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 |
 | I. |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
The curate of the Huntingtonian band,
Rare breed of gospel-hawks that scour the land,
And fierce on sins their quarry fall,
Dread locusts, that would eat us all:
Rare breed of gospel-hawks that scour the land,
And fierce on sins their quarry fall,
Dread locusts, that would eat us all:
Men who, with new-invented patent eyes,
See Heav'n and all the angels in the skies;
As plain as in the box of showman Swiss,
For little master made, and curious miss,
We see with huge delight the king of France
With all his lords and ladies dance.
See Heav'n and all the angels in the skies;
As plain as in the box of showman Swiss,
For little master made, and curious miss,
We see with huge delight the king of France
With all his lords and ladies dance.
This curate heard th' affair with deep emotion,
And thus exclaim'd, with infinite devotion:
‘O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! O Lord!
Fine doings these, upon my word!
And thus exclaim'd, with infinite devotion:
‘O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! O Lord!
Fine doings these, upon my word!
430
This, truly, is a very pretty thing!
What will become of this most shocking world?
How richly such a rogue deserves to swing,
And then to Satan's hottest flames be hurl'd!
Oh! by this damned deed how I am hurried!
A dog in Christian ground be buried!
And have an epitaph forsooth so civil:
Egad! old maids will presently be found
Clapping their dead ram cats in holy ground,
And writing verses on each mousing devil.’
What will become of this most shocking world?
How richly such a rogue deserves to swing,
And then to Satan's hottest flames be hurl'd!
Oh! by this damned deed how I am hurried!
A dog in Christian ground be buried!
And have an epitaph forsooth so civil:
Egad! old maids will presently be found
Clapping their dead ram cats in holy ground,
And writing verses on each mousing devil.’
Against such future casualty providing,
The priest set off, like Homer's Neptune, striding,
Vowing to put the culprit in the court;
He found him at the spaniel's humble grave;
Not praying, no, nor singing of a stave;
And thus began t'abusehim—not exhort—
The priest set off, like Homer's Neptune, striding,
Vowing to put the culprit in the court;
He found him at the spaniel's humble grave;
Not praying, no, nor singing of a stave;
And thus began t'abusehim—not exhort—
‘Son of the Dev'l, what hast thou done?
Nought for the action can atone—
I should not wonder if the great All-wise
Quick darted down his lightning all so red,
And dash'd to earth that wretched head,
Which dar'd so foul, so base an act devise.
Nought for the action can atone—
I should not wonder if the great All-wise
Quick darted down his lightning all so red,
And dash'd to earth that wretched head,
Which dar'd so foul, so base an act devise.
Bury a dog like Christian folk!—
None but the fiend of darkness could provoke
A man to perpetrate a deed so odd:
Our inquisition soon the tale shall hear,
And quickly your fine fleece shall shear:
Why, such a villain can't believe in God!’
None but the fiend of darkness could provoke
A man to perpetrate a deed so odd:
Our inquisition soon the tale shall hear,
And quickly your fine fleece shall shear:
Why, such a villain can't believe in God!’
‘Softly! my rev'rend sir,’ the 'squire replied—
‘Tray was as good a dog as ever died—
No education could his morals mend—
And what, perhaps, sir, you may doubt,
Before his lamp of life went out,
He order'd you a legacy, my friend.’
‘Tray was as good a dog as ever died—
No education could his morals mend—
And what, perhaps, sir, you may doubt,
Before his lamp of life went out,
He order'd you a legacy, my friend.’
‘Did he?—poor dog!’ the soften'd priest rejoin'd,
In accents pitiful and kind;
‘What! was it Tray? I'm sorry for poor Tray:—
Why, truly, dogs of such rare merit,
Such real nobleness of spirit,
Should not like common dogs be put away.
In accents pitiful and kind;
431
Why, truly, dogs of such rare merit,
Such real nobleness of spirit,
Should not like common dogs be put away.
Well! pray what was it that he gave,
Poor fellow! ere he sought the grave?
I guess I may put confidence, sir, in ye.’—
‘A piece of gold,’ the gentleman reply'd—
‘I'm much oblig'd to Tray,’ the parson cry'd;
So left God's cause, and pocketed the guinea.
Poor fellow! ere he sought the grave?
I guess I may put confidence, sir, in ye.’—
‘A piece of gold,’ the gentleman reply'd—
‘I'm much oblig'd to Tray,’ the parson cry'd;
So left God's cause, and pocketed the guinea.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |