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

'Slife! Thomas, what hath swallow'd all the praise?
Of royal virtues not the slightest mention!
Strung, like mock pearl, so lately on thy lays!
Tell me, a bankrupt, Tom, is thy invention?

How couldst thou so thy patron's fame forget,
As not to pay of praise, the annual debt?
Whitehead and Cibber, all the laureat throng,
To Fame's fair temple, twice a year, presented
Some royal virtues, real or invented,
In all the grave sublimity of song.

Heralds so kind for many a chance-born wight,
Creeping from cellar, just like snails from earth;
Or moles, or field-mice, stealing into light,
Forge arms to prove a loftiness of birth;
Tracing of each ambitious sir and madam
The branches to the very trunk of Adam.

Then why not thou, the herald, Tom, of rhime,
Still bid thy royal master soar sublime?
Bards shine in fiction; then how slight a thing
To make a coat of merit for a king!

378

Know, General Carpenter had been a theme
For furnishing a pretty lyric dream;
Once a monopolist of nod and smile:
Of broken sentences and questions rare,
Of snipsnap whispers sweet, and grin, and stare,
For which thy muse would travel many a mile.

But, lo! the general, for a crying sin,
Lost broken sentences, and nod, and grin,
And stare and snipsnap of the best of kings;
The sin, the crying sin, of rambling
Where Osnaburgh's good bishop, gambling,
Lost some few golden feathers from his wings;

Which made th' unlucky general run and drown;
Such were the horrors of the royal frown!
For, lo! his m*****y most roundly swore
He'd nod to General Carpenter no more.

Oh! glorious love of all-commanding money!
Dear to some monarchs, as to bruin, honey;
Dear as to gamblers, pigeons fit to pluck;
Or show'rs to hackney coachmen or a duck!

Thomas, thy lyrics might have prais'd the king
For making sinners mind the Sabbath day,
Bidding the idle sons of pipe and string,
Instead of scraping jigs, sing psalms and pray;
Thus piously (against their inclination)
Dragooning souls unto salvation.

The monarch gave up Mr. Joah Bate,
With that sweet nightingale, his lovely mate;
Who with the organ and one fiddle
Made up a concert every Sunday night:
Thus yielding majesties supreme delight,
Who relish cheapness e'en in tweedle tweedle.

For nature formeth oft a kind
Of money-loving, scraping, save-all mind,
That happy glorieth in the nat'ral thought
Of getting every thing for nought:

379

From Delhi's diamonds to a Bristol stone;
From royal eagles to a squalling parrot;
From bulls of Basan to a marrow-bone;
From rich ananas to a mawkish carrot:
And getting things for nought, I needs must say,
If not the noblest, is the cheapest way.

And often nature manufactures stuff
That thinks it never hath enough;
Hoarding up treasure—never once enjoying—
Such is the composition of some souls!
Like jackdaws all their cunning art employing,
In hiding knives, and forks, and spoons, in holes.

Lo! by the pious Monarch's proclamation,
The courtier amateurs of this fair nation
On Sundays con their Bibles—make no riot—
The stubborn Uxbridge, music-loving lord,
Pays dumb obedience to the royal word,
And bids the instruments lie quiet.

Sweet Mistress Walsingham is forc'd to pray,
And turn her eyes up, much against her will;
Sandwich sings psalms too, in his pious way:
And Lady Young forbears the tuneful trill:
And very politic is Lady Young:
A husband must not suffer for a song.

The gentle Exeter his treat gave up,
So us'd upon the sweet repast to sup;
As eager for his Sunday's quaver dish,
As cats and rav'nous aldermen for fish.

Lord Brudenell, too, a Lord with lofty nose,
Bringing to mind a verse the world well knows;
Against sublimity that rather wars;
Which in an almanack all eyes may see:
‘God gave to man an upright form that he
Might view the stars.’

I say this watchful lord, who boasts the knack,
Behind his sacred majesty's great back,
Of placing for his latter end a chair

380

Better than any lord (so says Fame's trump)
That ever waited on the royal rump,
So swift his motions, and so sweet his air;

Who, if his majesty but cough or hiccup,
Trembles for fear the king should kick up;
Drops, with concern, his jaw—with horror freezes—
Or smiles ‘God bless you, sire,’ whene'er he sneezes;
This lord, I say, uprais'd his convert chin,
And curs'd the concert for a crying sin.

King Watkin, from the land of leeks and cheese,
With sighs, forbore his bass to seize;
With huge concern he dropp'd his Sunday airs,
And grumbled out in Welsh his thankless pray'rs.
The bass, indeed, Te Deum sung,
Glad on the willows to be hung.

And really 'twas a very nat'ral case—
Poor, inoffensive bass!
For when King Watkin scrubbeth him—alack!
The instrument, like one upon the rack,
Sends forth such horrid, inquisition groans!
Enough to pierce the hearts of stones!

Thus though in concert politics the knight
Battled with Mistress Walsingham outright;
Yet both agreed to lift their palms,
Not in hostilities, but singing psalms.

Salisbury was also order'd to reform,
Who, with my lady, thought it vastly odd,
Thus to be forc'd, like sailors in a storm,
Against their wills to pray to God.

Thus did the royal mandate through the town,
Knock nearly all the Sunday concerts down!
Great act! ere long 'twill be a sin and shame
For cats to warble out an am'rous flame!—
Dogs shall be whipp'd for making love on Sunday,
Who very well may put it off to Monday.

381

Nay more, the royal piety to prove,
And aid the purest of all pure religions,
To Bridewell shall be sent all cooing pigeons,
And cocks and hens be lash'd for making love:
Sparrows and wrens be shot from barns and houses,
For being barely civil to their spouses.

Poor Sir John Dick was, lamb-like, heard to bleat
At losing such a Sunday's treat—
Sir John, the happy owner of a star—
Which radiant honour on surtouts he stitches;
Lamenting fashion doth not stretch so far
As sewing them on waistcoats and on breeches;
Which thus would pour a blaze of silver day,
And make the knight a perfect milky way.

Yet Hampden, Cholmond'ly, those sinful shavers,
Rebellious, riot in their Sabbath quavers;
Thus flying in the face of our great king,
Profane God's resting day with wind and string;
Whilst on the terrace, 'midst his German band,
On Sunday evenings George is pleas'd to stand;
Contented with a simple tune alone,
‘God save great George our king,’ or ‘Bobbing Joan;’

Whilst cherubs, leaning from their starry height,
Wink at each other, and enjoy the sight:
And Satan, from a lurking hole,
Fond of a seeming-godly soul,
His eyes and ears scarce able to believe,
Laughs in his sleeve.

Stay, Muse—the mention of the German band
Bringeth a tale oppressive to my hand,
Relating to a tribe of German boys,
Whose horrid fortune made some little noise;
Sent for to take of Englishmen the places,
Who, gall'd by such hard treatment, made wry faces.

Sent for they were, to feed in fields of clover,
To feast upon the Coldstream regiment's fat:

382

Swift with their empty stomachs they flew over,
And wider than a Kevenhuller hat.
But, ah! their knives no veal nor mutton carv'd!
To feasts they went indeed, but went and starv'd!
Their masters, raptur'd with the tuneful treat,
Forgot musicians like themselves cou'd eat.
Thus the poor woodcock leaves his frozen shores,
When tyrant winter 'midst his tempests roars:

Invited by our milder sky, he roves;
Views the pure streams with joy, and shelt'ring groves,
And in one hour, oh! sad reverse of fate!
Is shot, and smokes upon a poacher's plate!

Thus ending a sweet episodic strain,
I turn, dear Thomas, to thy Ode again.

What! make a dish to balk thy master's gums!
A pudding, and forget the plums!
Mercy upon us! what a cook art thou!
Dry e'en already!—what a sad milch cow!
Who gav'st, at first, of fame such flowing pails!—
Say, Thomas, what thy lyric udder ails?

Since truth belongs not to the laureat trade,
'Tis strange, 'tis passing strange, thou didst not flatter:
Speak—in light money were thy wages paid?
Or was thy pipe of sack half fill'd with water?
Or hast thou, Tom, been cheated of thy dues?
Or hath a qualm of conscience touch'd thy Muse?

Thou might'st have prais'd for dignity of pride,
Display'd not long ago among the cooks:
Searching the kitchen with sagacious looks;
Wigs, christ'ned cratches, on their heads he spied.

To find a wig on a cook's head
Just like the wig that grac'd his own,
Was verily a sight to dread!—
Enough to turn a king to stone!

383

On which, in language of his very best,
His Majesty his royal ire express'd:
‘How, how! what! cooks wear scratches just like me!—
Strange! strange! yes, yes, I see, I see, I see—
Fine fellows to wear scratches! yes, no doubt—
I'll have no more—no more when mine's worn out—
Hæ? pretty! pretty! pretty too it looks
To see my scratches upon cooks!’

And, lo! as he had threatened all so big,
As soon as ever he wore out the wig,
He with a pig-tail deign'd his head to match!
Nor more profan'd his temples with a scratch!

Thomas, I see my song thy feelings grate—
Thou think'st I'm joking; that the king's my hate.

The world may call me liar, but sincerely
I love him—for a partner, love him dearly;
Whilst his great name is on the ferme, I'm sure
My credit with the public is secure.

Yes, beef shall grace my spit, and ale shall flow,
As long as it continues George and Co.;
That is to say, in plainer metre,
George and Peter.

Yet, as some little money I have made,
I've thoughts of turning 'squire, and quitting trade:
This in my mind I've frequently revolv'd;
And in six months, or so,
For all I know,
The partnership may be dissolv'd.

Whate'er thou think'st—howe'er the world may carp,
Thomas, I'm far from hating our good king;
Yes, yes, or may I thrum no more my harp,
As David swore, who touch'd so well the string—
No! Tom;—the idol of thy sweet devotion
Excites not hate, whatever else th' emotion.

To write a book on the sublime, I own,
Were I a bookseller, I would not hire him:

384

Yet, should I hate the man who fills a throne,
Because, forsooth, I can't admire him?

Hate him, because, ambitious of a name,
He thinks to rival e'en the prince in fame?
A prince of science—in the arts so chaste!—
A giant to him in the world of taste;
Who from an envious cloud one day shall spring,
And prove that dignity may clothe a king.

Who when by fortune fix'd on Britain's throne,
Wherever merit, humble plant, is shown,
Will shed around that plant a fost'ring ray;
Whose hand shall stretch through poverty's pale gloom
For drooping genius, sinking to the tomb,
And lead the blushing stranger into day.

Who scorns (like some) to chronicle a shilling,
Once in a twelvemonth to a beggar giv'n;
By such mean charity (Lord help 'em) willing
To go as cheap as possible to Heav'n!

Hate him, because, untir'd, the monarch pores
On Handel's manuscript old scores,
And schemes successful daily hatches,
For saving notes o'erwhelm'd with scratches;
Recovering from the blotted leaves
Huge cart-horse minims, dromedary breves;
Thus saving damned bars from just damnation,
By way of bright'ning Handel's reputation;
Who, charm'd with ev'ry crotchet Handel wrote,
Heav'd into Tot'nam Street each heavy note;
And forcing on the house the tuneless lumber,
Drove half to doors, the other half to slumber?

Hate him, because the works of Mr. West,
His eye (in wonder lost) unsated views?
Because his walls, with tasteless trumpery drest,
Robs a poor sign-post of its dues?

Hate him, because he cannot rest,
But in the company of West?

385

Because of modern works he makes a jest,
Except the works of Mr. West?

Who by the public, fain would have carest
The works alone of Mr. West!
Who thinks, of painting, truth, and taste, the test,
None but the wondrous works of Mr. West!

Who, as for Reynolds, cannot bear him;
And never suffers Wilson's landscapes near him.

Nor, Gainsb'rough, thy delightful girls and boys,
In rural scenes so sweet, amidst their joys,
With such simplicity as makes us start,
Forgetting 'tis the work of art.
Which wonder and which care of Mr. West
May in a simile be well exprest:—