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] |  |
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.
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.’
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.’
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
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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,
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;
The building for the Lord's anointed made,
318
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.
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 Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |