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

Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre,
Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire,
To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk;
Yet 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine,
Say, may we venture to believe a line?
You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.

Son of the nine, thou writest well on nought—
Thy thund'ring stanza, and its pompous thought,
I think, must put a dog into a laugh:
Edward and Harry were much braver men
Than this new-christen'd hero of thy pen;
Yes, laurel'd Odeman, braver far by half;

Though on Blackheath, and Wimbledon's wide plain,
George keeps his hat off in a show'r of rain;
Sees swords and bayonets without a dread,
Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:

Although at grand reviews he seems so blest,
And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest,
Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster;
Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming,
And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine,
With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.

Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess:
His present majesty whom Heav'n long bless

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With wisdom, wit, and arts of choicest quality,
Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche
As that old queen, though often call'd old b---ch,
In Fame's colossal house of immortality.

As for John Dryden's Charles—that king
Indeed was never any mighty thing—
He merited few honours from the pen—
And yet he was a dev'lish hearty fellow,
Enjoy'd his girl and bottle, and got mellow,
And mind—kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms,
Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms,
Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight—
Nor jok'd by day with pages, servant maids,
Large, red-poll'd, blowzy, hard two-handed jades:
Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I am of candour a great lover:
In short, I'm candour's self all over;
Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe;
Make it a rule that virtue shall be prais'd,
And humble merit from her bum be rais'd:
What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou criest, ‘Oh! how false! behold thy king
Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing;
That king has virtues that should make thee stare.’
Is it so?—Then the sin's in me—
'Tis my vile optics that can't see—
Then pray for them, when next thou say'st a pray'r.

But, p'rhaps, aloft on his imperial throne,
So distant, O ye gods! from ev'ry one,
The royal virtues are, like many a star,
From this our pigmy system rather far;
Whose light though flying ever since creation,
Has not yet pitch'd upon our nation .

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Then may the royal ray be soon explor'd—
And, Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming,
I'll take my spying-glass, and bring thee word
The instant I behold it coming.

But, Thomas Warton, without joking,
Art thou, or art thou not, thy sov'reign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare,
That George the Third
With Cressy's Edward can compare,
Or Harry?—'Tis too bad upon my word:
George is a clever king, I needs must own,
And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, ‘G*d rot it! Peter, pray,
What to the devil shall I sing or say?’

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom—
Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying,
His gracious eyes and ears was edifying,
By abbey company and kettle drum:
Leaving that son to death and the physician,
Between two fires—a forlorn-hope condition;
Two poachers, who make man their game,
And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son,
He kept aloof through fatherly affection—
Determin'd nothing should be done
To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection.
For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs?
Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes:
And what are sighs and tears but wind and water,
That show the leakiness of feeble nature!

Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel:
Like air and any sort of drink,
Whizzing and oozing through each chink,
That proves the weakness of the barrel.

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Say—for the Prince, when wet was ev'ry eye,
And thousands pour'd to Heav'n the pitying sigh
Devout;
Say how a king, unable to dissemble,
Order'd Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble,
To spout:
Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear
Denied till then a thimblefull of beer—
For which they've thank'd the author of this metre,
Videlicet, the moral-mender Peter,
Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim,
And call such royal avarice, a shame.

Say—but I'll teach thee how to make an ode;
Thus shall thy labours visit fame's abode,
In company with my immortal lay—
And look, Tom—thus I fire away—

Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer Huygens.