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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| XIII. | ODE XIII. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE XIII.
Peter lasheth the Ladies—He turneth Story-teller. Peter grieveth.
Although the ladies with such beauty blaze,
They very frequently my passion raise—
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of taste.
Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,
I heard some damsels fashionably loud;
And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.
They very frequently my passion raise—
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of taste.
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I heard some damsels fashionably loud;
And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.
‘Oh! the dear man!’ cried one, ‘look! here's a bonnet!
He shall paint me—I am determin'd on it—
Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown!
What charming colours! here's fine lace, here's gauze!
What pretty sprigs the fellow draws!
Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!’
He shall paint me—I am determin'd on it—
Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown!
What charming colours! here's fine lace, here's gauze!
What pretty sprigs the fellow draws!
Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!’
‘Ay, cousin,’ cried a second, ‘very true—
And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue!
There's a complexion beats the rouge of Warren!
See those red lips, oh la! they seem so nice!
What rosy cheeks then, cousin to entice!—
Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.
And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue!
There's a complexion beats the rouge of Warren!
See those red lips, oh la! they seem so nice!
What rosy cheeks then, cousin to entice!—
Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.
Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen,
Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:
Pray, don't you think as I do, Coz?
But we'll be painted first, that's poz.’
Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:
Pray, don't you think as I do, Coz?
But we'll be painted first, that's poz.’
Such was the very pretty conversation
That pass'd between the pretty misses,
Whilst unobserv'd the glory of our nation,
Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces.
Works! that a Titian's hand could form alone—
Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.
That pass'd between the pretty misses,
Whilst unobserv'd the glory of our nation,
Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces.
Works! that a Titian's hand could form alone—
Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.
Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye
What lately happen'd—therefore a true story.
What lately happen'd—therefore a true story.
A STORY.
Walking one afternoon along the Strand,My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand
Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.
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Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye.’
‘Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you;
We're just to London come—well, pray how be ye?
We're just a going, while 'tis light,
To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark.
Lord! come, for once, be so polite,
And condescend to be our spark.’
‘With all my heart, my angels.’—On we walk'd,
And much of London—much of Cornwall talk'd.
Now did I hug myself to think
How much that glorious structure would surprise;
How from its awful grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!
As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
St. Paul's just opening on our view,
Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,
Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl,
As if they had been tumbled on the stones,
And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.
After well fright'ning people with their cries,
And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes,
They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun
And clattering all together, thus begun:—
‘Swinge! here are colours then, to please!
Delightful things, I vow to Heav'n!
Why! not to see such things as these,
We never should have been forgiv'n.
Here, here, are clever things—good Lord!
And, sister, here, upon my word—
Here, here!—look! here are beauties to delight:
Why! how a body's heels might dance
Along from Launceston to Penzance,
Before that one might meet with such a sight!’
‘Come, ladies, 'twill be dark,’ cried I—‘I fear:
Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near.’—
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Sure! you're a most incurious soul—
Why—we can see the church another day;
Don't be afraid—St. Paul's can't run away.’
Reader,
If e'er thy bosom felt a thought sublime,Drop tears of pity with the man of rhime!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |