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] |  |
Thus might our monarch, by this dozen men,
Be hugg'd!—and then! and then! and then! and then!
Then what? why then, this direful ill must spring:
I a good subject lose, and thou a king!
Be hugg'd!—and then! and then! and then! and then!
Then what? why then, this direful ill must spring:
I a good subject lose, and thou a king!
No, Tom; no more to strike us with amaze,
Thy courtly tropes of adulation blaze:
Thy courtly tropes of adulation blaze:
394
A setting sun art thou, so mild thy beam!
Thou (like old Ocean's heaving wave no more,
That lifts a ship and fly with equal roar)
Pour'st from thy lyric pipe a sober stream.
Thou (like old Ocean's heaving wave no more,
That lifts a ship and fly with equal roar)
Pour'st from thy lyric pipe a sober stream.
No more we hear the gale of Fame
Wild blust'ring with thy master's name;
No more ideal virtues ride sublime
(Like feathers), on the surge of rhime.
Wild blust'ring with thy master's name;
No more ideal virtues ride sublime
(Like feathers), on the surge of rhime.
But lo the cause! it was the royal will
To bid the tempest of his praise be still:
No more to let his virtues make a rout,
Blown by thy blasts like paper kites about—
To bid the tempest of his praise be still:
No more to let his virtues make a rout,
Blown by thy blasts like paper kites about—
Indeed thy sov'reign in thy verse so fine,
Might justly have exclaim'd at many a line,
‘In peacock's feathers, lo, this knave arrays me.’
And like a king of France of whom I've read,
Our gracious sov'reign also might have said,
‘What have I done that he should praise me.’
Might justly have exclaim'd at many a line,
‘In peacock's feathers, lo, this knave arrays me.’
And like a king of France of whom I've read,
Our gracious sov'reign also might have said,
‘What have I done that he should praise me.’
With pity have I seen thee, song of song,
Trundling thy lyric wheelbarrow along,
Amid'st St. James's gapers to unload
The motley mass of pompous ode;
And wish'd the sack, for verse the annual prize,
To poets of a less renown—
To poor Will Mason, who in secret sighs
To strut beneath the laureat's leaden crown.
Trundling thy lyric wheelbarrow along,
Amid'st St. James's gapers to unload
The motley mass of pompous ode;
And wish'd the sack, for verse the annual prize,
To poets of a less renown—
To poor Will Mason, who in secret sighs
To strut beneath the laureat's leaden crown.
Warm in the praise thou might'st have been,
Of thy great king and his great queen;
But not so diabolically hot—
A downright devil or a pepper-pot.
Of thy great king and his great queen;
But not so diabolically hot—
A downright devil or a pepper-pot.
By dev'l (without thy being born a wizard)
Thou ought'st to know I mean a turkey's gizzard;
So christen'd for its quality, by man,
Because so oft 'tis loaded with kian—
This dev'l is such a red-hot bit of meat
As nothing but the dev'l himself should eat.
Thou ought'st to know I mean a turkey's gizzard;
So christen'd for its quality, by man,
Because so oft 'tis loaded with kian—
This dev'l is such a red-hot bit of meat
As nothing but the dev'l himself should eat.
395
A spoon was large enough, the world well knows!
Why give the pap of praise then with a ladle?
Gently thou should'st have rock'd him to repose—
Not like a drunken nurse o'erturn'd the cradle.
Why give the pap of praise then with a ladle?
Gently thou should'st have rock'd him to repose—
Not like a drunken nurse o'erturn'd the cradle.
I do not marvel that the king was wrath
(Knowing himself no bigger than a lath)
To find himself a tall, gigantic oak—
'Twas too much of a magic-lantern stroke.
(Knowing himself no bigger than a lath)
To find himself a tall, gigantic oak—
'Twas too much of a magic-lantern stroke.
Ah! where was Modesty, the charming maid?
Where was the rural vagrant straying,
Not to admonish thee, an idle jade,
When thou thy tuneful compliments wert paying?
Where was the rural vagrant straying,
Not to admonish thee, an idle jade,
When thou thy tuneful compliments wert paying?
Yet why this question put I, Tom, to thee?
Lord! how we wits forget—she was with me.
Lord! how we wits forget—she was with me.
Dear Modesty (by very few carest)
Oft condescends to be my guest:
From time to time the maid my rhime reviews,
And dictates sweet instructions to the muse.
Oft condescends to be my guest:
From time to time the maid my rhime reviews,
And dictates sweet instructions to the muse.
Yes, frequent deigns my cottage to adorn,
Just like that blushful damsel call'd Miss Morn—
Who smiling from the dreary caves of night,
Moves from her east with silent pace and slow
O'er yonder shadowy mount's gigantic brow,
And to my window steals with dewy light,
Then peeping through the panes with cherub mien,
Seems to ask liberty to enter in.
Just like that blushful damsel call'd Miss Morn—
Who smiling from the dreary caves of night,
Moves from her east with silent pace and slow
O'er yonder shadowy mount's gigantic brow,
And to my window steals with dewy light,
Then peeping through the panes with cherub mien,
Seems to ask liberty to enter in.
Now vent'ring on the sables of my room,
She sweeps the darkness with her star-clad broom:
Now pleas'd a stronger splendour to diffuse,
Smiles on the plated buckles in my shoes;
Smiles on my breeches, too, of handsome plush,
Where George's head once made no gingling sound,
But where amidst the pockets all was hush;
Such awful silence reign'd around!
Whose fob, which thieves so often pick,
Was quite a stranger to a watch's click.
She sweeps the darkness with her star-clad broom:
Now pleas'd a stronger splendour to diffuse,
Smiles on the plated buckles in my shoes;
Smiles on my breeches, too, of handsome plush,
Where George's head once made no gingling sound,
But where amidst the pockets all was hush;
Such awful silence reign'd around!
Whose fob, which thieves so often pick,
Was quite a stranger to a watch's click.
396
Now casting on my pen and ink a ray,
Seeming with sweet reproof to say,
‘The lark to Heav'n her grateful matins sings:
Then, Peter, also ope thy tuneful throat,
And, happy in a fascinating note,
Rise and bewitch the best of kings.’
Seeming with sweet reproof to say,
‘The lark to Heav'n her grateful matins sings:
Then, Peter, also ope thy tuneful throat,
And, happy in a fascinating note,
Rise and bewitch the best of kings.’
Howe'er the world t'abuse me may be giv'n,
I cannot do without crown'd heads, by Heav'n!
Bards must have subjects that their genius suit,—
And if I've not crown'd heads I must be mute.
I cannot do without crown'd heads, by Heav'n!
Bards must have subjects that their genius suit,—
And if I've not crown'd heads I must be mute.
My verse is somewhat like a game at whist;
Which game, though play'd by people e'er so keen,
Cannot with much success, alas! exist,
Except their hands possess a king and queen.
Which game, though play'd by people e'er so keen,
Cannot with much success, alas! exist,
Except their hands possess a king and queen.
I own, my muse delights in royal folk:
Lead-mines, producing many pretty pounds!
Joe Millars, furnishing a fund of joke!
Lo, with a fund of joke a court abounds!
Lead-mines, producing many pretty pounds!
Joe Millars, furnishing a fund of joke!
Lo, with a fund of joke a court abounds!
At royal follies, Lord! a lucky hit
Saves our poor brain th' expense of wit:
At princes let but satire lift his gun,
The more their feathers fly, the more the fun.
E'en the whole world, blockheads and men of letters,
Enjoy a cannonade upon their betters.
Saves our poor brain th' expense of wit:
At princes let but satire lift his gun,
The more their feathers fly, the more the fun.
E'en the whole world, blockheads and men of letters,
Enjoy a cannonade upon their betters.
And, vicé versâ, kings and queens
Know pretty well what scandal means,
And love it too—yes, majesty's a grinner:
Scandal that really would disgrace a stable
Hath oft been beckon'd to a royal table,
And pleas'd a princely palate more than dinner.
Know pretty well what scandal means,
And love it too—yes, majesty's a grinner:
Scandal that really would disgrace a stable
Hath oft been beckon'd to a royal table,
And pleas'd a princely palate more than dinner.
I know the world exclaimeth in this guise:—
‘Suppose a king not over wise
(A vice in kings not very oft suspected),
Suppose he does this childish thing, and this,
If folly constitutes a monarch's bliss,
Shall such by saucy poets stand corrected?
‘Suppose a king not over wise
(A vice in kings not very oft suspected),
Suppose he does this childish thing, and this,
If folly constitutes a monarch's bliss,
Shall such by saucy poets stand corrected?
397
‘Bold is the man,’ old parson Calchas
cries,
‘Who tells a monarch where his error lies.’—
‘Grant that a king in converse cannot shine,
And sharp with shrewd remark a world alarm;
What business, Peter Pindar, is 't of thine?
Grant puerilities—pray where's the harm?—
‘Who tells a monarch where his error lies.’—
‘Grant that a king in converse cannot shine,
And sharp with shrewd remark a world alarm;
What business, Peter Pindar, is 't of thine?
Grant puerilities—pray where's the harm?—
To this I answer, ‘I don't think a king
Will go to hell for ev'ry childish thing—
Yet mind, I think that one in his great station
Should show sublime example to a nation:
Will go to hell for ev'ry childish thing—
Yet mind, I think that one in his great station
Should show sublime example to a nation:
And when an eagle he should spring
To drink the solar blaze on tow'ring wing;
With daring and undazzled eyes;
Not be a sparrow upon chimneys hopping,
His head in holes and corners popping
For flies.’
To drink the solar blaze on tow'ring wing;
With daring and undazzled eyes;
Not be a sparrow upon chimneys hopping,
His head in holes and corners popping
For flies.’
Tom, I'm not griev'd that thou hast chang'd thy note,
And op'd on Windsor wall thy tuneful throat;
For verily it is a rare old mass!
Nor angry that to West thou dost descend;
The king's great painting oracle and friend,
Who teacheth Jervas how to spoil good glass.
And op'd on Windsor wall thy tuneful throat;
For verily it is a rare old mass!
Nor angry that to West thou dost descend;
The king's great painting oracle and friend,
Who teacheth Jervas how to spoil good glass.
But, son of Isis, since amidst this ode,
Thou talk'st of painting, like an ardent lover,
Of panes of glass now daubing over,
Dimming delightfully the great abode;
Thou talk'st of painting, like an ardent lover,
Of panes of glass now daubing over,
Dimming delightfully the great abode;
Speak—know'st thou aught of Raphael's rare cartoons?
I have not seen them, Tom, for many moons!
I have not seen them, Tom, for many moons!
Why didst thou not, amidst thy rhiming fit,
Of those most heav'nly pictures talk a bit—
For which the nation paid down ev'ry souse?
Rare pictures, brought long since from Hampton Court,
And by a self-taught carpenter cut short,
To suit the pannels of the queen's old house.
Of those most heav'nly pictures talk a bit—
For which the nation paid down ev'ry souse?
Rare pictures, brought long since from Hampton Court,
And by a self-taught carpenter cut short,
To suit the pannels of the queen's old house.
398
So says report—I hope it is not true—
And yet I verily believe it too;
It is so like some people I could name,
Whose pericraniums walk a little lame.
Beshrew me, but it brings to mind
A cutting story, much of the same kind!
And yet I verily believe it too;
It is so like some people I could name,
Whose pericraniums walk a little lame.
Beshrew me, but it brings to mind
A cutting story, much of the same kind!
It happ'd at Plymouth town so fair and sweet,
Where wandering gutlers, wandering gutlers meet,
Making in show'rs of rain a monstrous pother;
Bart'ring, like Rag-fair Jews, with one the other,
With carrots, cabbage leaves, and breathless cats,
Potatoes, turnip tops, old rags, and hats:
Where wandering gutlers, wandering gutlers meet,
Making in show'rs of rain a monstrous pother;
Bart'ring, like Rag-fair Jews, with one the other,
With carrots, cabbage leaves, and breathless cats,
Potatoes, turnip tops, old rags, and hats:
A town that brings to mind Swift's city show'r—
Where clouds to wash its face for ever pour—
A town where beau-traps under water grin,
Inviting gentle strangers to walk in;
Where dwell the lady Naiads of the flood,
Prepar'd to crown their visitors with mud.
A town where parsons for the living fight,
On every vacancy, with godly might,
Like wrestlers for lac'd hats and buckskin breeches;
Where oft the priest who best his lungs employs
To make the rarest diabolic noise,
With surest chance of vict'ry preaches:
Whose empty sounds alone his labours bless;
Like cannon fir'd by vessels in distress.
Where clouds to wash its face for ever pour—
A town where beau-traps under water grin,
Inviting gentle strangers to walk in;
Where dwell the lady Naiads of the flood,
Prepar'd to crown their visitors with mud.
A town where parsons for the living fight,
On every vacancy, with godly might,
Like wrestlers for lac'd hats and buckskin breeches;
Where oft the priest who best his lungs employs
To make the rarest diabolic noise,
With surest chance of vict'ry preaches:
Whose empty sounds alone his labours bless;
Like cannon fir'd by vessels in distress.
A town where, exil'd by the higher pow'rs,
The royal tar with indignation lours;
Kept by his sire from London, and from sin,
To say his catechism to Mrs. Wynn.
The royal tar with indignation lours;
Kept by his sire from London, and from sin,
To say his catechism to Mrs. Wynn.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |