favours in the streets.

And yet, instead of heeding public hisses—
Divines so grave—Philosophers can bear her;
What's stranger still, with childish rapture hear her—
Nay, court the smiling harlot's very kisses.

290

ODE.

Rich as Dutch cargoes from the fragrant East,
Or custard-pudding at a city feast,
Tom's incense greets his sovereign's hungry nose:
For, bating birth-day torrents from Parnassus,
And New-year's spring-tide of divine molasses,
Fame in a scanty rill to Windsor flows.

Poets (quoth tuneful Tom) in ancient times,
Delighted all the country with their rhimes;—
Sung knights and barbed steeds with valour big:
Knights who encounter'd witches—murder'd wizards,
Flogg'd Pagans, till they grumbled in their gizzards:
Rogues! with no more religion than a pig:—

Knights who illumin'd poor dark souls,
Through pretty little well-form'd eyelet holes,
By pious pikes and godly lances made—
Tools! that work'd wonders in the holy trade;

With battle-axes fit to knock down bulls,
And therefore qualified (I wot) full well,
With force the sacred oracles to tell
Unto the thickest unbelieving sculls:—

Knights, who, so famous at the game of tourney,
Took boldly to the Holy Land a journey,
To plant, with swords, in hearts, the Gospel seeds;
Just as we hole for cucumbers, hot-beds,
Or pierce the bosom of the sullen earth,
To give to radishes or onions birth:—

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Knights, who, when tumbled on the hostile field,
And to an enemy obliged to yield,
Could neither leg, nor arm, nor neck, nor nob stir:
Poor devils! who, like alligators hack'd,
At length by hammers, hatchets, sledges, crack'd,
Were dragg'd from coats of armour—like a lobster.

Great (says the laureat) were the poet's puffings
On idle daring red-cross raggamuffins,
Who, for their childishness, deserv'd a birch:
Quoth Tom, a worthier subject now, thank God!
Inspires the lofty dealer in the ode,
Than blockheads battling for old mother church.

Times (quoth our courtly bard) are alter'd quite—
The poet scorns what charm'd of yore the sight—
Goths, Vandals, castles, horses, mares:—
The polish'd poet of the present day,
Doth in his tasty shop display,
Ah! vastly prettier-colour'd wares.

—The poet ‘moulds his harp to manners mild,’
Quoth Tom—to monarchs, who, with rapture wild,
Hear their own praise with mouths of gaping wonder,
And catch each crotchet of the Birth-day thunder:
Crotchets that scorn the praise of common folly—
Though not most musical—most melancholy.
Ah! crotchets doom'd to charm our ears no more,
Although by Mr. Parsons set in score.
Drear and eternal silence doom'd to keep,
Where the dark waters of oblivion sleep—
To speak in humbler English—doom'd to rest,
With court addresses, in a musty chest.

Yet all the lady amateurs declar'd,
They were the charming'st things they ever heard:
As for example—all the angels Gideons—
That is, my lady, and her daughters fair,
With coal-black eyebrows, and sweet Hebrew air—
The lovely produce of the two religions:

292

Thus in their virtues, fox hounds best succeed,
When sportsmen very wisely cross the breed:
And thus with nobler lustre shines the fowl
Begot between a game hen and an owl.

Sir Sampson too declar'd, with voice divine,
‘Dat shince he haf turn Chreestian, and eat hog,
He nebber did hear mooshic half sho fine;
No! nebber shince he lefs de shinnygogue.’

His Grace of Queensb'ry too, with eyes though dim,
And one deaf ear, was there in wonder drown'd!
List'ning, in attitude of Corporal Trim,
He rais'd his thin grey curl to catch the sound:

Then swore the airs would never meet their matches,
But in his own immortal glees and catches .
Yet were those crotchets all condemn'd to rest
In the dark bosom of a musty chest!

Crotchets that form'd into so sweet an air,
As charm'd my lady mayoress and lord mayor;
Who thought (and really they were true believers)
The music equall'd marrowbones and cleavers.

Strains! that the reverend bishops had no qualms
In saying, that they equall'd David's psalms;
But not surpass'd in melody the bell
That mournful soundeth an archbishop's knell;
Strains! that Sir Joseph Mawbey deem'd divine,
Sweet as the quavers of his fattest swine.

E'en great Lord Brudenell's self admir'd the strain,
In all the tuneful agonies of pain;

293

Who, winking, beats with duck-like nods the time,
And call'd the music and the words sublime.

Yes, this most lofty peer admir'd the ode;
A peer who, too, delights in opera-dancing;
Thus sagely both those useful arts advancing,
And nobly spreading Britain's fame abroad.

So much by dancing is his lordship won,
Behind the op'ra scenes he constant goes,
To kiss the little finger of Coulon ,
To mark her knees, and many-twinkling toes.

Too, all the other lords, with whispers swarming,
Cry'd bravo! bravo! charming! bravo! charming!
And majesty itself, to music bred,
Pronounc'd it ‘Very, very good, indeed!’
Indulging, p'rhaps, the very nat'ral dream,
That all its charms were owing to the theme.

Not but some small degree of harmless pleasure,
Might in the brace of royal bosoms rise,
To think they heard it without waste of treasure;
As sixpences are lovely in their eyes.

For, not long since, I heard a forward dame
Thus, in a tone of impudence, exclaim—
‘Good God! how kings and queens a song adore!
With what delight they order an encore!
When that same song, encor'd, for nothing flows!
This Madam Mara to her sorrow knows.’
‘To Windsor, oft, and eke to Kew,
The r*y*l mandate Mara drew.
No cheering drop the dame was ask'd to sip—
No bread was offer'd to her quiv'ring lip:
Though faint, she was not suffer'd to sit down,—
Such was the goodness—grandeur of the cr**n!

Now tell me, will it ever be believ'd,
How much for song and chaise-hire she receiv'd?

294

How much pray, think ye?’—Fifty guineas—‘No.’
Most surely forty.—‘No, no.’—Thirty.—‘Poh!
Pray, guess in reason,—come, again.’—
Alas! you jeer us—twenty at the least;
No man could ever be so great a b**st
As not to give her twenty for her pain.—
‘To keep you, then, no longer in suspense,
For Mara's chaise-hire and unrivall'd note,
Out of their wonderful benevolence,
Their bounteous m---ies gave—not a groat.’

‘Aye!’ cry'd a second sland'rer, with a sneer,
‘I know a story like it—You shall hear—
Poor Mrs. Siddons, she was order'd out—
To wait upon their m*j***ies, to spout—
To read old Shakspeare's As you like it to 'em;
And how to mind their stops, and commas, show 'em:
She read—was told 'twas very, very fine,
Excepting here and there a line,—
To which the royal wisdom did object—
And which in all the pride of emendation,
And partly to improve her reputation,
His m*j***y thought proper to correct:
Then turning to the partner of his bed,
On tiptoe mounted by self-approbation,
A very modest elevation,
He cry'd ‘Mind, Charly, that's the way to read.’

The actress reading, spouting—out of breath,
Stood all the time—was nearly tir'd to death;
Whilst both their m*j***ies, in royal style,
At perfect ease were sitting all the while.
Not offer'd to her was one drop of beer,
Nor wine, nor chocolate, her heart to cheer:
Ready to drop to earth, she must have sunk,
But for a child, that at the hardship shrunk—
A little prince, who mark'd her situation,
Thus, pitying, pour'd a tender exclamation:

“La! Mrs. Siddons is quite faint indeed,
How pale! I'm sure she cannot longer read:

295

She somewhat wants, her spirits to repair,
And would, I'm sure, be happy in a chair.”

What follow'd—Why, the r*y*l pair arose
Surly enough—one fairly may suppose!
And to a room adjoining made retreat,
To let her, for one minute, steal a seat.

At length the actress ceas'd to read and spout
Where generosity's a crying sin:
Her curt'sy dropp'd—was nodded to—came out—
So rich!’—How rich!—‘As rich as she went in.’

Such are the stories twain!—Why, grant the fact,
Are princes, pray, like common folks to act?

Should Mara call it cruelty, and blame
Such r*y*l conduct, I'd cry, Fie upon her!
To Mrs. Siddons freely say the same—
Sufficient for such people is the honour!

E'en I, the bard, expect no gifts from kings,
Although I've said of them such handsome things—
Nay, not their eye's attention, whose bright ray
Would, like the sun, illumine my poor lay,
And, like the sun, so kind to procreation,
Increase within my brain the maggot nation.
So much for idle tales.—Now, Muse, thy strain
Digressive, turn to drawing-rooms again.

There too was Pitt, who scrap'd and bow'd to ground;
And whisper'd majesty, 'twas vastly fine;—
Then wish'd such harmony could once be found
Where he, each day, was treated like a swine
By that arch-fiend Charles Fox, and his vile party—
Villains! in nought but black rebellion hearty;

Fellows! who had the impudence to place
The sacred sceptre underneath the mace,
And twisted ropes, with malice disappointed,
To hamper or to hang the Lord's anointed.

296

To whom a certain sage so earnest cry'd,
‘Don't mind—don't mind—the rogues their aim have miss'd—
Don't fear your place, whilst I am well supply'd—
But mind, mind poverty of Civil List.

Swear that no k---'s so poor upon the globe;
Compare me—yes, compare me to poor Job.
What, what, Pitt—hæ? We must have t'other grant—
What, what? You know, Pitt, that my old dead aunt
Left not a sixpence, Pitt, these eyes to bless,
But from the parish sav'd that fool at Hesse.

But mind me—hæ, to plague her heart when dying,
I was a constant hunter—Nimrod still;
And when in state as dead's a mack'rel lying,
I car'd not, for I knew the woman's will.

And three days after she was dead,
Which some folks thought prodigiously profane,
I took it—yes—I took it in my head,
To order Sir John Brute at Drury Lane;—
Had she respected me, I do aver,
I shou'd have stay'd at home, and thought of her.’

And mind—keep George as poor as a church mouse—
Vote not a halfpenny for Carlton House—
This may appear like wonderful barbarity—
But mind, Pitt, mind—he gains in popularity.

I see him o'er his father try to rise—
And monnt an eagle to the skies—
But poverty will check his daring flight—
Besides, should George receive a grant—
He gets the golden orbs I want—
Then Civil List deficiences, good night!

And hæ! that wicked son-in-law of Brown ,
Losing all sort of rev'rence for a crown,

297

Hath sent me in a bill so dread—
What's very strange too, Pitt, I'll tell ye more—
The rascal came into my house, and swore
'Twas a just bill, and that he must be paid;
Yes, that he wou'd, he swore—(how saucy! Pitt)—
Or send a lawyer to me with a writ.

Down sent I Ramus to him o'er and o'er,
To say that Brown had gain'd enough—
And bid him to the Palace come no more
To pester majesty with bills and stuff.

What—Pitt, pray don't you think I'm right—quite right?’
On which the premier, with a falt'ring bow,
Star'd in the face by Truth—looking I don't know how,
Hem'd out a faint assent—Heav'ns, how polite!

How pretty 'twas in Pitt, what great good sense,
Not to give majesty the least offence!
Whereas, the Chancellor, had he been there,
Whose tutor, one would think, had been a bear;
Thinking a Briton to no forms confin'd,
But born with privilege to speak his mind;
Had answer'd with a thund'ring tongue,
‘I think your majesty d*mn*tion wrong—
I know no moral or prescriptive right
In kings to ------ a subject of a mite:—
Give him his just demand—it is but fit—
Such littlenesses look extremely odd—
Before me should the matter come, by G*d
Your majesty will cursedly be bit—
Kings by a sense of honour should be sway'd—
Holland must, will, by G*d he shall, be paid.’

298

Lord Rochford, too, the gentle youth! was there,
Whose sweet falsetto voice is often sported
In glees and catches; so that all who hear,
Believe a pretty semi-vir imported.

Anxious to please the royal pair,
Lord Salisbury prais'd the words and air;
My lord—who boasts a pretty tuneful palate,
Who kindly teaches cobblers how to sing,
Instructs his butler, baker, on the string,
And with Apollo's laurel crowns his valet .

‘A cobbler, baker, chang'd to a musician,
Butlers, and lick-trenchers!’ my reader roars;
‘The sacred art is in a sweet condition—
A pretty way of rubbing out old scores!

God bless his generosity and purse:—
Soon probably his grandmother, or nurse,
May to the happy band unite their notes—
Perchance, the list respectable to grace,
His lordship's fav'rite horse may show his face,
And earn, as chorus singer, all his oats.’

There too, that close attendant on the king,
Sir Charles , the active, elegant, and supple,
Join'd with the happy beings of the ring,
And bow'd and scrap'd before the sceptred couple;
Pour'd high encomium on the birth-day din,
And won the meed of many a royal grin.

Sir Charles! the most polite, devoted man,
Form'd perfectly upon the courtier plan;

299

Watches each motion of the royal lips,
And round his majesty so lively skips:

Keen as a hawk, observes his sovereign's eye,
Explores its wants, and dwells upon its stare,
As if he really was to live or die
According to th' appearance of the glare:
Hops, dances, of true courtliness the type,
Just like a pea on a tobacco pipe.

Oft will his sacred m---y look down,
With aspect conscious of a glorious crown;
Look down with surly grandeur on the knight,
As if such servile homage was his right;
And by a stare, inform the fearful thing,
The diff'rence 'twixt a subject and a king.

Thus when a little fearful puppy meets
A noble Newfoundland dog in the streets,
He creeps, and whines, and licks the lofty brute;
Curls round him, falls upon his back, and then
Springs up and gambols—frisks it back agen,
And crawls in dread submission to his foot;
Looks up, and hugs his neck, and seems t'intreat him,
With ev'ry mark of terror, not to eat him.

The Newfoundland dog, conscious of his might,
Cocks high his tail and ears, his state to show;
Then lifts his leg (a little unpolite)
And almost drowns the supplicant below;

Then seems, in full-blown majesty, to say,
‘Great is my power—but, lo! I'll not abuse it;
I'm Cæsar! paltry creature, go thy way;
But mind, I can devour thee, if I choose it.’

Sir Charles at theatres oft shows his mien,
Skips from his majesty behind the scene,
To make a famous actress blest, by saying,
How pleas'd the monarch is—how oft he clapp'd,
How oft the queen her fan so gracious tapp'd,
In approbation of her charming playing!

300

Then will the knight, with motions all so quick,
Rush back again o'erjoy'd, through thin and thick,
And to their sacred majesties repair,
Loaded with curt'sies, speeches, thanks, fine things!
Proud as some old dame's nag with queens and kings
Of gingerbread, to grace a country fair.

Then will Sir Charles race back, with bold career,
With something new, the royal mouths shall utter,
Sweet to the actress's astonish'd ear,
As sugar plums to brats—or bread and butter;

Then back to majesty Sir Charles will fly
With the great actress's sublime reply;

As for example—‘Dear Sir Charles, dear friend,
‘Pray thank their majesties’ extreme good nature,
Who in their goodnesses can condescend
To honour thus their poor devoted creature:
Whose patronage gives glory to a name—
Whose smiles alone confer immortal fame—
I beg, Sir Charles, you'll say the humblest things—
Commend me to the best of queens and kings.’

Back with the messages Sir Charles will run,
And with them charm of majesty the sun,
And bid him, like his brother in the skies,
Dart smiling radiance from his mouth and eyes!
Thrice happy knight! all parties form'd to please!
Blest porter of such messages as these!

Thus 'midst the battle's rage, like lightning, scours
An aid-de-camp, his general's orders carrying;
Bravely he gallops through the bullet show'rs,
But scarce a single minute tarrying;
Then to the general back with answer comes,
'Midst the deep thunder of great guns and drums;

Now forth again with more command he sallies,
Then back, then forth again behold him hurry;
To this that runs away, to that which rallies,
All bustle, uproar wild, and hurry scurry!

301

Yet was there one who much the day decry'd—
Old Lady Mary Duncan (says report).
‘What, no dear, dear castrato here!’ she sigh'd;
‘Why then—p*x take the roarings and the court;
Then Lord have mercy on my tortur'd ears,
And shield me from the shouts of such he-bears.

Are such the pretty notes to please!
Then may I never more hear sounds like these;
In days of yore they might have had their merit,
Amongst the rams'-horns to have borne a bob,
That did at Jericho the wond'rous job—
Knock'd down the wall with so much spirit.

The sounds may answer to play tricks
Amongst a pack of drunken asses;
To break, as if it were, with sticks,
The bones of bottles and poor glasses,

Where, where is Pacchierotti's heart-felt strain?
Where Rubinelli's sostenuto note?
That tickled oft my sighing soul to pain,
That bade my senses in Elysium float?
Avaunt! you vile black-bearded rogues—avaunt!
'Tis smoother chins, and sweeter tones, I want.’

My Lord of Exeter was also there,
Who, marv'ling, cock'd his time discerning ear
To strains that did such honour to a throne—
There Uxbridge taught the audience how to think;
With much significant and knowing wink,
And speeches clad in wisdom's critic tone;
Who look'd musicians through with half-shut eyes;
Most solemn, most chromatically wise!

Sandwich, the glory of each jovial meeting,
This fiddler now—now that, so kindly greeting,
Appear'd, and shrewdly pour'd his hahs and hums:
Great in tatto, my lord, and cross-hand roll;
Great in the Dead-march stroke sublime of Saul,
He beats Old Assbridge on the kettle drums.

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What pity to our military host,
That such a charming drummer should be lost!
And feel through life his glories overcast
At that dull board , where, never could he learn,
Of ships the diff'rence between stem and stern,
Hen-coops and boats, the rudder and the mast.

Say—'midst the tuneful tribe was Edmund Burke?
No!—Mun was cutting out for Hastings, work;
Writing to cousin Will and Co. , to league 'em
Against that rogue, who, like a ruffian, rose,
And tweak'd a bulse of jewels from the nose
Of dames in India, christen'd Munny Begum.

Edmund! who formerly look'd fierce as Grimbald
On that most horrid imp, Sir Thomas Rumbold;
Vow'd, like a sheep, to flay that eastern thief;
Till strange good fortune open'd Edmund's eyes:
Oh! then he heard of innocence the cries,
And, like Jew converts, damn'd his old belief.
Yet, let some praise for Mun's conversion pass
To that great wonder-worker, Saint Dundas.

Edmund! who battled hard for Powell's life,
And swore no man, in virtue, e'er went further;
To prove which oath, this Powell took a knife,
And made the world believe it, by self murther.

Reader, suppose I give thee a small ode,
Made when vile Tippoo Saib in triumph rode,
And play'd the devil on our Indian borders,
In person, or by vile Satanic orders:

When Mr. Burke, so famous for fine speeches,
From trope to trope, a downright rabbit skipping,
And give the noble governor a whipping?
Meant, school boy like to take down Hastings' breeches

If rightly, reader, I translate thy phiz,
Thou smil'st consent—I thank thee—Here it is.

303

But mark my cleanliness ere I begin:
Know, I've not caught the itch of party sin;
To Pitt, or Fox, I never did belong;
Truth, truth I seek—so help me god of song!

P'rhaps to a Heathen oath thou mayst demur:
Well then—suspicion that I mayst incur,
But, like a Christian, swear I do not sham—
By all the angels of yon lofty sky,
Where burning seraphims and cherubs cry,
I'm of no party—curse me if I am!

By all those wonder-monger saints and martyrs,
Cut, for the love of God, in halves and quarters;
By each black soul in purgatory frying;
By all those whiter souls, though we can't see 'em,
Singing their Ave Mary and Te Deum
On yon bright cloud—I swear I am not lying.

No! free as air the muse shall spread her wing,
Of whom, and when, and what, she pleases, sing;
Though privy councils , jealous of her note,
Prescrib'd, of late, a halter for her throat.

Let folly spring—my eagle, falcon, kite,
Hawk—satire—what you will—shall mark her flight;
Through huts or palaces ('tis just the same),
With equal rage, pursue the panting game;
And lay (by princes, or by peasants, bred)
Low at the owner's feet, the cuckow, dead.

Though not a Purcell, his grace is admitted, by many of his musical guests, to be a very pretty catchmaker.

A prodigious amateur—without his lordship there can be no rehearsal.

A first dancer at the opera.

Mr. Holland, who married a daughter of the late Capability Brown, and who hath several times impertinently troubled the Palace with a bill of two thousand pounds, due for work done by his father-in-law in the royal gardens.

His lordship made some sad appointments to his majesty's band—ignorant, unmusical rogues, who receive the salary, and thrum by proxy: however he hath behaved better lately, and made atonement, by giving Shield, Dance, Blake, Parke, and Hackwood, to the band.

Sir Charles Thompson.

A kettle drummer of great celebrity.

The Admiralty.

In India.

This is a piece of secret history.

ODE TO EDMUND.

Much edified am I by Edmund Burke!
Well pleas'd I see his mill-like mouth at work,

304

Grinding away for poor Old England's good:
He gives of Elocution such a feast!
He tells of such dread doings in the East!
And sighs, as 'twere, for his own flesh and blood.

Shroff, Chout, Lack, Omra, Dustuck, Nabob, Bunder,
Crore, Choultry, Begum, leave his lips in thunder.

With matchless pathos, Mun describes the gag,
Employ'd by that vile son of Hyder Naig,
Nam'd Tippoo—Gags! that British mouths detest!
Occasion'd partly by that man so sad,
That Hastings!—oh! deserving all that's bad—
That villian, murd'rer, tyrant, dog, wild beast!

Poor Edmund sees poor Britain's setting sun;
Poor Edmund groans—and Britain is undone!

Reader! thou hast, I do presume,
(God knows though) been in a snug room,
By coals or wood made comfortably warm,
And often fancied that a storm without,
Hath made a diabolic rout—
Sunk ships—tore trees up—done a world of harm.

Yes! thou hast lifted up thy tearful eyes,
Fancying thou heardst of mariners the cries;
And sigh'd, ‘How wretched now must thousands be!
‘Oh! how I pity the poor souls at sea!’
When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar,
A zephyr—in the key-hole of the door!

Now, may not Edmund's howlings be a sigh
Pressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes,
On which he long hath look'd with longing eye,
To fill poor Edmund's not o'er burden'd dishes?

Give Mun a sop—forgot will be complaint;
Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a saint.

305

NOW for the drawing-room—O Muse, so madding,
Delighted in digression to be gadding.

Hampden and Fortescue (brave names!) attended—
The last in catches wonderfully mended.
The lovely Lady Clarges too was there,
To all the graces as to music born:
Whose notes so sweetly melting soothes the ear!
Soft as the robin's to the blush of morn!

There too the rare Viol-di-gamba Pratt,
Whose fingers fair the strings so nicely pat,
And bow that brings out sounds unknown at Babel—
Though not so sweet as those of Mr. Abel.

Dear maid! the daughter of that prince of Pratts,
Who music cons as well as law; and swears
The girl shall scrub no soul's but Handel's airs,
To whom he thinks our great composers, cats:

Id est, Sacchini, Haydn, Bacch, and Gluck,
And twenty more, who never had the luck
To please the nicer ears of some crown'd folk;
Ears that, like other people's though they grow,
Poor creatures! really want the sense to know
Psalm tunes so mournful from the old Black Joke.

That musty music-hunter too—Mus. D.
Much travel'd Burney, came to hear and see;
He, in his tour, who found such great protectors—
Kings, queens, dukes, margraves, margravines, electors,
Who ask'd the doctor many a gracious question,
And treated him with marv'lous hospitality;
Guessing he had as clever a digestion
For meat and drink, as music of rare quality—

306

Not with much glee the doctor heard the ode,
But turn'd his disappointed eyes to God;
And wish'd it his own setting, with a sigh!—
For, ere to Salisbury's house the doctor came—
To get, as ode-setter, enroll'd his name—
Behold! behold the wedding was gone by.

Ah! how unlucky that the prize was lost!
Parsons, who, daring, dash'd through thick and thin—
Eclipse the second!—got like lightning in,
When Burney just had reach'd the distance post.

Yet, gentle Muse, let candour this allow
That, though his heart was mortified enow,
The doctor did his rivals heart admire,
And own'd his maiden crotchets full of fire—
Crotchets! though sweet alas! condemn'd to lie,
Like royal virtues, hid from mortal eye!

Crotchets that songful Mr. Parsons ties
To Tom's big phrase, to make sublimer cries;
Thrice happy union to entrance the soul!
How like the notes of cats, a vocal pair,
By boys (to catch their wild and mingled air)
Tied tail to tail, and thrown across a pole!

But where was great Sir Watkyn all this time?
Why heard he not the air and lofty rhime?
The sleek Welsh deity, who music knows—
The Alexander of the Tot'n'am troops ,
Who, tutor'd by his stampings, nods, grunts, whoops,
Do wondrous execution with their bows?

Sir Watkyn, deep in dismal dudgeon gone,
Far in his Cambrian villa sat alone;

307

To Mrs. Walsingham he scrubb'd his base,
Whilst anger swell'd the volume of his face,
Flaming, like suns of London in a fog;
Of Mrs. Walsingham he sung with ire;
His eyes as red as ferret's eyes, with fire;
His mighty soul for vengeance all agog.

Achilles thus, affronted to the beard,
His sledge-like fist o'er Agamemnon rear'd,
And down his throat wou'd fain his words have ramm'd;
Who, after oaths (a pretty decent volley),
And rating the long monarch for his folly,
Inform'd the king of men he might be d*mn'd;
Then to his tent majestic strode, to strum,
And scrape his anger out on tweedle-dum.

Yet Mrs. Walsingham the ode attended;
From 'squire Apollo lineally descended—
A dame who dances, paints, and plays, and sings;
The saint Cecilia,—queen of wind and strings!
Though scarcely bigger than a cat—a dame
'Midst the Bas Bleus, a giant as to fame.
When fiddle, hautboy, clarinet, bassoon,
On Sunday (deem'd by us good Christians, odd)
Unite their clang, and pour their merry tune
In jiggish gratitude to God;
Lo! if a witless member should desire,
Instead of Handel, strains perchance of Haydn,
A fierce Semiramis she flames with fire—
This Amazonian, crotchet-loving maiden!
She looks at him with such a pair of eyes!—
Reader, by way of simile-digression,
Which to my subject happily applies—
Didst ever see Grimalkin in a passion,
Lifting her back, and ears, and tail, and hair;
Giving her two expressive goglers,
(Not in the sweet and tender style of oglers)
A fierce, broad, wild, fix'd, furious, threat'ning stare?

308

If so—thou mayst some faint idea have
Of this great lady at her tuneful club—
Who very often hath been heard to rave,
And with much eloquence the members snub.

Some people by their souls will swear,
That if musicians miss but half a bar,
Just like an Irishman she starts to bother—
And, in the violence of quaver madness,
Where nought should reign but harmony and gladness,
She knocks one tuneful head against another;
Then screams in such chromatic tones
Upon Apollo's poor affrighted sons,
Whose trembling tongues, when her's begins to sound,
Are in the din vociferating drown'd!

Thus when the Oxford bell, baptiz'd Great Tom,
Shakes all the city with his iron tongue,
The little tinklers might as well be dumb
As ask attention to their puny song,
So much the Liliputians are o'ercome
By the deep thunder of the mighty Tom.

Handel, as fam'd for manners as a pig,
Enrag'd, upon a time pull'd off his wig,
And flung it plump in poor Cuzzoni's face,
Because the little syren miss'd a grace:
Musicians, therefore, should beware;
Or in the face of some unlucky chap,
Although she cannot fling a load of hair,
She probably may dart her cap.

Oft when a youth to some sweet blushing maid
Hath slily whisper'd amatory things,
And, more, by passion than by music sway'd,
Broke on the tuneful dialogue of strings;
Rous'd like a tigress from a fav'rite feast,
Up hath the valiant gentlewoman sprung,
With lightning look, and thund'ring tongue,
Ready with out-stretch'd neck to eat the beast

309

That boldly dar'd,—so blasphemously rash—
Mix with the air divine his love-sick trash.

Reader, attend her—she will so enrich ye
With music knowledges of every kind,
From that poor nothing-monger, old Quilici,
To Handel's lofty and capacious mind:
Run wild divisions on the various merit
Of this and that composer's spirit—
On Gluck's sublimities be all so chatty—
Talk of the serio-comic of Piccini,
Compare the elegance of sweet Sacchini,
And iron melodies of old Scarlatti!

But not one word on British worth, I ween—
Their very mention gives the dame the spleen:
'Twere e'en disgrace to tell their mawkish names:
Mere cart-horses—poor uninventive fools,
Who neither music make, nor know its rules—
Whose works should only come to light in flames.

To depths of music doth this dame pretend,
Nought can her science well transcend,—
If you the lady's own opinion ask;
And when she talks of musical enditers,
She shows a vast acquaintance with all writers,
And takes them critically all to task.
Dear gentlewoman; who, so great, so chaste,
So foreign in her tweedle-dummish taste,
Faints at the name of that enchanting fellow,
The melting Amoroso, Paisiello!
With notes on Tarchi, Sarti, will o'erwhelm ye:
Giordani, sweeter than the Hybla honey:
Anfossi, Cimerosa, Bach, Bertoni,
Rauzzini, Abel, Pleyel, Guglielmi!
Can tell you, that th' Italian school is airy,
Expressive, elegant, light as a fairy:
The German, heavy, deep, scholastic;
The French, most miserably, whining, moaning,
Oft like poor devils in the cholic groaning,
Noisy and screaming, hideous, Hudibrastic.

310

The female visitors around her gaze,
With wond'ring eyes, and mouths of wide amaze,
To hear her pompously demand the key
Of ev'ry piece musicians play.
Astonish'd see this petticoat-Apollo,
With stamping foot, and beck'ning hands
And head, time-nodding, issue high commands,
Beating the Tot'n'am-road director hollow.

Yes—they behold amaz'd this tuneful whale,
And catch each crotchet of her rich discourse,
Utter'd with classic elegance and force,
On Diatonic and Chromatic scale:
Then stare to see the lady wisely pore
On scientific zig-zag score.

Reader, at this great lady's Sunday meeting,
'Midst tuning instruments, each other greeting,
Screaming as if they had not met for years,
So joyous, and so great their clatter!—say,
Didst ever see this lady striking A
Upon her harpsichord, with bending ears?
With open mouth, and stare profound,
Attention nail'd, and head awry,
Watching each atom of the tuneful cry,
Till Alamire unison goes round?
Didst ever see her hands outstretch'd like wings,
Towards the band, though led by Cramer,
Wide swimming for pianos on the strings—
Now sudden rais'd, like Mr. Christie's hammer,
To bid the forte roar in sudden thunder,
And fill the gaping multitude with wonder?
Thou never didst?—then, friend, without a hum,
I envy thee a happiness to come!

311

‘He molds his harp,’ quoth Tom, ‘to manners mild;’
To kings, for babe-like manners simple styl'd,
And grac'd with virtues that would fill a tun;
To him the poet humbly makes a leg,
Who, goose-like, brooding o'er the favourite egg
Of genius, gives the Phœnix to the sun.

To him, who for such eggs is always watching,
And never more delighted than when hatching;
Which makes the number offer'd to the sun,
So vast!—why, verily as thick as peas,
That people may collect, with equal ease,
A thousand noble instances, as one.

What numbers, wisdom to his care hath giv'n!
All hatch'd—some living—others gone to Heav'n:
Thus in the pinnick's nest the cuckow lays,
Then, easy as a Frenchman, takes her flight:—
Due homage to the eggs the pinnick pays,
And brings the little lubbers into light.

The modern poet sings, quoth Tom again,
Of m****chs, who, with œconomic fury,
Force all the tuneful world to Tot'n'am Lane,
And lock up all the doors of harmless Drury .

312

Say, why this curse on Drury's harmless door,
That thus, in anger, m*****y should lock it?
Muse, are the Tot'n'am street subscribers poor?
Will Drury keep some pence from Tot'n'am's pocket?
Doth threat'ning bankruptcy extend a gloom
O'er the proud walls of Tot'n'am's regal room?

Perchance 'tis Mara's song that gives offence!
Hinc illæ Lacrymæ!—I fear:
The song that once could charm the r***l sense,
Delights, alas! no more the royal ear.
Gods! can a guinea deaden ev'ry note,
And make the nightingale's a raven's throat?

But let me give his m*****y a hint,
Fresh from my brain's prolific mint—
Suppose we Amateurs should, in a fury,
Just take it in our John-Bull heads to say
(And lo! 'tis very probable we may)—
‘We will have oratorios at Drury?’

How must he look?—Blank—wonderfully blank;
And think such speech an insult on his rank:
What could he do?—oppose with ire so hot?
I think his m*****y had better not !

Pity a king should with his subjects squabble
About an oratorio or a play:
It puts him on a footing with the rabble,
And that's unkingly, let me say.

Suppose he comes off conqueror!—alas!
For such a victory he ought to sigh—
But, Lord! suppose it so should come to pass,
That majesty comes off with a black eye?

313

Whether he lose or win the day,
The world will christen it a paltry fray.

Kings should be never in the wrong —
They never are, some wiseacres declare.—
Poh! such a speech may do for birth-day song;
But makes us philosophic people stare!

I know a certain owner of a c***n,
Not quite a hundred miles from Windsor town,
Who harbour'd of his neighbour horrid notions—
A widow gentlewoman—who, he said,
Popp'd from her window ev'ry day her head
Impertinent, to watch his royal motions.

‘What? what?’ quoth m*****y, ‘I'll teach her eyes
To take my motions by surprise—

314

One cannot breakfast, dine, drink tea, nor sup,
But, whip! the woman's head at once is out,
To see and hear what we are all about:
I'll cure her of that trick—and block her up.’

Mad as his military grace
For fortifying ev'ry place,
From dockyards to a necessary house—
The m****ch dreamt of nothing but the wall—
The saucy spy in petticoats to maul,
And make her eagle pride crawl like a louse.

Now workmen came, with formidable stones,
To block up the poor widow Jones—
Who mark'd this dread blockade, and, with a frown—
And to the cause of freedom true—
One of the old hen's chicks so blue,
Fast as the k*** built up, the dame pull'd down.

'Twas up—'twas down—'twas up again—'twas down;
Much did the country with the battle ring,
Between the valiant widow and the k***,
That admiration rais'd in Windsor town:
The mighty battling Broughtons and the Slacks,
Ne'er knew more money betted on their backs.

Sing, heav'nly muse, how ended this affray:
Just as it happens, faith, nine times in ten,
When dames so spirited engage with men—
That is—th' heroic widow won the day:

The k*** could not the woman maul;
But found himself most shamefully defeated;
Then, very wisely, he retreated,
And, very prudently, gave up the wall.

Now sing, O Muse, the warlike ammunition
Us'd by the dame in her besieg'd condition,
That on the host of vile invaders flew;
Say, did no god nor goddess cry out shame!
And nobly hasten to relieve the dame
From such a resolute and hostile crew?

315

Yes—Neptune, like her guardian angel, kind,
Join'd the poor Widow Jones, and ran up stairs;
Then fiercely caught up certain earthen wares,
And, pleas'd his fav'rite element to find,
Bid, on their heads, the briny torrents flow,
And wash'd, like shags, the combatants below.

The goddess Cloacina too, so hearty,
Rush'd to the widow's house, and join'd the party:
But say, what ammunition fill'd her hand,
Fame for the widow to acquire,
To bid the enemy retire,
And give to public scorn the daring band?

What that strong ammunition was, the bard
Heard as a secret—therefore must not tell;
Nor would he for a thousand pounds reward
To beaux reveal it, or the sweetest belle.
Yet nature possibly hath made a snout,
Blest with sagacity to smell it out.

Reader, don't stand so, staring like a calf—
Thy gaping attitude provokes my laugh—
Thou thinkst that monarchs never can act ill:
Get thy head shav'd, poor fool! or think so still.

Whether thou deem'st my story false or true,
I value not a rush.
Wilt have another?—‘No.’—Nay, prithee do.—
‘I won't.’—Thou shalt, by Heavens! so prithee hush!

But ere I give the tale, my tuneful bride,
My lady muse, shall talk of kings and pride.

Some kings on thrones are children on the lap—
Children, that all of us see ev'ry day—
Brats that kick, squall, and quarrel with their pap,
Tearing, and swearing they will have their way:
And what, too, their great reputation rifles,
Kings quarrel, just like children, about trifles.

Moreover—'tis a terrible affair
For kingly worship to be kick'd by fellows

316

Who probably feed half their time on air,
Mending old kettles or old bellows.

My Lady Pride's a very lofty being,
Much pleas'd with people's scraping, bowing, kneeing,
Fruitful in egotisms, and full of brags—
Her ladyship in nought can brook denial;
And, as for insult, 'tis a killing trial,
And more especially from men of rags.

For Pride, such is her stateliness, alas!
Rather than feel the kickings of an ass,
Would calmly put up with a leg of horse;
Though pelting her with fifty times the force;
Nay, though her brains came out upon the ground,
Were brains within her head-piece to be found.

Sir Watkyn is a member of the ancient music concert in Tottenham Street, and much attended to, both for his art and science.

Wynnestay.

The quarrel between the knight and the lady was a wonderful one—Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ?

Joah Bate, esquire.

Motions established by the cognoscenti for showing the light and shadow of music.

A bird so called in some counties, that attends the wise bird, and feeds him.

The oratorios were to have been performed at Drury Lane, this year, under the conduct of Mr. Linley and Dr. Arnold. Madame Mara was to have exhibited her amazing powers. This would have been a death-stroke to the pigmy performance in Tottenham-court Road. How should the pigmy be saved? By killing the giant—and lo! his death-warrant hath been signed.—By what power of the constitution? None!—Can the Grand Monarque do more? Quicquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi.

Indeed his m*****y hath prudently taken the hint. Drury, in spite of the royal frown, hath had her oratorios performed, to the no small mortification of poor deserted Tottenham.

Yet let us give an instance of wrong proceedings. A certain k***and q****, instead of having concerts at their palace, in the style of other princes, such as the king of France, the emperor, the empress of Russia, &c. have entered into a private subscription for a concert in a pitiful street. They pay their six guineas a-piece; and, what is more extraordinary, get in their children, as we are told, gratis! What is still more extraordinary, they have entered into a bond for borrowing two thousand pounds for putting the house into a decent repair; fit for the reception of the k*** of the first empire upon earth. Of whom has this money been borrowed?—Marvelling reader! of the poor musicians' fund!—which money might have been placed out to a much superior advantage. Let me add, that the subscribers order a formal rehearsal previous to every concert; so that, in fact, they get a double concert for their money;—undoubtedly to the vast satisfaction of the fingers of the happy Cramer, Borghi, Shield, Cervetto, &c., who, in this instance, earn their money not very unlike the patient and laborious animal called a drayhorse.

Duke of Richmond.

A KING AND A BRICK MAKER .

A TALE.

A King, near Pimlico, with nose and state,
Did very much a neighbouring brick-kiln hate,
Because the kiln did vomit nasty smoke;
Which smoke—I can't say very nicely bred—
Did very often take it in its head
To blacken the great house, and try the k*** to choke.

His sacred majesty would, sputt'ring, say,
Upon a windy day,
I'll make the rascal and his brick-kiln hop—
P*x take the smoke—the sulphur!—zounds!—
It forces down my throat by pounds—
My belly is a downright blacksmith's shop.’

317

One day,—he was so pester'd by a cloud—
He could not bear it, and thus bawl'd aloud:
‘Go,’ roar'd his m*****y unto a page,
Work'd, like a lion, to a dev'lish rage,
‘Go, tell the rascal who the brick-kiln owns,
That if he dares to burn another brick,
Black all my house like hell, and make me sick,
I'll tear his kiln to rags, and break his bones.’

Off Billy Ramus sat, his errand told:
On which the brickmaker—a little bold,
Exclaim'd, ‘He break my bones, good master page,
He say my kiln shan't burn another brick,
Because it blacks his house and makes him sick!
Billy, go, give my love to master's rage,
And say, more bricks I am resolv'd to burn;
And if the smoke his worship's stomach turn,
Tell him to stop his mouth and snout—
Nay more, good page—his m*****y shall find
I'll always take th' advantage of the wind,
And, dam'me, try to smoke him out.’

This was a shameful message to a k***,
From a poor ragged rogue that dealt in mud;
Yet, though so impudent a thing,
The fellow's rhet'ric could not be withstood.

Stiff as against poor Hastings, Edmund Burke,
This brickmaker went tooth and nail to work,
And form'd a true Vesuvius on the eye:
The smoke in pitchy volumes roll'd along,
Rush'd thro' the royal dome with sulphur strong,
And, thick ascending, darken'd all the sky.

To give the smoke a nastier stink,
Indignant reader, what dost think?
The fellow scrap'd the filthiest stuff together,
Old wigs, old hats, old woollen caps, old rugs,
Replete with many a colony of bugs,
Old shoes and boots, and all the tribe of leather.

Thus did the cloud of stink and darkness shade
The building for the Lord's anointed made,

318

And blacken'd it like palls that grace a burying:
Thus was this man of mud and straw employ'd,
And at the thought so wicked, overjoy'd,
Of smoking God's vicegerent like a herring;

Of serving him as we do parts of swine,
Thought, with green peas, a dish extremely fine;
But, lo! this baneful rogue of brick
Fell, for his sov'reign, fortunately sick,
And, ere the wretch could glut his spleen and pride,
By turning monarchs into bacon—died.

The modern bard, quoth Tom, sublimely sings
Of sharp and prudent œconomic kings,
Who rams, and ewes, and lambs, and bullocks feed,
And pigs of every sort of breed:

Of kings who pride themselves on fruitful sows;
Who sell skim milk, and keep a guard so stout
To drive the geese, the thievish rascals, out,
That ev'ry morning us'd to suck the cows :—

Of kings who cabbages and carrots plant
For such as wholesome vegetables want;—
Who feed, too, poultry for the people's sake,
Then send it through the villages in carts,
To cheer (how wondrous kind!) the hungry hearts
Of such as only pay for what they take.

The poet now, quoth Tom's rare lucubration,
Singeth commercial treaties—commutation—

319

Taxes on paint, pomatum, milk of roses,
Olympian dew, gloves, sticking plaster, hats,
Quack medicines for sick Christians, and sound rats,
And all that charm our eyes, or mouths, or noses.

The modern bard, says Tom, sublimely sings
Of virtuous, gracious, good, uxorious kings,
Who love their wives so constant from their heart;—
Who down at Windsor daily go a-shopping—
Their heads so lovely into houses popping,
And doing wonders in the hagling art.

And why, in God's name, should not queens and kings
Purchase a comb, or corkscrew, lace for cloaks,
Edging for caps, or tape for apron-strings,
Or pins, or bobbin, cheap as other folks?

Reader! to make thine eyes with wonder stare,
I tell thee farthings claim the royal care!
Farthings are helpless-children of a guinea:
If not well watch'd they travel to their cost!
For, lo! each copper-visag'd little ninny
Is very apt to stray, and to be lost.
Extravagance I never dar'd defend—
The greatest kings should save a candle-end:

Since 'tis an axiom sure, the more folks save,
The more, indisputably, they must have,
Crown'd heads, of saving should appear examples;
And Britain really boasts two pretty samples!

The modern poet sings, quoth Tom again,
Of sweet excisemen, an obliging train;
Who, like our guardian-angels, watch our houses,
And add another civil obligation
That addeth greatly to our reputation—
Hug, in our absences, our loving spouses.

Reader! when tir'd, I'm fond of taking breath:
Now, as thou dost admire the true sublime,
And, consequently, my immortal rhime,
'Tis clear thou never canst desire my death.

320

Swans, in their songs, most musically die;—
If that's the case then, reader, so might I.
Let me, then, join thy wishes—stay my rapture,
And nurse my lungs to sing a second chapter.

Is it possible for this story to be true? We would rather give it as apocryphal.

Mr. Warton says in his Ode, ‘Who plant the civic bay;’ but he assuredly meant cabbages and carrots:—the fact proves it.

IN CONTINUATION.

‘Grant me an honest fame, or grant me none,’
Says Pope (I don't know where), a little liar;
Who, if he prais'd a man, 'twas in a tone
That made his praise like bunches of sweetbriar,
Which, while a pleasing fragrance it bestows,
Pops out a pretty prickle on your nose.
Were some folks to exclaim, who fill a throne,
‘Grant me an honest fame, or grant me none;’
Such princes were upon the forlorn hope,—
Soon, very soon, to reputation dead;
Their idle laureats, faith, might shut up shop,
And bid their lofty genius go to bed.
Muse, this is all well said; but, not t'offend ye,
I beg you will not cultivate digression—
Plead not the poet's quidlibet audenti;
For surely there are limits to th' expression:
Then cease to wanton thus in episode,
And tell the world of Mr. Warton's Ode.
The modern poet, Laureat Thomas says,
To Botany's grand island tunes his lays,
Fix'd for the swains and damsels of St. Giles,
Whose knowledge in the hocus-pocus art
Bids them from Britain somewhat sudden start,
To teach to southern climes their ministerial wiles:

321

Improve the wisdom of the commonweal,
And teach the simple natives how to steal:
The picklock sciences, so dark, explain;
And to ingenious murder turn each brain.
Quoth Tom again—the modern poet sings
Of sweet, good-natur'd inoffensive kings;
Who, by a miracle, escap'd with life—
Escap'd a damsel's most tremendous knife;
A knife that had been taught, by toil and art,
To pierce the bowels of a pie or tart.
Thus, having giv'n a full display
Of what our laureat says, or meant to say;
I'll beg of Thomas to instruct my ears,
Why, in his verses, he should call
The knights who grac'd the high-arch'd hall,
A set of bears ?

Vide the word Savage, in the laureat's Ode for the New Year.

Why the bold steel-clad knights of elder days
Are not entitled to a little praise,
Who for God's cause did palace, house, and hut sell;
As well as monarchs of the present date,
Whose dear religion, of which poets prate,
Might lodge, without much squeezing, in a nutshell?
‘What king hath small religion?’ thou repliest—
‘If G***** the Th*** thou meanest—bard, thou liest.’
Hold, Thomas—not so furious—I know things
That add not to the piety of ------.
I've seen a K. at chapel I declare,
Yawn, gape, laugh, in the middle of a pray'r—
When inward his sad optics ought to roll,
To view the dark condition of his soul;
Catch up an opera-glass, with curious eye,
Forgetting God, some stranger's phiz to spy,

322

As though desirous to observe, if Heav'n
Had Christian features to the visage giv'n;
Then turn (for kind communication, keen)
And tell some new-found wonders to the queen.
Thus have these eyes beheld a cock so stately
(Indeed these lyric eyes beheld one lately),
Lab'ring upon a dunghill with each knuckle:
When after many a peck, and scratch, and scrub,
This hunter did unkennel a poor grub,
On which the fellow did so strut and chuckle;
He peck'd and squinted—peck'd and kenn'd agen,
Hallooing lustily to Madam Hen;
To whom, with airs of triumph, he look'd round,
And told what noble treasure he had found.
‘Ah! Peter, Peter,’ Laureat Thomas cries,
‘Thou hast no fear of kings before thy eyes;
Great—little—all with thee are equal jokes,
And mighty monarchs merely common folks.
Ah wicked, wicked, wicked Peter, know—’
Know what? ‘That monarchs are not merely show;
Souls they possess, and on a glorious scale:’
To this I answer, Thomas, with a tale.
A duke of Burgundy (I know not which)
Thus on a certain time address'd a poet:—
‘I'm much afraid of that same scribbling itch—
You've wit—but pray be cautious how you show it;
Say nothing in your rhimes about a king—
If praise, 'tis lies—if blame, a dangerous thing.’
That is, the duke believ'd the king, uncivil,
Might kick the saucy poet to the devil.
T. W.
Peter, there's odds 'twixt staring and stark mad—

P. P.
Who dares deny it?—So there is, eg ad!

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T. W.
Thou thinkst no prince of common sense possest—

P. P.

Thomas, thou art mistaken, I protest—
On Stanislaus the muse could pour her strain,
Who, dying, sunk a sun upon Lorraine:
Too like the parted sun, with glory crown'd—
He fill'd with blushes deep th' horizon round.
Fred'rick the Great, who died the other day,
Had for himself, indeed, a deal to say:
We must not touch upon that king's belief—
Because I fear he seldom said his pray'rs—
Nor dare we say the hero was no thief,
Because he plunder'd ev'ry body's wares.
I'm told the emperor is vastly wise—
And hope that Madam Fame hath told no lies:
Yet, in his disputations with the Dutch,
The monarch's oratory was not much:
Full many a trope from bayonet and drum
He threaten'd—but, behold! 'twas all a hum.

Wise are our gracious q****'s superb relations,
The pride and envy of the German nations—
People of fashion, worship, wealth, and state—
Lo! what demand for them, in heav'n, of late!

Lo! with his knapsack, ev'n just now departed,
As fine a soldier, faith, as ever started—
Whom death did almost dread to lay his claws on—
Old captain what's his name?—Saxehilberghausen ;
For whom (with zeal, for folks of worship, burning)
We once again are black'ned up by mourning;
To show by glove, cloth, ribband, crape, and fan,
A peck of trouble for th' old gentleman.

324

Ah me! what dozens, dozens, dozens,
Our q**** hath got of uncles, aunts, and cousins!
Egad, if thus those folks continue dying,
Each Briton, doom'd to dismal black,
Must always bear a hearse-like back,
And, like Heraclitus, be always crying.

Great is the northern empress, I confess!
Much, in her humour, like our good Queen Bess;
Who keeps her fair court dames from getting drunk ;
And all so temperate herself, folks say,
She scarcely drinks a dozen drams a day;
And, in love matters, is a queen of spunk.

Yet like I not such woman for a wife—
Such heroines, in a matrimonial strife,
Might hammer from one's tender head hard notes:
I own my delicacy is so great,
I cannot, in dispute, with rapture, meet
Women who look like men in petticoats.

Oft in a learn'd dispute upon a cap,
By way of answer one might have a slap—
P'rhaps on a simple petticoat or gown—
Nay! possibly on madam's being kiss'd!
And really I would rather be knock'd down
By weight of argument, than weight of fist.

I like not dames whose conversation runs
On battles, sieges, mortars, and great guns—
The milder beauties win my soften'd soul,
Who look for fashions with desiring eyes:
Pleas'd when on têtes the conversations roll,
Cork rumps, and merry thoughts, and lovers' sighs.

Love! when I marry, give me not an ox—
I hate a woman, like a sentry-box;

325

Nor can I deem that dame a charming creature
Whose hard face holds an oath in ev'ry feature.

In woman—angel sweetness let me see—
No galloping horse-godmothers for me.
I own I cannot brook such manly belles
As Mademoiselle d'Eons, and Hannah Snells:
Yet men there are, (how strange are Love's decrees!)
Whose palates ev'n jack-gentlewomen please.

How diff'rent, Cynthia, from thy form so fair,
That triumph in a love-inspiring air;
Superior beaming ev'n where thousands shine—
Thy form!—where all the tender graces play,
And, blushing, seem in ev'ry smile to say,
‘Behold we boast an origin divine!’

See too the Queen of France—a gem I ween!
With rev'rence let me hail that charming queen,
Bliss to her king, and lustre to her race;
Though Venus gave of beauty half her store,
And all the graces bid a world adore—
Her smallest beauties are the charms of face.

T. W.
Heav'ns! why abroad for virtues must you roam?

P. P.
Because I cannot find them, Tom, at home.

Great uncle to our most gracious Q. He died in the emperor's service.

At an assembly at Petersburgh, some years since, which was honoured with the presence of the empress, one of the rules was, that no lady should come drunk into the room.

I beg your pardon—yes—the Prince of Wales
(Whose actions smile contempt on scandal's tales)
Ranks in the muse's favour high—
I wish some folks, that I could name with ease,
Blest with his head—his heart—his pow'rs to please—
Then Pity's soul would cease from many a sigh!
The crouching courtiers, that surround a throne,
And learn to speak and grin from one alone,

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Who watch, like dancing dogs, their master's nod—
Are ready now, if horsewhipp'd from their places,
At Carlton House to show their supple faces,
And call the prince they vilify a God.
T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar doth the arts possess?

P. P.
Arts in abundance!—Yes, Tom—yes, Tom—yes!

T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar would each joy forego,
To make his children happy?

P. P.
No, Tom—no,

T. W.
What! not one bag, to bless a child, bestow?—

P. P.

Heav'n help thy folly!—no, Tom—no, Tom—no!
The sordid souls that avarice enslaves,
Would gladly grasp their guineas in their graves:
Like that old Greek—a miserable cur,
Who made himself his own executor.

A cat is with her kittens much delighted;
She licks so lovingly their mouths and chins:
At ev'ry danger, lord! how puss is frighted—
She curls her back, and swells her tail, and grins,
Rolls her wild eyes, and claws the backs of curs
Who smell too curious to her children's furs.

This happens whilst her cats are young indeed;
But when grown up, alas! how chang'd their luck!
No more she plays, at bo-peep with her breed,
Lies down and, mewing, bids them come and suck:

327

No more she sports and pats them, frisks and purs:
Plays with their twinkling tails, and licks their furs;
But when they beg her blessing and embraces,
Spits, like a dirty vixen, in their faces.

Nay, after making the poor lambkins fly,
She watches the dear babes with squinting eye;
And if she spies them with a bit of meat,
Springs on their property, and steals their treat.—

No more a tender love she seems to feel;—
The dev'l for her may eat 'em at a meal—
With all her soul;—the jade, so wondrous saving,
Cries, ‘Off! you now are at your own beard-shaving.’

So—to some k******s this evil doth belong;—
Th' intelligence is good, I make no doubt;
Who really love their offspring when they're young,
But lose that fond affection when they're stout;
Far off they send them—nor a sixpence give:
I wonder, Thomas, where such m******hs live!—

Should such a m******h, Thomas, cross thy way,
And for thy flatt'ry offer butts of sack;
Say plainly that he would disgrace thy lay;
And turning on him thy poetic back,
Bid, like a porcupine, thine anger bristle;
Nor damn thy precious soul to wet thy whistle.

328

CONCLUSION.

Think not, friend Tom, I envy thee thy rhime,
By numbers, I assure you, deem'd sublime;
Or that thy laureat's place my spleen provokes:
The king (good man!) and I should never quarrel,
Ev'n though his royal wisdom gave the laurel
To Mr. Tom-a-Stiles, or John-a-Nokes.

Old fashion'd, as if tutor'd in the ark,
I never sigh'd for glory's high degrees:
This very instant should our Grand Monarque
Say, ‘Peter, be my laureat, if you please;’

‘No, please your majesty,’ should be my answer,
With sweetest diffidence and modest grace:
‘The office suits a more ingenious man, sir;
In God's name, therefore, let him have the place:
Unlike the poets, 'tis my vast affliction
To be a miserable hand at fiction.

But, sir, I'll find some lyric undertaker,
Acrostic, rebus, or conundrum-maker,
Who oft hath rode on Pegasus so fiery,
And won the sweepstakes in the Ladies Diary;
Such, Sire, in poetry shall hitch your name,
And do sufficient justice to your fame.’

A Mr. Scott.

329

AN APOLOGETIC POSTSCRIPT TO ODE UPON ODE.

Principibus placuisse viris non ultima laus est.
HORACE.

The bard whose verse can charm the best of kings,
Performeth most extraordinary things!

331

THE ARGUMENT.

Peter nobly acknowledgeth Error, suspecteth an interfering Devil, and supplicateth his Reader.—He boasteth, wittily parodieth, and most learnedly quoteth a Latin Poet—He showeth much Affection for Kings, illustrating it by a beautiful Simile—Peter again waxeth witty—Resolution declared for Rhime in consequence of Encouragement from our two Universities—Peter wickedly accused of King-roasting; refuteth the malevolent Charge by a most apt Illustration—Peter criticiseth the Blunders of the Stars—Peter replieth to the Charges brought against him by the World—He displayeth great Bible Knowledge, and maketh a shrewd Observation on King David, Uriah, and the Sheep, such as no Commentator ever made before—Peter challengeth Courtiers to equal his Intrepidity, and proveth his Superiority of Courage by giving a delectable Tale of Dumplings—Peter answereth the Unbelief of a vociferous World—Declareth totis viribus love for Kings—Peter peepeth into Futurity, and telleth the Fortune of the Prince of Wales

332

—He descanteth on the high Province of ancient Poets, and displayeth classical Erudition—Peter holdeth Conference with a Quaker—Peter, as usual, turneth rank Egotist—He telleth strange News relating to Majesty and Pepper Arden—Peter apologiseth for Impudence by a Tale of a French King—Peter, imitating Ovid, who was transported for his impudent Ballads, talketh to his Ode—Suggesteth a royal Answer to Ode and Odefactors—Happily selecteth a story of King Canute, illustrating the Danger of stopping the Mouths of Poets with Halters, &c. instead of Meat—Peter concludeth with a wise Observation.

333

Reader, I solemnly protest
I thought that I had work'd up all my rhime
What stupid demon hath my brain possess'd?
I prithee pardon me this time:

Afford thy patience through more ode;
'Tis not a vast extent of road:
Together let us gallop then along:
Most nimbly shall old Pegasus, my hack, stir,
To drop the image—prithee hear more song
Some ‘more last words of Mr. Baxter.’

A wondrous fav'rite with the tuneful throng,
Sublimely great are Peter's pow'rs of song:
His nerve of satire, too, so very tough,
Strong without weakness, without softness rough.

What Horace said of streams in easy lay
The marv'ling world of Peter's tongue may say;
His tongue, so copious in a flux of metre,
‘Labitur et labetur!’

334

ODE.

World! stop thy mouth—I am resolv'd to rhime—
I cannot throw away a vein sublime:
If I may take the liberty to brag,
I cannot, like the fellow in the Bible,
Venting upon his master a rank libel,
Conceal my talent in a rag.
Kings must continue still to be my theme—
Eternally of kings I dream:
As beggars ev'ry night, we must suppose,
Dream of their vermin, in their beds;
Because, as ev'ry body knows,
Such things are always running in their heads.
Besides—were I to write of common folks,
No soul would buy my rhimes so strange, and jokes:
Then what becomes of mutton, beef, and pork—
How would my masticating muscles work?
Indeed, I dare not say they would be idle,
But, like my Pegasus's chops, so stout,
Who plays and wantons with his bridle,
And nobly flings the foam about;
So mine would work—‘On what?’ my reader cries,
With a stretch'd pair of unbelieving eyes—
Heav'n help thy most unpenetrating wit!
On a hard morsel—Hunger's iron bit.
By all the rhiming goddesses and gods
I will—I must, persist in odes—
And not a pow'r on earth shall hinder—

335

I hear both Universities exclaim,
‘Peter, it is a glorious road to fame;
‘Eugè poeta magne—well said, Pindar?’

The violence of the Universities on this occasion may probably arise from the contempt thrown on them by his majesty's sending the royal children to Gottingen for education; but have not their majesties amply made it up to Oxford by a visit to that celebrated seminary—and is not Cambridge to receive the same honour?

Yet some approach with apostolic face,
And cry, ‘O Peter what a want of grace
Thus in thy rhime to roast a king?’
I roast a king! by heav'ns 'tis not a fact—
I scorn such wicked and disloyal act—
Who dares assert it, says a sland'rous thing.
Hear what I have to say of kings—
If, unsublime, they deal in childish things,
And yield not, of reform, a ray of hope;
Each mighty monarch straight appears to me
A roaster of himself—Felo de se—
I only act as cook, and dish him up.
Reader! another simile as rare—
My verses form a sort of bill of fare,
Informing guests what kind of flesh and fish
Is to be found within each dish;
That eating people may not be mistaken,
And take, for ortolan, a lump of bacon.
Whenever I have heard of kings
Who place in gossipings, and news their pride,
And knowing family concerns—mean things!
Very judiciously, indeed, I've cry'd,
‘I wonder
How their blind stars could make so gross a blunder!’

336

Instead of sitting on a throne
In purple rich—of state so full,
They should have had an apron on,
And, seated on a three-legg'd stool,
Commanded of dead hair, the sprigs
To do their duty upon wigs.
By such mistakes, is nature often foil'd:
Such improprieties should never spring—
Thus a fine chattering barber may be spoil'd,
To make a most indiff'rent king.’
‘Sir, sir,’ I hear the world exclaim,
‘At too high game you impudently aim—
How dare you with your jokes and gibes,
Tread, like a horse, on kingly kibes?’
Folks, who can't see their errors, can't reform:
No plainer axiom ever came from man;
And 'tis a Christian's duty, in a storm,
To save his sinking neighbour, if he can:
Thus I to kings my ode of wisdom pen,
Because your kings have souls like common men.
The Bible warrants me to speak the truth—
Nor mealy-mouth'd my tongue in silence keep:
Did not good Nathan tell that buckish youth,
David the king, that he stole sheep?
Stole poor Uriah's little fav'rite lamb—
An ewe it chanc'd to be, and not a ram—
For had it been a ram, the royal glutton
Had never meddled with Uriah's mutton.
What modern courtier, pray hath got the face
To say to majesty, ‘O king!
At such a time, in such a place,
You did a very foolish thing?’
What courtier, not a foe to his own glory,
Would publish of his king this simple story?—

337

THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND A KING.

Once on a time, a monarch, tir'd with whooping,
Whipping and spurring,
Happy in worrying
A poor, defenceless, harmless buck
(The horse and rider wet as muck),
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,
Enter'd, through curiosity, a cot,
Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-ey'd, good, old granny,
In this same cot, illum'd by many a cranny,
Had finish'd apple dumplings for her pot:
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When, lo! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning spoke, ‘What's this? what's this? what? what?’

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand—
And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple:
‘'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed,’ he cry'd:
What makes it, pray, so hard?’—The dame reply'd,
Low curt'sying, ‘Please your majesty, the apple.’

‘Very astonishing, indeed!—strange thing!’
(Turning the dumpling round, rejoin'd the king),
‘'Tis most extraordinary then, all this is—
It beats Pinetti's conjuring all to pieces—
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream—
But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam?’

‘Sir, there's no seam,’ quoth she; ‘I never knew
That folks did apple dumplings sew.’—

338

‘No!’ cry'd the staring monarch with a grin,
‘How, how the devil got the apple in?’

On which the dame the curious scheme reveal'd
By which the apple lay so sly conceal'd,
Which made the Solomon of Britain start;
Who to the Palace with full speed repair'd,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scar'd,
All with the wonders of the dumpling art!

There did he labour one whole week, to show
The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker;
And, lo! so deep was majesty in dough,
The palace seem'd the lodging of a baker.

Reader, thou likest not my tale—look'st blue—
Thou art a courtier—roarest ‘Lies, lies, lies!’
Do, for a moment, stop thy cries—
I tell thee, roaring infidel, 'tis true.

Why should it not be true?—The greatest men
May ask a foolish question now and then—
This is the language of all ages:
Folly lays many a trap—we can't escape it:
‘Nemo,’ says some one, ‘omnibus horis sapit:’
Then why not kings, like me and other sages?

Far from despising kings, I like the breed,
Provided king-like they behave:
Kings are an instrument we need,
Just as we razors want—to shave;
To keep the state's face smooth—give it an air—
Like my Lord North's, so jolly, round, and fair.

My sense of kings though freely I impart—
I hate not royalty, Heav'n knows my heart.

339

Princes and princesses I like, so loyal—
Great George's children are my great delight;
The sweet Augusta, and sweet Princess Royal,
Obtain my love by day, and pray'rs by night.

Yes! I like kings, and oft look back with pride
Upon the Edwards, Harrys of our isle—
Great souls! in virtue as in valour try'd,
Whose actions bid the cheek of Britons smile.

Muse! let us also forward look,
And take a peep into Fate's book.

Behold! the sceptre young Augustus sways;
I hear the mingled praise of millions rise;
I see uprais'd to Heav'n their ardent eyes;
That for their monarch ask a length of days.

Bright in the brightest annals of renown,
Behold fair fame his youthful temples crown
With laurels of unfading bloom;
Behold dominion swell beneath his care,
And genius, rising from a dark despair,
His long-extinguish'd fires relume.

Such are the kings that suit my taste, I own—
Not those where all the littlenesses join—
Whose souls should start to find their lot a throne,
And blush to show their noses on a coin.

Reader, for fear of wicked applications,
I now allude to kings of foreign nations.

Poets (so unimpeach'd tradition says)
The sole historians were of ancient days,
Who help'd their heroes fame's high hill to clamber
Penning their glorious acts in language strong,
And thus preserving, by immortal song,
Their names amidst their tuneful amber.

What am I doing? Lord! the very same—
Preserving many a deed deserving fame,
Which that old lean, devouring shark, call'd Time,

340

Would, without ceremony, eat;
In my opinion, far too rich a treat—
I therefore merit statues for my rhime.

‘All this is laudable,’ a quaker cries,
‘But let grave wisdom, friend, thy verses rule;
Put out thine irony's two squinting eyes—
Despise thy grinning monkey, ridicule.’

What! slight my sportive monkey, ridicule,
Who acts like birch on boys at school,
Neglecting lessons—truant, perhaps, whole weeks!
My ridicule, with humour fraught, and wit,
Is that satiric friend, a gouty fit,
Which bites men into health and rosy cheeks:

A moral mercury that cleanseth souls
Of ills that with them play the devil—
Like mercury that much the pow'r controls
Of presents gain'd from ladies over civil.

Reader, I'll brag a little, if you please;
The ancients did so, therefore why not I?
Lo! for my good advice I ask no fees,
Whilst other doctors let their patients die;

That is, such patients as can't pay for cure—
A very selfish, wicked thing, I'm sure.

Now though I'm soul-physician to the king,
I never begg'd of him the smallest thing
For all the threshing of my virtuous brains;
Nay, were I my poor pocket's state t'impart,
So well I know my royal patient's heart,
He would not give me two-pence for my pains.

But, hark! folks say the king is very mad—
The news, if true, indeed, were very sad,
And far too serious an affair to mock it—
Yet how can this agree with what I've heard,
That so much by him are my rhimes rever'd—
He goes a-hunting with them in his pocket:

341

And when thrown out—which often is the case
(In bacon hunting, or of bucks the race),
My verse so much his majesty bewitches,
That out he pulls my honour'd Odes,
And reads them on the turnpike roads—
Now under trees and hedges—now in ditches.

Hark! with astonishment, a sound I hear,
That strikes tremendous on my ear;
It says, great Arden, commonly call'd Pepper,
Of mighty George's thunderbolts the keeper,
Just like of Jupiter the famous eagle,
Is order'd out to hunt me like a beagle.

But, eagle Pepper, give my love
Unto thy lofty master, Mr. Jove,
And ask how it can square with his religion,
To bid thee, without mercy, fall on,
With thy short sturdy beak, and iron talon,
A pretty, little, harmless, cooing pigeon?

By heav'ns, I disbelieve the fact—
A monarch cannot so unwisely act!

Suppose that kings, so rich, are always mumping,
Praying and pressing ministers for money;
Bidding them on our hive (poor bees!) be thumping,
Trying to shake out all our honey;

A thing that oft hath happen'd in our isle!—
Pray, shan't we be allow'd to smile?
To cut a joke, or epigram contrive,
By way of solace for our plunder'd hive?

A king of France (I've lost the monarch's name),
Who avaricious got himself bad fame,
By most unmannerly and thievish plunges
Into his subjects' purses,
A deep manœuvre that obtain'd their curses,
Because it treated gentlefolks like sponges.

342

To show how much they relish'd not such squeezing,
Such goods and chattel-seizing,
They publish'd libels to display their hate,
To comfort, in some sort, their souls,
For such a number of large holes
Eat by this royal rat in each estate.

The Premier op'd his gullet like a shark,
To hear such satires on the Grand Monarque,
And roar'd—‘Messieurs, you soon shall feel
My criticism upon your ballads,
Not to your taste so sweet as frogs and sallads,
A stricture critical yclep'd Bastile.’

But first he told the tidings to the king,
Then swore par Dieu that he would quickly bring
Unto the grinding stone their noses down—
No, not a soul of 'em should ever thrive—
He'd flay them, like St. Bartlemew, alive—
Villains! for daring to insult the crown.

The monarch heard Monsieur le Premier out,
And, smiling on his loyalty so stout,
Replied, ‘Monsieur le Premier, you are wrong—
Don't of the pleasure let them be debarr'd—
You know how we have serv'd 'em—faith! 'tis hard
They should not for their money have a song.’

Ovid, sweet story-teller of old times,
Unluckily transported for his rhimes,
Address'd his book before he bade it walk;
Therefore my worship, and my-ode,
In imitation of such classic mode,
May, like two Indian nations, have a talk.

‘Dear Ode! whose verse the true sublime affords,
Go, visit kings, queens, parasites, and lords;
And if thy modest beauties they adore,
Inform them, they shall speedily have more.’

343

But possibly a mighty king may say,
‘Ode! Ode!—What? what? I hate your rhime haranguing
I'd rather hear a jackass bray:
I never knew a poet worth the hanging.

I hate, abhor them—but I'll clip their wings;
I'll teach the saucy knaves to laugh at kings:
Yes, yes, the rhiming rogues their songs shall rue,
A ragged, bold-fac'd, ballad-singing crew.
Yes, yes, the poets shall my pow'r confess;
I'll maul that spawning devil call'd the press.’

If furious thus exclaim a king of glory,
Tell him, O gentle Muse, this pithy story:

KING CANUTE AND HIS NOBLES.

A TALE.

Canute was by his nobles taught to fancy,
That by a kind of royal necromancy,
He had the pow'r Old Ocean to control—
Down rush'd the royal Dane upon the strand.
And issued, like a Solomon, command—
Poor soul!

‘Go back, ye waves, you blust'ring rogues!’ quoth he,
‘Touch not your lord and master, Sea,
For by my pow'r almighty, if you do’—
Then staring vengeance—out he held a stick,
Vowing to drive Old Ocean to Old Nick,
Should he ev'n wet the latchet of his shoe.

The Sea retir'd—the monarch fierce rush'd on,
And look'd as if he'd drive him from the land—

344

But Sea, not caring to be put upon,
Made for a moment a bold stand:

Not only make a stand did Mr. Ocean,
But to his honest waves he made a motion,

And bid them give the king a hearty trimming:
The orders seem'd a deal the waves to tickle,
For soon they put his majesty in pickle;
And set his royalties, like geese, a-swimming.

All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar,
Soon did they make him wish himself on shore;
His head and ears most handsomely they dous'd—
Just like a porpus, with one general shout,
The waves so tumbled the poor king about—
No anabaptist e'er was half so sous'd.

At length to land he crawl'd, a half-drown'd thing,
Indeed more like a crab than like a king,
And found his courtiers making rueful faces:
But what said Canute to the lords and gentry,
Who hail'd him from the water, on his entry,
All trembling for their lives or places?

‘My lords and gentlemen, by your advice,
I've had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle;
My treatment from my foe not over nice,
Just made a jest for ev'ry shrimp and muscle:

A pretty trick for one of my dominion!—
My lords, I thank you for your great opinion.

You'll tell me, p'rhaps, I've only lost one game,
And bid me try another—for the rubber—
Permit me to inform you all, with shame,
That you're a set of knaves, and I'm a lubber.’

Such is the story, my dear Ode,
Which thou wilt bear—a sacred load!
Yet, much I fear, 'twill be of no great use:

345

Kings are in general obstinate as mules;
Those who surround them, mostly rogues and fools,
And therefore can no benefit produce.

Yet stories, sentences, and golden rules,
Undoubtedly were made for rogues and fools;
But this unluckily the simple fact is;
Those rogues and fools do nothing but admire,
And all so dev'lish modest, don't desire
The glory of reducing them to practice.