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] |  |
Who says I hate the king proclaims a lie!
E'en now a royal virtue strikes my eye!
To prove th' assertion, let me just relate
The king's submission to the will of Fate.
E'en now a royal virtue strikes my eye!
To prove th' assertion, let me just relate
The king's submission to the will of Fate.
Whene'er in hunts the monarch is thrown out,
As in his politics—a common thing!
With searching eyes he stares at first about,
Then faces the misfortune like a king!
As in his politics—a common thing!
With searching eyes he stares at first about,
Then faces the misfortune like a king!
Hearing no news of nimble Mr. Stag,
He sits like patience grinning on his nag!
Now, wisdom-fraught, his curious eyeballs ken
The little hovels that around him rise:
To these he trots—of hogs surveys the sties,
And nicely numbers ev'ry cock and hen.
He sits like patience grinning on his nag!
Now, wisdom-fraught, his curious eyeballs ken
The little hovels that around him rise:
To these he trots—of hogs surveys the sties,
And nicely numbers ev'ry cock and hen.
Then asks the farmer's wife or farmer's maid,
How many eggs the fowls have laid!
What's in the oven—in the pot—the crock
Whether 'twill rain or no, and what's o'clock?—
Thus from poor hovels gleaning information,
To serve as future treasure for the nation!
How many eggs the fowls have laid!
What's in the oven—in the pot—the crock
Whether 'twill rain or no, and what's o'clock?—
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To serve as future treasure for the nation!
There, terrier-like, till pages find him out,
He pokes his most sagacious nose about,
And seems in Paradise—like that so fam'd;
Looking like Adam too, and Eve so fair:
Sweet simpletons! who, though so very bare,
‘Were,’ says the Bible, ‘not asham'd.’
He pokes his most sagacious nose about,
And seems in Paradise—like that so fam'd;
Looking like Adam too, and Eve so fair:
Sweet simpletons! who, though so very bare,
‘Were,’ says the Bible, ‘not asham'd.’
No man binds books so well as George the Third,
By thirst of leather glory spurr'd—
At bookbinders he oft is seen to laugh—
And wondrous is the king in sheep or calf!
By thirst of leather glory spurr'd—
At bookbinders he oft is seen to laugh—
And wondrous is the king in sheep or calf!
But see! the Prince upon such labour looks
Fastidious down, and only readeth books!—
Here by the sire the son is much surpass'd;
Which Fame should publish on her loudest blast!
Fastidious down, and only readeth books!—
Here by the sire the son is much surpass'd;
Which Fame should publish on her loudest blast!
The king beats Monmouth Street in cast-off-riches—
That is, in coats, and waistcoats, and in breeches—
Which, draughted once a year for foreign stations,
Make fine recruits to serve some near relations.
That is, in coats, and waistcoats, and in breeches—
Which, draughted once a year for foreign stations,
Make fine recruits to serve some near relations.
But lo! the Prince, shame on him! never dreams,
Of pretty Jewish œconomic schemes!
So very proud (I'm griev'd, O Tom, to tell it),
He'd rather give a coat away than sell it!
Fair justice to the monarch must allow
Prodigious science in a calf or cow;
And wisdom in the article of swine!
What most unusual knowledge for a king!
Because pig-wisdom is a thing
In which no sov'reigns e'er were known to shine.
Of pretty Jewish œconomic schemes!
So very proud (I'm griev'd, O Tom, to tell it),
He'd rather give a coat away than sell it!
Fair justice to the monarch must allow
Prodigious science in a calf or cow;
And wisdom in the article of swine!
What most unusual knowledge for a king!
Because pig-wisdom is a thing
In which no sov'reigns e'er were known to shine.
Yet who will think I am not telling fibs?
The Prince, who Britain's throne in time shall grace,
Ne'er finger'd at a fair a bullock's ribs,
Nor ever ogled a pig's face!
O dire disgrace! O let it not be known
That thus a father hath excell'd a son!
The Prince, who Britain's throne in time shall grace,
Ne'er finger'd at a fair a bullock's ribs,
Nor ever ogled a pig's face!
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That thus a father hath excell'd a son!
Truth bids me own that I can bring
A dozen who admire the king;
And should he dream of setting off for Hanover,
As once he said he wou'd to spite Charles Fox;
Draw all his little money from the stocks,
Shut shop, and carry ev'ry pot and pan over;
A dozen who admire the king;
And should he dream of setting off for Hanover,
As once he said he wou'd to spite Charles Fox;
Draw all his little money from the stocks,
Shut shop, and carry ev'ry pot and pan over;
I think—indeed I'm sure I know,
That dozen would not let him go;
But in the struggle spend their vital breath,
And hug their idol, probably to death;
As happen'd to a Romish priest—a tale
That, whilst I tell it, almost turns me pale.
That dozen would not let him go;
But in the struggle spend their vital breath,
And hug their idol, probably to death;
As happen'd to a Romish priest—a tale
That, whilst I tell it, almost turns me pale.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |