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] |  |
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
‘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?
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
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.
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?’
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.’
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?’
(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.’—
‘No!’ cry'd the staring monarch with a grin,
‘How, how the devil got the apple in?’
That folks did apple dumplings sew.’—
338
‘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!
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
I hate not royalty, Heav'n knows my heart.
339
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
Would, without ceremony, eat;
In my opinion, far too rich a treat—
I therefore merit statues for my rhime.
Preserving many a deed deserving fame,
Which that old lean, devouring shark, call'd Time,
340
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.’
‘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:
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.
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;
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.
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.
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:
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.
(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.
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?
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!
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;
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?
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.
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.
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.’
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.
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.’
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.
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.’
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.
‘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.’
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:
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!
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.
‘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—
But Sea, not caring to be put upon,
Made for a moment a bold stand:
And look'd as if he'd drive him from the land—
344
Made for a moment a bold stand:
Not only make a stand did Mr. Ocean,
But to his honest waves he made a motion,
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.
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.
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?
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:
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.
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.’
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:
Kings are in general obstinate as mules;
Those who surround them, mostly rogues and fools,
And therefore can no benefit produce.
Which thou wilt bear—a sacred load!
Yet, much I fear, 'twill be of no great use:
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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.
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |