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

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:

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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;

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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?

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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:

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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.

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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,

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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.’

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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;

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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!

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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!

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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.

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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.