The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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| ODE TO EDMUND. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE TO EDMUND.
Much edified am I by Edmund Burke!
Well pleas'd I see his mill-like mouth at work,
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.
Well pleas'd I see his mill-like mouth at work,
304
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.
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!
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!
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.
(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!
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?
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.
Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a saint.
305
NOW for the drawing-room—O Muse, so madding,
Delighted in digression to be gadding.
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!
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.
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:
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.
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—
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.
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.
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!
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!
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?
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;
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.
Far in his Cambrian villa sat alone;
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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.
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?
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.
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!
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.
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.
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
That boldly dar'd,—so blasphemously rash—
Mix with the air divine his love-sick trash.
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
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
'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 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.
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.
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 .
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?
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?
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?’
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 !
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.
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?
Whether he lose or win the day,
The world will christen it a paltry fray.
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?
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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!
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.
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—
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.’
To take my motions by surprise—
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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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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?
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.
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?
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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
Who probably feed half their time on air,
Mending old kettles or old bellows.
For kingly worship to be kick'd by fellows
316
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.
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.
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.
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |