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] |  |
But, Thomas, now to those cartoons of fame—
Do ask thy sov'reign in my name
What's to be done with those rare pictures next;
Some months ago, by night, they travell'd down
To the Queen's House in Windsor town,
At which the London folks were vastly vex'd.
Do ask thy sov'reign in my name
What's to be done with those rare pictures next;
Some months ago, by night, they travell'd down
To the Queen's House in Windsor town,
At which the London folks were vastly vex'd.
For if those fine cartoons, as hist'ry says,
Were (much to this great nation's praise)
Bought for the nation's sole inspection;
Unask'd, to suffer any man to feel 'em,
Or suffer any forward dame to steal 'em,
Would be a national reflection.
Were (much to this great nation's praise)
Bought for the nation's sole inspection;
Unask'd, to suffer any man to feel 'em,
Or suffer any forward dame to steal 'em,
Would be a national reflection.
Tom, ask, to Strelitz if they're doom'd to go,
Because the walls are naked there I know—
Strelitz a mouse-hole is, all dark and drear;
And shou'd the pictures be inclin'd to stray,
Not liking Strelitz, they may lose their way,
And ramble to some Hebrew auctioneer:
Because the walls are naked there I know—
Strelitz a mouse-hole is, all dark and drear;
And shou'd the pictures be inclin'd to stray,
Not liking Strelitz, they may lose their way,
And ramble to some Hebrew auctioneer:
401
Where, like poor captur'd negroes in a knot,
The holy wand'rers may be made a lot—
And, like the goods at Garraway's we handle,
Christ and the saints be sold by inch of candle!
The holy wand'rers may be made a lot—
And, like the goods at Garraway's we handle,
Christ and the saints be sold by inch of candle!
Dearly beloved Thomas, to conclude!
(I see thee ready to bawl out ‘amen:’)
Joking apart, don't think me rude
For wishing to instruct thy lyric pen
(I see thee ready to bawl out ‘amen:’)
Joking apart, don't think me rude
For wishing to instruct thy lyric pen
Whether like trout and eels in humble pride,
Along the simple stream of prose we glide;
Or stirring from below a cloud of mud,
Like whales we flounder through the lyric flood;
Or if a past'ral image charm thee more;
Whether the vales of prose our feet explore,
Or rais'd sublime on Ode's aërial steep,
We bound from rock to rock like goats and sheep;
Along the simple stream of prose we glide;
Or stirring from below a cloud of mud,
Like whales we flounder through the lyric flood;
Or if a past'ral image charm thee more;
Whether the vales of prose our feet explore,
Or rais'd sublime on Ode's aërial steep,
We bound from rock to rock like goats and sheep;
Whether we dine with dukes on fifty dishes,
Or, poet-like, against our wishes,
On beef or pork, an œconomic crumb
(Perchance no bigger than our thumb,
Turn'd by a bit of packthread at the fire),
To satisfy our hunger's keen desire;
A good old proverb let us keep in view—
Viz. Thomas, ‘Give the dev'l his due.’
Or, poet-like, against our wishes,
On beef or pork, an œconomic crumb
(Perchance no bigger than our thumb,
Turn'd by a bit of packthread at the fire),
To satisfy our hunger's keen desire;
A good old proverb let us keep in view—
Viz. Thomas, ‘Give the dev'l his due.’
Whether a monarch, issuing high command,
Smiles us to court, and shakes us by the hand;
Or rude bumbailiffs touch us on the shoulder,
And bid our tuneful harps in prison moulder;
Sell not (to meanness sunk) one golden line—
The Muse's incense for a gill of wine.
Smiles us to court, and shakes us by the hand;
Or rude bumbailiffs touch us on the shoulder,
And bid our tuneful harps in prison moulder;
Sell not (to meanness sunk) one golden line—
The Muse's incense for a gill of wine.
This were a poor excuse of thine, my friend—
‘Few are the people that my ode attend:
I'm like a country clock, poor, lonely thing,
That on the staircase, or behind the door,
Cries “Cuckow, cuckow,” just at twelve and four,
And chimes that vulgar tune, “God save the king.”
Oh! if deserting Windsor's lofty tow'rs,
To save a sixpence in his barrack bow'rs,
A monarch shuffles from the world away,
And gives to Folly's whims the bustling day;
From such low themes thy promis'd praise recall,
And sing more wonders of the old mud wall.
‘Few are the people that my ode attend:
I'm like a country clock, poor, lonely thing,
That on the staircase, or behind the door,
Cries “Cuckow, cuckow,” just at twelve and four,
And chimes that vulgar tune, “God save the king.”
402
To save a sixpence in his barrack bow'rs,
A monarch shuffles from the world away,
And gives to Folly's whims the bustling day;
From such low themes thy promis'd praise recall,
And sing more wonders of the old mud wall.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |