The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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,
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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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |