The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE rage for historical pictures in this kingdom, so nobly rewarded by Messrs. Boydell and Macklin, hath, with the great encouragement of two or three of the principal Muses, tempted me to offer subjects to the labourers in the graphic vineyard. When Shakespeare and Milton are exhausted, I may presume that the following Odes, Tales, and Hints, in preference to the labours of any other of our British Bards, may be adopted by the brush of genius.— Had I not thus stepped forward as the champion of my own merit, which is deemed so necessary now a-days for the obtension of public notice, not only b authors, but by têtemakers, persumers, elastic truss, and parliament speech-makers, &c. who in the daily newspapers, are the heralds of their own splendid abilities, I might possibly be passed by without observation, and thus a great part of poetical immortality be sacrificed to a pitiful mauvaise honte.

SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS.

Scene—the Royal Academy.

Peace and good will to this fair meeting!—
I come not with hostility, but greeting—
Not eagle-like to scream, but dove-like coo it—
I come not with the sword of vengeance, rhime,
To slash, and act as journeyman to Time—
The God himself is just arriv'd to do it.

To make each feeble figure a poor corse,
I come not with the shafts of satire sporting
Then view me not like Stubbs's staring horse,
With terror on the approaching lion snorting:
I come to bid the hatchet's labour cease,
And smoke with friends the calumet of peace.

Knight of the polar star, or bear, don't start,
And like some long-ear'd creatures, bray, ‘what art?’
Sir William, shut your ell-wide mouth of terror—
I come not here, believe me, to complain
Of such as dar'd employ thy building brain,
And criticise an œconomic error .

I come not here to call thee knave or fool,
And bid thee seek again Palladio's school;
Or copy heav'n, who form'd thy head so thick,
To give stability to stone and brick;
No—'twould be cruel now to make a rout—
The very stones already have cry'd out.

I come not here, indeed, new cracks to spy,
And call thee for the workmanship hard names;
To point which wing shall next forsake the sky,
And tumble in the Strand, or in the Thames.

Nor come I here to cover thee with shame,
For putting clever Academic men ,
Like calves or pigs, into a pen,
To see the king of England and his dame,

'Midst carts and coaches, golden horse and foot;
'Midst peopled windows, chimneys and old walls;
'Midst marrowbones and cleavers, fife and flute,
Passing in pious pilgrimage to Paul's;

Where, as the show of gingerbread went by,
The rain, as if in mockery from the sky.
Dribbled on ev'ry academic nob,
And wash'd each pigtail smart, and powder'd bob:

Wash'd many a visage, black, and brown, and fair,
Giving to each so picturesque an air;
Resembling that of drooping, rain-soak'd fowls,
Or, what's a better picture, parboil'd owls;
Whilst thou, great Jove upon Olympus aping,
Didst sit majestic, from a window gaping.

O, West! that fix'd and jealous eye forbear,
Which scowling marks the bard with doubt and fear;
Thy forms are sacred from my wrath divine;
'Twere cruel to attack such crippled creatures,
So very, very feeble in their natures,
Already gasping in a deep decline!

I seek them not with scalping thoughts, indeed,
Too great my soul to bid the figures bleed:
No—peace and happiness attend 'em;
Where'er they go, poor imps, God mend 'em.

I come not to impart to thee the crime
Of over dealing in the true sublime;
I scorn with malice thus thy fame to wound;
Nor cruel to declare, and hurt thy trade,
That too divine effects of light and shade
Were ever 'midst thy labours to be sound.

Nor swear to blast an atom of thy merit,
That elegance, expression, spirit,
Too strongly from the canvass blaze;
And damn thee thus with Raphael's praise:
Besides, against the stream I scorn to rush;
The world ne'er said, nor thought it of thy brush.

Were I to write thy epitaph, I'd say,
‘Here lies below a painter's clay,
Who work'd away most furiously for kings,
And prov'd that fire of inclination,
For pleasing the great ruler of a nation,
And fire of genius, are two different things.’

Nor come I here t'inform some men so wise,
Who shine not yet upon the R. A. list,
That limbs in spasms and crack'd and goggling eyes,
With grandeur cannot well exist.

Nay, let it be recorded in my rhime,
Convulsions cannot give the true sublime.

St. Vitus might be virtuous to romance—
Peace to the manes of that capering saint;
Yet let me tell the sons of paint,
Sublimity adorneth not his dance.

Wide saucer eyes, and dire distortion,
Will only make a good abortion.

No, landscape painters, let your gold streams sleep—
Sleep, golden skies and bulls, and golden cows,
And golden groves and vales, and golden sheep,
And golden goats, the golden grass that brouse,

Which with such golden lustre flame,
As beat the very golden frame.
Peace to the scenes of Birmingham's bright school!
Peace to the brighter scenes of Pontypool!

Aw'd I approach, ye sov'reigns of the brush,
With modesty's companion sweet, a blush,
And hesitation nat'ral to her tongue:
And eye so diffident, with beam so mild,
Like Eve's when Adam on her beauties smil'd,
And led her blushing, nothing loath, along,
To give the lady a green gown so sweet,
On beds of roses, love's delicious seat.

Yes, sober, trembling, Quaker-like, I come
To this great dome
To offer subjects to the sons of paint;
Accept the pleasant tales and hints I bring,
Of knight and lord, and commoner and king,
Sweeter than hist'ry of embowell'd saint:
Or martyr beat like Shrovetide cocks with bats,
And fir'd like turpentin'd poor roasting rats.

Inimical as dogs to pigs,
Or wind and rain to powder'd wigs,
Or mud from kennels to a milk-white stocking;
Hostile to Peter's phiz as if a pest,
Why springs the man of hist'ry, Master West,
And cries, ‘Off, off! your tales and hints are shocking;

Inventions—fabrications—lies—damn'd lies;
Kings, and the world besides, thy spite despise!

‘Sir, you're a liar, ev'ry body knows it;
Sir, every stupid stanza shows it;
Sir, you know nothing of a king and queen;
In spheres too high their orbs superior roll
By thy poor little grov'lling, mole-ey'd soul,
Thou outcast of Parnassus! to be seen.

‘Sir, they do honour to their god-like station,
The two first luminaries of the nation,
So meek, good, gen'rous, virtuous, humble, wise;
Whilst thou a savage, a great fool so fat,
Curs'd with a conscience blacker than my hat,
Art rival to that fiend the prince of lies.

‘Go, pour thy venom on my Lear —
A whisper, Hopkins, Sternhold, in thy ear:
King Lear, to mortify thee, goes
Where majesty delights with West to prate,
Much more than ministers of state,
Where thou shalt never show thy nose!

‘Where pages fancy it a heinous crime,
Thou foul-mouth'd fellow, to repeat thy rhime;
Where ev'ry cook, it is my firm belief,
Would nobly make it a religious point,
Rather than put thy trash upon a joint,
To let the fire consuming burn the beef.

‘There's not a shopkeeper in Windsor town
That would not hang thee, shoot thee, stab thee, drown,
That doth not damn thy stuff, thy odes and tales;
That doth not think thy odes would give disease
To ev'ry thing they wrapp'd—to bread, to cheese,
Nay, give contagion to a bag of nails.

‘The very Windsor dogs and cats,
The very Windsor owls and bats,

Would howl and squall, and hoot, and shriek to meet,
Like thee a raggamuffin in the street.

‘The servant maids of Windsor from each shop,
Some pointing brooms, and some a scornful mop,
Their loyal sentiments would disembogue,
And taunting cry, “there goes a lying rogue.”

‘Behold rank impudence thy rhimes inspire;
Consummate insolence thy verse provoke!
Fool! to believe thy muse a muse of fire,—
A chimney-sweeper's drab, a muse of smoke.

‘The very bellman's rhimes possess more merit;
Nay, Nichols' magazine exceeds in spirit:
A printer's devil with conceit so drunk,
Who publishes for gentleman and trunk;

‘Who sets up author on old Bowyer's scraps;
Bowyer, whose pen recorded all the raps
That hungry authors gave to Bowyer's door,
To swell the curious literary store:

‘Who on a purblind antiquarian's back,
A founder'd, broken-winded hack,
Rides out to find old farthings, nails, and bones—
On darkest coins the brightest legend reads,
On traceless copper sees imperial heads,
And makes inscriptions older than the stones.

‘Too bids, to give his customers surprise,
A Druid altar from a pigsty rise.
Yes, Nichols, aping wisdom through his glasses,
Thee, thee Apollo's scavenger, surpasses.

‘Soon shall we see the Fleet thy carcase wring,
Mean thro' the prison grate for farthings angling,
Suspending feet of stockings by a string,
Or glove or nightcap for our bounty dangling:

‘Whilst issuing from thy mouth begrim'd with beard
(Thy pale nose poking through thy prison hole),
The hollow voice of mis'ry will be heard,
“Kind ge'mman, pity a poor hungry soul;

Have pity on a pris'ner's case so shocking—
Good lady, put a farthing in the stocking!’

‘What impudence, thus bold a face to push,
Arm'd with a winking light of paltry rush,
As if with truth's bright torch, into our room!
To dart on ignorance the fancied rays—
To bid of barbarism the empire blaze,
And kind illumine error's midnight gloom.

‘Get out, and pertly don't come troubling me;
A dog is better company than thee.’

I thank ye—much oblig'd t'ye, Master West,
For thoughts so kind, and prettily exprest
Yet won't I be refused, I won't, indeed;
You must, you shall have tale, and ode, and hint;
This memory of mine contains a mint;
And thus, in bold defiance, I proceed.

Yet mind me,—as to our bright king and queen,
Their names are sacred from the poet's spleen—
Peace to their reign! they feel no more my jokes,
Whether to Hanover they wisely roam,
Or full as wisely count their cash at home,
My satire shall not hurt the gentlefolks.

Pleas'd in a hut to broil my mutton bone,
I sigh not for the ven'son of a throne:
Nay, slavery doth not with my pride agree;
A toad eater's an imp I don't admire;
Nor royal small-talk doth my soul desire—
I've seen my sovereigns—that's enough for me.

A large portion of the Royal Academy, raised at an extraordinary expense, fell to the ground lately; but as the knight is a favourite at court, no harm is done. The nation is able to rear it again, which will be a benefit ticket in Sir William's way.

Sir William actually gave orders for the nonadmission of the Royal Academicians into the academy, to see the royal procession to St. Paul's, as he had some women and children of his acquaintance who wished to see the show. Half a dozen boards were; consequently ordered to be put together on the outside of the building for their reception.

A pretty iron-staring sketch now in the exhibition,

A thousand themes for canvass I could name,
To give the artist beef and fame:

Lo! Hodsell in his country seat so fine,
Where, 'midst his tulips, grin stone apes with parrots,
Where Neptune foams along a bed of carrots,
Instead of cleaving through his native brine.

Where Phœbus strikes to cabbages his strings,
Where love o'er garlic waves his purple wings,
Where Mars to vanquish beets heroic leans:
And, arm'd with lightnings, with terrific eyes,
The great and mighty Ruler of the skies,
Sublimely thunders through a bed of beans;

Close by whose side the haymakers are mating,
And Dutchmen to their knees in onions skaiting.

A mighty warrior, in the House of Lords,
Swallowing, alas! a bitter, bitter pill;
Eating, poor man, his own sad words,
Exceedingly against his noble will;

Whilst Rawdon by his side, with martial face,
Commandeth him to swallow with a grace;
Would make an interesting scene, indeed,
And show the courage of King Charles's breed!

How like a doctor, forcing down the throat
Of some poor puling child a dose of salts,
At which its little soul revolts,
With wriggling limbs, wry mouths, and piteous note;
Yet forc'd to take the formidable purge,
Or taste a bitt'rer dose, the threat'ned scourge!

Or Richmond , watchful of the state's salvation,
Sprinkling his ravelins o'er the nation;

Now buying leathern boxes up by tons,
Improving thus the nature of great guns;
Guns blest with double natures, mild and rough,
To give a broadside, or a pinch of snuff.
Or Richmond at the enormous reck'ning struck,
At Portsmouth battling hard about a duck.

A certain high and mighty duchess,
Hugging her husband in her cat-like clutches,
Biting and tearing him with brandy zeal;
Whose flax in heaps is seen to fly around,
Whilst he, pale wight, emits a plaintive sound,
Like animals that furnish man with veal;

Would make another pleasing scene,
Showing the mettle of an arrant quean;
Longing to shine a first-rate star at court,
For satire's pen a subject of rare sport;
Longing to purify a luckless blood,
Deep-stain'd and smelling of its native mud.

The valiant Gloster at the army's head,
Drawn as the glorious Macedonian youth;
In battle galloping o'er hills of dead,
Would glow with such an air of truth!—

Not on a jackass mounted, but a steed
Of old Bucephalus's breed.

The duke absolutely ordered cannon to be made of leather, from a snuff-box maker, which, at Woolwich, on Saturday the second day of May, 1789, were seriously tried, and, like many a nobleman, found too soft.

At Portsmouth his grace, not long since, bespoke a dinner for a few friends; and because no impression had been made on a roasted duck, Charles Lenox, Duke of Richmond, Earl of March, Master General of the Ordnance, Lord Lieutenant and Custos Rotulorum of the County of Sussex, Duke of Lenox in Scotland, and Aubigny in France, Knight of the most noble order of the Garter, &c., thought it a grievous imposition, and consequently ordered the landlord of the inn to deduct the eighteen pence, the price of the duck, from the bill, which was done accordingly.

Salisb'ry examining the iron hands
Of Fame's and sweet St. Giles's blackguard bands,
That clap our kings to parliament and play—
Salisb'ry, too, gauging all their gaping throats,
Exciseman-like, to find the best for notes,
That money mayn't be thrown away:

Resolv'd from those same legions of vulgarity,
To get full pennyworths of popularity;
Resolv'd his master shall be fairly treated,
And not, as usual, by his servants cheated.

Suppose to give this humour-loving isle
A pretty opportunity to smile,
You paint the Solomon of yon fam'd place ,
Where fair philosophy, the heav'nly dame,
By barb'rous usage cover'd deep with shame,
No longer shows her exil'd face:
Where cent. per cent. in value rise,
Toads, tadpols, grasshoppers, and flies.

Suppose you paint Sir Joseph all so blest,
With many a parasitical dear guest,
Swoll'n by their flatt'ries like a bladder big,
Throwing away of learning such a waste,
And proving his superior classic taste,
By swallowing the sumen of a pig.

Pitt trying to unclench Britannia's fist,
Imploring money for a king;
Telling most mournful tales of civil list,
The lady's tender heart to wring.

Tales of expense in doctors' bills,
High price of blisters, bolusses, and pills,
Long journey to St. Paul's t'oblige the nation,
And give God thanks for restoration:
Britannia with arch look the while,
Partaking strongly of a smile,
Pointing to that huge dome , the nation's wealth;
Where people sometimes place their cash by stealth,
And all so modest with their secret store,
Inform the world they're poor, ah, very poor.

The Royal Society.

The Bank of England.

Brudenell and Symonds with each other vying,
Sweet youths! for little Norman's favours sighing,
A picturesque effect would form;
That hugging mother for the daughter's charms
This with the yielding damsel in his arms,
Taking the citadel by storm;
That running with the girl in triumph off,
This with the dog, the mother, and the muff.

Lord B. and Sir Richard S.s's contest for the charming prize is well known to the Opera House.

A pretty black-eyed figurante at the Opera.

A great law chief, whom God nor demon scares,
Compell'd to kneel and pray , who swore his pray'rs,

The dev'l behind him pleas'd and grinning,
Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder,
Declaring nought was ever bolder,
Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckon'd rare,
Which proves what blood-game infidels can dare;
Which to my mem'ry brings a fact,
Which nothing but an English tar would act—

In ships of war on Sundays pray'rs are given;
For though so wicked, sailors think on Heav'n,
Particularly in a storm;
Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk,
Their souls are in a miserable funk,
Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform,
If in his goodness only once, once more,
He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs,
They ne'er on week-days pester Heav'n with pray'rs;
For 'tis amongst the jacks a common saying,
‘Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying.’

One Sunday morning all were met
To hear the parson preach and pray,
All but a boy, who, willing to forget
That pray'rs were handing out, had stol'n away;
And, thinking praying but a useless task,
Had crawl'd to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon
The boatswain's cat sagacious smelt him out;
Gave him a clawing to some tune—
This cat's a cousin German to the knout .

‘Come out, you sculking dog,’ the boatswain cry'd,
‘And save your damn'd young sinful soul:’
He then the moral-mending cat apply'd,
And turn'd him like a badger from his hole.

Sulky the boy march'd on, and did not mind him,
Although the boatswain flogging kept behind him:
‘Flog,’ cried the boy, ‘flog—curse me, flog away—
I'll go—but mind—God d*mn me if I'll pray.’

On the thanksgiving day at St. Paul's.

A common punishment in Russia.

THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE.

IN sev'nteen hundred sev'nty-eight,
The rich, the proud, the potent king of Spain,
Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite
The peaceful natives of the western main,
With faggots and the blood-delighting sword,
To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!

For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling,
Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling,
Was thought Heav'ns cause amazingly to further;
For which most pious reason, hard to work
They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork,
To charm the God of Mercy with their murther!

I say, this king in sev'nty-eight survey'd,
In tapestry so rich, portray'd
A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle:
Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch try'd
To fix his foot the palfry to bestride;
In vain!—he could not o'er the palfry straddle!

Stiff as a Turk the beast of yarn remain'd,
And ev'ry effort of the king disdain'd,
Who, 'midst his labours, to the ground was tumbled,
And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.

Prodigious was the struggle of the day,
The horse attempted not to run away;
At which the poor chaf'd monarch now 'gan grin
And swore by ev'ry saint and holy martyr,
He would not yield the traitor quarter,
Until he got possession of his skin.

Not fiercer fam'd La Mancha's knight,
Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show,
Did with more valour stoutly fight,
And terrify each little squeaking foe;
When bold he pierc'd the lines, immortal fray!
And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabb'd their hearts of hay.

Not with more energy and fury
The beauteous street-walker of Drury
Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade,
Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile,
Ah me! her paramour beguile,
And to her bed of healthy straw persuade;
Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl,
And snails with silver traces deck the wall.
And now a cane, and now a whip he us'd,
And now he kick'd, and sore the palfry bruis'd;
Yet, lo, the horse seem'd patient at each kick,
And bore with Christian spirit whip and stick;
And what excessively provok'd this prince,
The horse so stubborn scorn'd ev'n once to wince.

Now rush'd the monarch for a bow and arrow,
To shoot the rebel like a sparrow;
And, lo, with shafts well steel'd, with all his force,
Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!

Now with the fury of the chaf'd wild boar,
With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore;
Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast;
Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dar'd rebel,
Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell,
Pleas'd on the quadruped his eyes to feast

Blest as Achilles when with fatal wound
He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.

Yet more to gratify his god-like ire,
He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire!
Showing his pages round, poor trembling things,
How dang'rous to resist the will of kings.

LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH.

A LORD, most musically mad,
Yet with a taste superlatively bad,
Ask'd a squeal eunuch to his house one day—
A poor old semivir, whose throat
Had lost his love-resounding note,
Which art had giv'n, and time had stol'n away.

‘Signor Squalini,’ with a solemn air,
The lord began, grave rising from his chair,
Taking Squalini kindly by the hand;
‘Signor Squalini, much I fear
I've got a most unlucky ear,
And that 'tis known to all the music band.

Fond of abuse, each fiddling coxcomb carps,
And, true it is, I don't know flats from sharps:
Indeed, Signor Squalini, 'tis no hum;
So ill doth music with my organs suit,
I scarcely know a fiddle from a flute,
The hautbois from the double drum.

Now though with lords a number of this nation,
I go to op'ras, more through fashion
Than for the love of music, I could wish
The world might think I had some little taste,
That those two ears were tolerably chaste,
But, sir, I am as stupid as a fish.

Get me the credit of a cognoscente,
Gold shan't be wanting to content ye.’—

‘Bravissimo! my lor,’ replied Squalini,
With acquiescent bow, and smile of suavity,
De nobleman muss never look de ninny.’—
‘True,’ cry'd the noble lord, with German gravity.

‘My lor, ven men vant money in der purse,
Dey do not vant de vorld to tink dem poor,
Because, my lor, dat be von shabby curse;
Dis all same ting wid ignorance, my lor.’—

‘Right,’ cry'd his lordship in a grumbling tone,
Much like a mastiff jealous of his bone.

‘But first I want some technicals, signor’—
Bowing, the eunuch answered—‘Iss, my lor;
I teash your lorship queekly, queekly, all,
Dere vat be call de sostenuto note,
Dat be ven singer oppen vide de troat,
And den for long time make de squawl—
Mush long, long note, dat do continue while
A man, my lor, can valk a mile.

My lor, der likewise be de cromatique,
As if de singer vas in greef, or sick,
And had de colic—dat be ver, ver fine:
De high, oh, dat musician call soprano;
De low voice, basso; de soff note, piano—
Bravoura, queek, bold—here Marchesi shine.

Dis Mara, too, and Billington, do know—
Allegro, quick; adagio, be de slow:
Pomposo, dat be manner make de roar:
Maestoso, dat be grand and nobel ting,
Mush like de voice of emperor, or de king;
Or you, my lor,
When in de house you make de grand oration,
For save, my lor, de noble Englis nation.’

Thus having giv'n his lesson, and a bow,
With high complacency his lordship smil'd:

Unravell'd was his lordship's pucker'd brow,
His scowling eye, like Luna's beams, so mild:

Such is th' effect, when flatteries sweet cajole
That praise-admiring wight yclep'd the soul;
And from the days of Adam 'tis the case,
That great's the sympathy 'twixt soul and face.

‘Signor Squalini,’ cry'd the lord,
‘The op'ra is begun, upon my word—
Allons, signor, and hear me—mind,
As soon as ever you shall find
A singer's voice above or under pitch,
Just touch my toe, or give my arm a twitch.’

‘Iss, iss, my lor,’ the eunuch straight reply'd,
I sheet close by your lorship's side;
And den, accordin to your lorship wish,
I give your lorship elbow little twish.’

Now to the opera, music's sounds to hear,
The old castrato and the noble peer
Proceeded—near the orchestra they sat,
Before the portals of the singers' throats!
The critic couple mousing for bad notes
With all the keenness of a hungry cat.

Now came an out-of-tunish note—
The eunuch twitch'd his lordship's coat:
Full-mouth'd at once his lordship roar'd out ‘Psha!’
The orchestra, amaz'd, turn round
To find from whence arose the critic sound,
When, lo! they heard the lord, and saw!

The eunuch kept most slily twitching,
His frowning lordship all the while,
(Not in the cream of courtly style)
Be-dogging this poor singer, that be-bitching,
Uniting too, a host of damning pshas,
And reap'd a plenteous harvest of applause:—
Grew from that hour a lord of tuneful skill,
And though the eunuch's dead, remains so still.

TO THE ACADEMICIANS.

SUPPOSE you paint the Dev'l with smiling mien,
Whisp'ring deceit to any king or queen,
'Tis what the prince of soot hath often done—
For lo, with many a king and many a queen,
In close confab the gentleman is seen—
With such hath Satan oft a world of fun—
More fun, or diadems are much bely'd,
Than all the little under world beside.

The Dev'l's a fellow of much sterling humour,
If we may credit public rumour,
And all so civil in each act and look,
That whensoever we incline
On some rare dish of sin to dine,
We can't employ a nicer cook.

Who, too, so generous disdains
To take a sixpence for his pains—.
Nay, at our money would be vext;
Happy to please us gratis with his art,
Provided, when from this world we depart,
We join his fire-side in the next.

Like Gloucester, who for pay can leave his party,
Some years ago I join'd his corps so hearty,
Thinking the Prince of Erebus ill treated:
Fir'd by the subject, in my rhiming mode
I complimented Satan with an ode,
Which, for the brushmen's sake, shall be repeated.

ODE TO THE DEVIL.

Ingratum Odi.

PRINCE of the dark abodes! I ween
Your highness ne'er till now hath seen
Yourself in metre shine;
Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere,
Sweet warbled in your smutty ear,
Before this Ode of mine.

Perhaps the reason is too plain,
Thou triest to starve the tuneful train,
Of potent verse afraid;
And yet I vow, in all my time
I've not beheld a single rhime
That ever spoil'd thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims—
John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns,
That chant of heav'nly riches.
What have they done?—those heav'nly strains,
Devoutly squeez'd from canting brains,
But fill'd John's earthly breeches?

There's not a shoeblack in the land,
So humbly at the world's command,
As thy old cloven foot;
Like lightning dost thou fly, when call'd,
And yet no pickpocket's so maul'd
As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin,
With supplication call thee in,
To aid them to pursue it;
Yet, when detected, with a lie
Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry,
‘The Devil made me do it!’

Behold the fortunes that are made
By men through roguish tricks in trade!
Yet all to thee are owing—
And though we meet it every day,
The sneaking rascals dare not say,
This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company, I'm sure
No man can shun thee on that score;
The very best is thine:
With kings, queens, ministers of state,
Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great,
And many a grave divine.

I'm sorely griev'd at times to find,
The very instant thou art kind,
Some people so uncivil,
When aught offends, with face awry,
With base ingratitude to cry,
‘I wish it to the Devil.’

Hath some poor blockhead got a wife,
To be the torment of his life,
By one eternal yell—
The fellow cries out coarsely, ‘Zounds,
I'd give this moment twenty pounds
To see the jade at hell.’

Shou'd Heav'n their prayers so ardent grant,
Thou never company wouldst want
To make thee downright mad;
For mind me, in their wishing mood,
They never offer thee what's good,
But every thing that's bad.

My honest anger boils to view
A snuffling, long-fac'd, canting crew,
So much thy humble debtors,
Rushing, on Sundays, one and all,
With desp'rate pray'rs thy head to maul,
And thus abuse their betters.

To seize one day in every week,
On thee their black abuse to wreak,
By whom their souls are fed
Each minute of the other six,
With ev'ry joy that heart can fix,
Is impudence indeed!

Blushing I own thy pleasing art
Hath oft reduc'd my vagrant heart,
And led my steps to joy—
The charms of beauty have been mine;
And let me call the merit thine,
Who brought'st the lovely toy.

No, Satan—if I ask thy aid,
To give my arms the blooming maid,
I will not, through the nation all,
Proclaim thee (like a graceless imp)
A vile old good-for-nothing pimp,
But say, ‘'tis thy vocation, Hal.’

Since truth must out—I seldom knew
What 'twas high pleasure to pursue,
Till thou hadst won my heart—
So social were we both together,
And beat the hoof in ev'ry weather,
I never wish'd to part.

Yet when a child—good Lord! I thought
That thou a pair of horns hadst got,
With eyes like saucers staring!
And then a pair of ears so stout,
A monstrous tail and hairy snout,
With claws beyond comparing.

Taught to avoid the paths of evil,
By day I us'd to dread the Devil,
And trembling when 'twas night,
Methought I saw thy horns and ears,
Then sung or whistled to my fears,
And ran to chase my fright.

And every night I went to bed,
I sweated with a constant dread,
And crept beneath the rug:
There panting, thought that in my sleep
Thou slily in the dark wouldst creep,
And eat me, though so snug.

A haberdasher's shop is thine,
With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine,
To suit both man and maid:
Thy wares they buy, with open eyes;
How cruel then, with constant cries,
To vilify thy trade!

To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath—
Life's deem'd a mawkish dish of broth
Without thy aid, old sweeper:
So mawkish, few will put it down,
E'en from the cottage to the crown,
Without thy salt and pepper.

O Satan, whatsoever geer
Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear,
Black, red, or blue, or yellow;
Whatever hypocrites may say,
They think thee (trust my honest lay)
A most bewitching fellow.

'Tis order'd (to deaf ears, alas!)
To praise the bridge o'er which we pass;
Yet often I discover
A numerous band who daily make
An easy bridge of thy poor back,
And damn it when they're over.

Why art thou then with cap in hand,
Obsequious to a graceless band,
Whose souls are scarce worth taking;
O prince, pursue but my advice,
I'll teach your highness in a trice
To set them all a-quaking.

Plays, op'ras, masquerades, destroy;
Lock up each charming fille de joie;
Give race-horses the glander—
The dice-box break, and burn each card—
Let virtue be its own reward,
And gag the mouth of slander;

In one week's time, I'll lay my life,
There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife,
That will not glad agree,
If thou wilt charm 'em as before,
To show their nose at church no more,
But quit their God for thee.

'Tis now full time my ode should end;
And now I tell thee, like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee;
Thy ways are all so wondrous winning,
And folks so very fond of sinning,
They cannot do without thee.

THE TENDER HUSBAND.

LO, to the cruel hand of fate,
My poor dear Grizzle, meek-soul'd mate,
Resigns her tuneful breath—
Though dropp'd her jaw, her lip though pale,
And blue each harmless finger nail,
She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep—
How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite—
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And car'd a single fig for no man,
I thought he fear'd to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet capriccio sung,
And beat in sounds the spheres?
No longer must those fingers play
‘Britons strike home,’ that many a day,
Hath sooth'd my ravish'd ears?

Ah me! indeed I'm much inclin'd
To think I now may speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,
And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause—
How wonderful are nature's laws,
When ladies' breath retires,
Its fate the flaming passions share,
Supported by a little air,
Like culinary fires!

Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note,
Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat,
And loud instructive lungs:
O Death, in her, though only one,
Are lost a thousand charms unknown,
At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh,
And saw her gently-closing eye,
How great was my surprise!
Yet have I not, with impious breath,
Accus'd the hard decrees of death,
Nor blam'd the righteous skies.

Why do I groan in deep despair,
Since she'll be soon an angel fair?
Ah! why my bosom smite?
Could grief my Grizzle's life restore?—
But let me give such ravings o'er—
Whatever is, is right.

Oh, doctor! you are come too late;
No more of physic's virtue prate,
That could not save my lamb:
Not one more bolus shall be giv'n—
You shall not ope her mouth by heav'n,
And Grizzle's gullet cram.

Enough of bolusses, poor heart!
And pills, she took, to load a cart,
Before she clos'd her eyes;
But now my word is here a law,
Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw,
She shall not seek the skies.

Good sir, good doctor, go away;
To hear my sighs you must not stay,
For this my poor lost treasure:
I thank you for your pains and skill;
When next you come, pray bring your bill;
I'll pay it, sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom,
For God's sake gently tread the room,
Nor call her from the blest—
In softest silence drop the tear,
In whispers breathe the fervent pray'r,
To bid her spirit rest.

Repress the sad, the wounding scream:
I cannot bear a grief extreme—
Enough one little sigh—
Besides, the loud alarm of grief,
In many a mind may start belief,
Our noise is all a lie.

Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care;
Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare;
Her mouth, ah! slowly close;
Her mouth a magic tongue that held—
Whose softest tone, at times, compell'd,
To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake,
Of stoutest oak her coffin make—
I'd not be stingy, sure—
Procure of steel the strongest screws;
For who would paltry pence refuse
To lodge his wife secure?

Ye people who the corpse convey,
With caution tread the doleful way,
Nor shake her precious head;
Since fame reports a coffin tost,
With careless swing against a post,
Did once disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, for ever lost;
Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost,
That I again will woo—
By all our past delights, my dear,
No more the marriage chain I'll wear,
P*x take me if I do!

THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY.

A TALE.

A SOLDIER at Loretto's wondrous chapel,
To parry from his soul the wrath divine,
That follow'd mother Eve's unlucky apple,
Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine;

Who ev'ry day is gorgeously deck'd out,
In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small,
Just like a fine young lady for a rout,
A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball.

At first the soldier at a distance kept,
Begging her vote and interest in heav'n—
With seeming bitterness the sinner wept,
Wrung his two hands, and hop'd to be forgiv'n:
Dinn'd her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery;
Declar'd what miracles the dame could do,
Ev'n with her garter, stocking, or her shoe,
And such-like wonder-working mummery.

What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner,
Who nearly, and more nearly mov'd to win her,
The mouth of hist'ry doth not mention,
And therefore I can't tell but by invention.

One day as he was making love and praying,
And pious aves, thick as herrings, saying,
And sins so manifold confessing;
He drew, as if to whisper, very near,
And twitch'd a pretty diamond from her ear,
Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.

Then off he set with nimble shanks,
Nor once turn'd back to give her thanks:
A hue and cry the thief pursu'd,
Who, to his cost, soon understood
That he was not beyond the claw
Of that same long-arm'd giant christen'd Law.

With horror did his judges quake—
As for the tender-conscienc'd jury,
They doom'd him quickly to the stake,
Such was their dev'lish pious fury,
However, after calling him hard names,
They ask'd if aught he had in vindication,
To save his wretched body from the flames,
And sinful soul from terrible damnation.

The soldier answered them with much sang froid,
Which show'd, of sin, a conscience void,
That if they meant to kill him, they might kill:
As for the diamond which they found about him,
He hop'd they would by no means doubt him,
That madam gave it him from pure good will.

The answer turn'd both judge and jury pale:
The punishment was for a time deferr'd,
Until his holiness should hear the tale,
And his infallibility be heard.

The pope, to all his counsellors, made known
This strange affair—to cardinals and friars,
Good pious gentlemen, who ne'er were known
To act like hypocrites, and thieves, and liars.

The question now was branded to and fro,
If Mary had the pow'r to give or no.

That Mary could not give it, was to say,
The wonder-working lady wanted pow'r—
This was a stumbling block that stopp'd the way—
This made pope, cardinals, and friars low'r.

To save the Virgin's credit, lo!
And keep secure the di'monds that were left;
They said, she might, indeed, the gem bestow,
And consequently it might be no theft:

But then they pass'd immediately an act,
That ev'ry one discovered in the fact,
Of taking presents from the Virgin's hand,
Or from the saints of any land,
Should know no mercy, but be led to slaughter,
Flay'd here, and fry'd eternally hereafter.

Ladies, I deem the moral much too clear
To need poetical assistance;
Which bids you not let men approach too near,
But keep the saucy fellows at a distance:
Since men you find, so bold, are apt to seize
Jewels from ladies even upon their knees!

AN ODE TO EIGHT CATS,

Belonging to Israel Mendez, a Jew.

SCENE—The Street in a Country Town.
The Time, Midnight—the Poet at his Chamber Window.

SINGERS of Israel, oh ye singers sweet,
Who, with your gentle mouths from ear to ear,
Pour forth rich symphonies from street to street,
And to the sleepless wretch the night endear;

Lo! in my shirt, on you these eyes I fix,
Admiring much the quaintness of your tricks;
Your friskings, crawlings, squalls, I much approve;
Your spittings, pawings, high-rais'd rumps,
Swell'd tails, and merry-andrew jumps,
With the wild minstrelsy of rapt'rous love.

How sweetly roll your gooseb'rry eyes,
As loud you tune your am'rous cries,
And, loving, scratch each other black and blue!
No boys in wantonness now bang your backs,
No curs, nor fiercer mastiffs, tear your flax,
But all the moonlight world seems made for you.

Singers of Israel, you no parsons want
To tie the matrimonial cord;
You call the matrimonial service, cant—
Like our first parents, take each other's word:
On no one ceremony pleas'd to fix—
To jump not even o'er two sticks.

You want no furniture, alas!
Spit, spoon, dish, frying-pan, nor ladle;
No iron, pewter, copper, tin or brass;
No nurses, wet or dry, nor cradle,
Which custom, for our Christian babes, enjoins,
To rock the staring offspring of your loins.

Nor of the lawyers have you need,
Ye males, before you seek your bed,
To settle pin-money on madam:
No fears of cuckoldom, heav'n bless ye,
Are ever harbour'd to distress ye,
Tormenting people since the days of Adam.

No schools you want for fine behaving,
No powdering, painting, washing, shaving,
No nightcaps snug—no trouble in undressing
Before you seek your strawy nest,
Pleas'd in each other's arms to rest,
To feast on love, heav'n's greatest blessing.

Good gods! ye sweet love-chanting rams!
How nimble are you with your hams
To mount a house, to scale a chimney-top;
And peeping down that chimney's hole,
Pour in a tuneful cry th' impassion'd soul,
Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up:

Who, sweet obliging female, far from coy,
Answers your invitation note with joy,
And scorning 'midst the ashes more to mope;
Lo! borne on love's all-daring wing,
She mounteth with a pickle-herring spring,
Without th' assistance of a rope.

Dear mousing tribe, my limbs are waxing cold—
Singers of Israel sweet, adieu, adieu!
I do suppose you need not now be told
How much I wish that I was one of you.

SONG TO DELIA.

FORLORN I seek the silent scene
To keep the image of my fair;
Pale o'er the fountain's brink I lean,
And view the spectre of despair.

Why should my heart forget its woe?
The virgin would have mourn'd for me—
O nymph, th' eternal tear shall flow;
The sigh unceasing breathe of thee.

Forgetful of his parted maid,
Too many an unfeeling swain
Forsakes of solitude the shade,
For pleasure's gay and wanton train.

Yet, yet of constancy they boast!—
Their easy hearts their tongues belie—
Who loves, reveres the fair one's ghost,
And seeks a pleasure in a sigh.

SIR J. BANKS AND THE THIEFTAKERS.

SIR Joseph, fav'rite of great queens and kings,
Whose wisdom, weed and insect hunter sings;
And ladies fair applaud, with smile so dimpling;
Went forth one day, amidst the laughing fields,
Where nature such exhaustless treasure yields,
A simpling!

It happen'd on the self-same morn so bright,
The nimble pupils of Sir Sampson Wright,
A simpling too for plants call'd thieves, proceeded:
Of which the nation's field should oft be weeded.

Now did a thieftaker so sly,
Peep o'er a hedge with cunning eye,
And quick espy'd the knight with solemn air,
Deep in a ditch where watercresses grow;
On which he to his comrades cry'd, ‘See, ho!’
Then jump'd (unsportsman like) upon his hare.

Hare-like Sir Joseph did not squeak, but bawl'd,
With dread prodigiously appall'd—
The thieftakers no ceremony us'd;
But taking poor Sir Joseph by the neck,
They bade him speak;
But first with names their captive knight abus'd.

‘Sir, what d'ye take me for?’ the knight exlaim'd—
‘A thief!’ reply'd the runners with a curse:
‘And now, sir, let us search you, and be damn'd!’
And then they search'd his pockets, fobs, and purse:

But 'stead of pistol dire, and crape,
A pocket-handkerchief they cast their eye on,
Containing frogs and toads of various shape,
Dock, daisy, nettletop, and dandelion,
To entertain, with great propriety,
The members of his sage Society:
Yet would not alter they their strong belief,
That this their pris'ner was no thief!

‘Sirs, I'm no highwayman,’ exclaim'd the knight—
‘No—there,’ rejoin'd the runners, ‘you are right—
A footpad only—Yes, we know your trade—
Yes, you're a pretty babe of grace:
We want no proofs, old codger, but your face;
So come along with us, old blade.’

'Twas useless to resist, or to complain—
In vain, Sir Joseph pleaded—'twas in vain
That he was highly titled, that he swore—
The instant that poor Banks his titles counted,
Which to an F. R. S. and knight amounted,
His guardians laugh'd, and clapp'd, and cry'd ‘encore!’

Sir Joseph told them, that a neighb'ring 'squire
Should answer for it that he was no thief:
On which they plumply damn'd him for a liar,
And said such stories should not save his beef;
And if they understood their trade,
His mittimus would soon be made;
And forty pounds be theirs, a pretty sum,
For sending such a rogue to kingdom come.

Now to the 'squire mov'd pris'ner knight and Co.
The runners taking him in tow,
Like privateers of Britain's warlike nation,
Towing a French East-Indiaman, their prize,
So black, and of enormous size,
Safe into port for condemnation.

Whether they tied his hands behind his back,
For fear the knight might run away,
And made, indelicate, his breeches slack,
We've no authority to say.

And now the country people gather'd round,
And star'd upon the knight in thought profound,
Not on the system of Linnæus thinking—
Fancying they saw a rogue in ev'ry feature;—
Such is the populace's horrid nature
Tow'rds people through misfortune sinking.

At length amidst much mob and mire,
Indeed amidst innumerable ranks,
Fatigu'd, they reach'd the mansion of the 'squire,
To prove th' identity of Joseph Banks.

Now to the 'squire, familiar bow'd the knight,
Who knew Sir Joseph at first sight—
What's strongly mark'd, is quickly known agen—
And with a frown that awe and dread commanded,
The thieftakers severely reprimanded
For thus mistaking gentlemen.

Then bade them ask a pardon on their knees,
Of him that was a knight and F. R. S.—

Who, rather than the higher pow'rs displease,
Imagin'd that they could not well do less—

Then on their knuckles rais'd they hands and eyes,
And crav'd Sir Joseph's pardon for belief,
That when they jump'd upon him by surprise,
They took so great a gemman for a thief,
Hoping to mind th' advice of godly books,
Viz. not to judge of people by their looks.

SOLOMON AND THE MOUSETRAP.

A MAN in rather an exalted station,
Whose eyes are always eyes of admiration,
Without distinction, fond of all things novel,
Ev'n from the lofty sceptre to the shovel—
Just like stray'd bullocks saunt'ring thro' the lanes,
Made frequent curiosity campaigns;
Sometimes caught grasshoppers—now more profound,
Would sometimes find a pin upon the ground;
Where if the head towards him happ'd to point,
His mind was wonderfully struck—
Indeed he felt a joy in ev'ry joint,
Because it always brings good luck.

This gentleman, hight Solomon, one day
In quest of novelty pursu'd his way;
Like great Columbus, that fam'd navigator,
Who found the world we've lost across the water;
But rather on a somewhat narrower scale,
Lo! on dry land the gentleman set sail—
That day it chanc'd to be his will,
To make discoveries at Salthill;
Where bounce he hopp'd into a widow's house,
Whose hands were both employ'd so clever,

Doing their very best endeavour
To catch that vile freebooter, Monsieur Mouse;
Whose death she oft did most devoutly pray for,
Because he eat the meat he could not pay for.

Resembling Christians in that saving trick,
Who, wanting to obtain good cheer,
Invented an ingenious scheme call'd tick,
That purchases, like money, beef and beer:
Possess'd of tick, for cash man need not range,
Nor toil in taking or in giving change.

Eager did Solomon so curious clap
His rare round optics on the wondrous trap
That did the duty of a cat;
And always fond of useful information,
Thus wisely spoke he with vociferation:
‘What's that?—What, what? hæ, hæ! what's that:’

To whom, reply'd the mistress of the house,
‘A trap, an't please you, sir, to catch a mouse.’

‘Mouse!—catch a mouse!’ said Solomon with glee—
‘Let's see—let's see—'tis comical—let's see—
Mouse!—mouse!’—then pleas'd his eyes began to roll—
‘Where, where doth he go in? he marvelling cry'd—
‘There,’ pointing to the hole, the dame reply'd.—
‘What here?’ cry'd Solomon; ‘this hole, this hole?’

Then in he push'd his finger 'midst the wire,
That with such pains that finger did inspire,
He wish'd it out again with all his soul:
However, by a little squall and shaking,
He freed his finger from its piteous taking—
That is to say, he got it from the hole.

‘What makes the mouse, pray, go into the trap?—
Something,’ he cry'd ‘that must their palates please.’
‘Yes,’ answer'd the fair woman, ‘sir, a scrap
Of rusty bacon, or of toasted cheese.’

‘Oh! oh!’ said Solomon, ‘oh! oh! oh! oh!
Yes, yes, I see the meaning of it now—
The mouse goes in, a rogue, to steal the meat,
Thinking to give his gums a pretty treat.’
Then laugh'd he loudly, stretch'd his mouth a mile,
Which made the muscles of the widow smile.

‘Let's see, let's see,’ cry'd Solomon—‘let's see—
Let me, let me, let me, let me, let me.’
Then took he up some bacon, and did clap
A little slice so clever in the trap.
Thus did he by his own advice,
Induce himself to bait a trap for mice!

Now home he hied so nimbly, whelm'd with glory,
And told his family the wondrous story
About the widow's cheese and bacon scrap!
Nought suffer'd he to occupy his head,
Save mouse ideas, till he went to bed,
Where blest he dreamt all night about the trap.

Here let me pause, and Heav'n's great goodness chant—
How kind it is in gracious Heav'n to grant
To full-grown gentlefolks of lofty station,
A pow'r of relishing most trifling things,
Pleasures ordain'd for brats in leading strings,
By way of happy harmless relaxation!

Next day the man of wisdom came,
All glorious, to the house of this fair dame,
To known if master mouse had smelt to bacon;
When, lo! to fill with joy his eager eyes,
And load those staring optics with surprise,
A real mouse was absolutely taken!

Not more did Rodney's joy this man surpass,
When in his cabin first he saw De Grasse!
Not more the hair-brain'd Macedonian boy,
Leap'd, like a Bedlamite, for joy,
Than Solomon to see the mouse in jail!
Not Alexander, foe of great Darius,

(Men that with rich comparison supply us)
When blest he caught the Persian by the tail.

Around the room the mouse he bore,
Insulting the poor pris'ner o'er and o'er;
Laughing and peeping through the wire,
As if his eyes and mouth would never tire!

How like to Tamerlane the great,
Possess'd of most unlucky Bajazet,
Who kept the vanquish'd hero in a cage;
Mock'd him before his mighty host,
With cruel names and threats, and grin and boast,
And daily thus indulg'd imperial rage!

Now o'er the widow's cat, poor watching puss,
He triumph'd too, and ask'd the cat,
When he would act heroically thus?—
And if he dar'd to venture on a rat?

To whom the cat, as if in answer, mew'd,
Which made the man of wisdom cry, ‘Oh! oh!’
As if with knowledge of cat speech endu'd,
He thought that puss had answer'd ‘No,’
On which he laugh'd, and much enjoy'd the joke—
Then told the widow what the cat had spoke.

Six days the man of wisdom went
Triumphant to Salthill, with big intent,
To catch the bacon-stealing mouse;
Six mice successively proclaim'd his art,
With which safe pocketed he did depart,
And show'd to all his much-astonish'd house.

But pleasures will not last for aye;
Witness the sequel of my lay—
The widow's vanity, her sex's flaw,
Much like the vanity of other people—
A vapour, like the blast that lifts a straw,
As high, or higher, than Saint Martin's steeple:

This vanity then kidnapp'd her discretion,
Design'd by God Almighty for her guard;

And of its purpose got the full completion,
And all the widow's future glories marr'd:

For, lo! by this same vanity impell'd,
And to a middle-siz'd balloon,
With gas of consequence sublimely swell'd,
She burst with the important secret soon.

Loud laugh'd the tickled people of Salthill—
Loud laugh'd the merry Windsor folks around—
This was to Solomon an ugly pill!—
Her fatal error soon the widow found—
For Solomon relinquish'd mouse campaign,
Nor deign'd to bait the widow's trap again!

PETITION TO TIME IN FAVOUR OF THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.

TOO long, O Time, in Bienseance's school
Have I been bred, to call thee an old fool;
Yet take I liberty to let thee know,
That I have always thought thee so:
Full old art thou to have more sense—
Then, with an idle custom, Time, dispense.

Thou really actest now, like little misses,
Who, when a pretty doll they make,
Their curious fingers itch to take
The pretty image all to pieces:
Thus, after thou hast form'd a charming fair,
Thou canst not quit her for thy soul,
Till, meddling, thou hast spoil'd her bloom and air,
And dimn'd her eye, with radiance taught to roll.

But now forbear such doings, I desire—
Hurt not the form that all admire—
Oh, never with white hairs her temple sprinkle—
Oh, sacred be her cheek, her lip, her bloom,
And do not, in a lovely dimple's room,
Place a hard mortifying wrinkle.

Know, shouldst thou bid the beauteous duchess fade,
Thou, therefore, must thy own delights invade;
And know, 'twill be a long, long while,
Before thou giv'st her equal to our isle—
Then do not with this sweet chef d'œuvre part,
But keep, to show the triumph of thy art.

ŒCONOMY.

ŒCONOMY's a very useful broom;
Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room
To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb—
Too oft œconomy's an iron vice,
That squeezes ev'n the little guts of mice,
That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper œconomy's a comely thing—
Good in a subject—better in a king;
Yet push'd too far, it dulls each finer feeling—
Most easily inclin'd to make folks mean;
Inclines them too to villany to lean,
To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.

Ev'n when the heart should only think of grief,
It creeps into the bosom like a thief,
And swallows up th' affections all so mild—
Witness the Jewess, and her only child.

THE JEWESS AND HER SON.

POOR Mistress Levi had a luckless son,
Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat
In imitation of th' ambitious great,
High from the gall'ry, ere the play begun,
He fell all plump into the pit,
Dead in a minute as a nit:
In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck;
Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild—
Shriek'd, tore her hair, embrac'd and kiss'd her child—
Afflicted every heart with grief around:
Soon as the show'r of tears was somewhat past,
And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,
She cast about her eyes in thought profound:
And being with a saving knowledge bless'd,
She thus the playhouse manager address'd:—

‘Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,
Dat meet mishfarten here so bad—
Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moses haf nat see de show.’

But as for av'rice, 'tis the very devil;
The fount, alas! of ev'ry evil;
The cancer of the heart—the worst of ills:
Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;
No flow'r of virtue near it thrives:
Like aconite, where'er it spreads, it kills.

In ev'ry soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

The mighty Marlb'rough pilfer'd cloth and bread;
So says that gentle satirist 'squire Pope;
And Peterborough's earl upon this head,
Affords us little room to hope,
That what the Twitnam bard avow'd.
Might not be readily allow'd.

THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH AND THE MOB.

THROUGH London streets upon a day,
The Earl of Peterborough took his way,
All in his pompous coach—perhaps to dine—
The mob of London took it in their head,
This was the Duke of Marlborough, so dread
To Frenchmen on the Danube and the Rhine.

Unable such high merit to reward,
The mob resolv'd to show a great regard;
And so uniting, join'd their forces
To draw his carriage, and dismiss the horses.

The earl from out his carriage pok'd his face,
And told the mob that he was not his grace;
Then bid them be convinc'd and look:
Hard of belief, as ev'n the hardest Jew,
They told him that they better knew,
Then swore by G--- he was the duke:
Then threw their hats in air with loud huzzas,
And form'd a thunder of applause.

Loud bawl'd the earl that they were all deceiv'd—
Loud bawl'd the mob he should not be believ'd—

‘Zounds!’ cry'd the earl, ‘be converts then this minute;’
So throwing sixpence to them, ‘there, there, there,
‘Take that,’ cried Peterborough, with a sneer—
‘Now if you think I'm he, the devil's in it.’

ODE TO A DISTRESSED BEAUTY.

SWEET girl, forbear to droop thy head with shame—
What though the parson did not tie the knot?
What though the boy should come?—he'll bring thee fame—
The world's an ass, and custom is a sot—
Hold up thy head, and meet mankind with pride,
And throw thy blushes and thy fears aside.

Eve had no parson—for no priest was Adam,
And yet not out of countenance was madam;
Her modesty receiv'd no grievous shocks,
When Master Cain was put upon the stocks;
Nor when, t'increase the number at her table,
She set about the frame of Master Abel.

Once more, then, do not be afraid;
Without thy boy, a wonder may be missing—
A likeness of my charming maid,
The boy may do a credit to thy kissing.

Thou putt'st me of the morning much in mind,
Who seems afraid to peep upon mankind—
So slow her motions! all so very slow!
And then her cheeks so deep with crimson glow:

But safe deliver'd of her boy, the sun,
The lusty lad, so proud his race to run,

Mounts high exulting in his birth;
Dries up her tears, her blushes puts to flight,
Tow'rs in bold triumph o'er the cloud of night,
And pours a flood of radiance o'er the earth.

Then let me kiss away thy tears—
Oh! cease thy sighs, and be a happy mother;
And when this chopping boy appears,
Suppose we give the lad a little brother?

THE GENTLEMAN AND HIS WIFE.

PEOPLE may have too much of a good thing—
Full as an egg of wisdom thus I sing!

A man of some small fortune had a wife,
Sans doute, to be the comfort of his life;
And pretty well they bore the yoke together:
With little jarring liv'd the pair one year;
Sometimes the matrimonial sky was clear,
At times 'twas dark and dull, and hazy weather.

Now came the time when mistress in the straw
Did, for the world's support, her screams prepare;
And Slop appear'd with fair obstetric paw,
To introduce his pupil to our air;
Whilst in a neighb'ring room the husband sat,
Musing on this thing now, and now on that;

Now sighing at the sorrows of his wife;
Praying to Heav'n that he could take the pain;
But recollecting that such pray'rs were vain,
He made no more an offer of his life.

As thus he mus'd in solemn study,
Ideas sometimes clear, and sometimes muddy,
In Betty rush'd with comfortable news—
‘Sir, sir, I wish you joy, I wish you joy—
Madam is brought to bed of a fine boy—
As fine as ever stood in shoes.’

‘I'm glad on't, Betty,’ cry'd the master—
‘I pray there may be no disaster;
All's with your mistress well, I hope?’
Quoth she, ‘All's well as heart can well desire
With madam and the fine young 'squire;
So likewise says old Doctor Slop.’

Off Betty hurried fast as she could scour,
Fast and as hard as any horse
That trotteth fourteen miles an hour—
A pretty tolerable course.

Soon happy Betty came again,
Blowing with all her might and main;
Just like a grampus or a whale;
In sounds, too, that would Calais reach from Dover,
‘Sir, sir, more happy tidings; 'tis not over—
And madam's brisker than a nightingale:

‘A fine young lady to the world is come,
Squalling away just as I left the room—
Sir, this is better than a good estate.’
‘Humph!’ quoth the happy man, and scratch'd his pate.

Now looking up—now looking down—
Not with a smile, but somewhat like a frown
‘Good God,’ says he, ‘why was not I a cock,
Who never feels of burd'ning brats the shock;
Who, Turk-like, struts amidst his madams picking,
Whilst to the hen belongs the care
To carry them to eat, or take the air,
Or bed beneath her wing the chicken?’

Just as this sweet soliloquy was ended,
He found affairs not greatly mended;

For in bounc'd Bet, her rump with rapture jigging,
‘Another daughter, sir—a charming child.’—
‘Another!’ cry'd the man, with wonder wild;
‘Zounds! Betty, ask your mistress if she's pigging.’

THE PARSON-DEALER.

WHAT pity 'tis, in this our goodly land,
That 'mongst the apostolic band,
So ill divided are the loaves and fishes!
Archbishops, bishops, deans, and deacons,
With ruddy faces blazing just like beacons,
Shall daily cram upon a dozen dishes;
Whilst half th' inferior cassocks think it well
Of beef and pudding ev'n to get a smell.

A plodding hostler willing to be master,
And rise in this good world a little faster,
Left broom and manger at the Old Blue Boar;
Meaning by pars'ning to support a table,
Lo, of divines he kept a liv'ry stable—
A pretty stud indeed—about a score.

Of diff'rent colours were his gospel hacks—
Some few were whites, indeed—but many blacks;
That is, some tolerable—many sad:
And verily, to give the devil his due,
The man did decency pursue,
Which shows he was not quite so bad.

For, lo! to dying persons of nobility,
He sent his parsons of gentility,
To give the necessary pray'r—
To parting people of a mean condition,
Wanting a soul physician,
He suited them with blackguards to a hair.

To such as were of mild disorders dying,
Viz. of the doctor, gouts, or stones, or gravels,
He sent good priests—of manners edifying—
To comfort sinners on their travels:

But to low people in infectious fever,
Or any other dangerous one in vogue,
Such was his honesty, the man for ever
Most scrupulously sent a rogue.

It happen'd on a day when fate was raging,
Crimp-like, for other regions troops engaging,
When clergymen were busy all as bees;
A poor old dying woman sent
To this same parson-monger compliment,
Begging a clergyman her soul to ease.

Unluckily but one was in the stall,
And he the very best of all!—
What shou'd be done?
Necessitas non habet legs—
So to the priest he goes and begs
That he would visit the old crone.

‘Sir,’ quoth the parson, ‘I agreed
To go to gentlefolks in time of need,
But not to every poor old lousy soul.’—
‘True,’ cry'd the patron; ‘to be sure 'tis true;
But, parson, do oblige me—prithee do—
Let's put her decently into the hole:

‘All my black tribe, you know, are now abroad—
I'd do it, if I could, myself, by G*d!
Then what a dickens can I do or say?—
Go, mumble, man, about a pray'r and half;
Tell the old b**ch her soul is safe;
Then take your fee and come away!!!’

BIENSEANCE.

THERE is a little moral thing in France,
Call'd by the natives bienseance;
Much are the English mob inclin'd to scout it,
But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseanee 'tis tedious to incline,
In many cases;
To flatter, par exemple, keep smooth faces
When kick'd, or suff'ring grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity—
I deem it a most portable commodity;
A sort of magic wand,
Which, if 'tis us'd with ingenuity,
Although an utensil of much tenuity,
In place of something solid, it will stand.

For verily I've marvell'd times enow
To see an Englishman, the ninny,
Give people for their services a guinea,
Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance
Much practis'd too in that same France;
Yet call'd by quakers, children of inanity;
But as they pay their court to people's vanity,
Like rolling-pins they smooth where'er they go
The souls and faces of mankind like dough!
With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail
To folly—see the under-written tale.

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL.

AT Paris some time since, a murd'ring man,
A German, and a most unlucky chap,

Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into justice's strong trap.

The bungler was condemn'd to grace the wheel,
On which the dullest fibres learn to feel;
His limbs secundum artem to be broke
Amidst ten thousand people, p'rhaps, or more:
Whenever Monsieur Ketch apply'd a stroke,
The culprit, like a bullock, made a roar.

A flippant petit-maitre skipping by
Stepp'd up to him, and check'd him for his cry—
‘Boh!’ quoth the German; ‘an't I 'pon de wheel?
D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?’

‘Sir,’ quoth the beau, ‘don't, don't be in a passion;
I've nought to say about your situation;
But making such a hideous noise in France,
Fellow, is contrary to bienseance.’

THE TRIUMPH OF ISIS,

OR DR. CHAPMAN's THESIS.

OXFORD's Vice Chancellor, a man
Who fear'd the Lord, and lov'd the courtier clan,
By virtue of his trade a Thesis ordered,
Which curs'd the terrible assassination
Intended for the monarch of our nation
By Marg'ret Nicholson, in mind disorder'd;

That likewise prais'd the royal peep
On Oxford and the arts so deep.

So violent was Doctor Chapman's zeal,
He quite forgot Latinity and graces:
Poor Priscian's head, whose wounds he cannot heal,
Was broken in half a dozen places.

Yet though a simple doctor, how amazing!
He set the university a-blazing—
Such was the kindling zeal that he inherits—
A farthing candle in a cask of spirits!

Richards of Trinity, who won the prize,
Now strutted victor forth with scornful eyes;
Bringing to mind the bards and tuneful dames,
Who vied for conquest at th' Olympic games.

Forth march'd, too, vice—videlicet, the doctor,
Who, purring for preferment, slily mouses,
Attended by each dog-whipper, call'd proctor,
And eke the heads and tails of all the houses.

Forth march'd the nobles in their Sunday's geer;
Forth strutted, too, each beadle, like the peer,
With silver staffs, blue gowns, and velvet caps—
A set of very pompous-looking chaps!

Whilst Hayes , who sticks like stag-hounds to a haunch,
Mov'd on in all the majesty of paunch:
To greet of all our ears the trembling drums,
The piper play'd ‘The conquering hero comes!’

Loud groan'd the organ through his hundred pipes,
As if the poor machine had got the gripes;
As if, too, 'twas the organ's firm persuasions,
He oft had roar'd on more sublime occasions.

Now Chapman took, 'midst great compeers, his station—
Crew open'd subject in a fair oration—

Then clapp'd was Crew—to him applause was news—
Now 'gan the bard his poem to recite,
And, soaring, bade poor common sense good night,
So lofty were the pinions of his muse!

Thick as the pattering hail his praises show'r—
So strong his poetry's mechanic pow'r,
High mounts the monarch by his tuneful lever;
His muse's magnifying art so great,
Behold his George, an Alfred form complete;
Small Peg, Goliah, and her knife her cleaver!

Now back the sable bodies mov'd again,
Like beetles all so thick, a crawling host;
Whilst contemplation wrapp'd the loyal train,
Expecting, by the next day's post,
To see their acts in pompous print display'd,
And wreaths of glory crown the cavalcade!

A Latin Thesis is annually given out by the vice chancellor for the subject of a poem, and twenty pounds allotted to the prize candidate.

The organist.

A SERIOUS REFLECTION.

How useless was th' above! each person grieves,
And, with the grieving doctor, cries out shame,
That so much loyal zeal for nought should flame,
Not ev'n obtain a pair of coarse lawn sleeves,
Which poor Saint David giveth to support
The holy oil-of-fool men of a court.

ODE TO PATIENCE.

SWEET daughter of religion, modest fair,
Thy hands upon thy bosom so tranquille,
With eyes to Heav'n, with so divine an air,
So calmly smiling, so resign'd thy will;
Oh sent to teach us, and our passions cool,
I wish thou hadst a little larger school!

Lo, man, so great his want of grace,
If he but cuts a pimple on his face
When shaving;
Like man bewitch'd he jumps about,
Kicks up a most infernal rout,
And seemeth absolutely raving;
And, lo, all this for want of thy tuition—
Thus travel souls of people to perdition!

Stand at my side, oh stoic dame—
On starling Martyn bid me cry out ‘shame,’

Instead of knocking the dull fellow down,
When up the ninny-hammer starts to preach,
And impudently interrupts a speech
Of orators of fair and first renown,
Just like the owl that scares the moonlight hour,
Whilst Philomela warbles from her bow'r.

And, oh! attend me when my eyes
View dedications fill'd with fulsome lies,
In praise of gen'rous queens and kings;
Heav'n swell the fountains of their hearts,
That seldom water the poor arts,
However sweetly adulation sings:

Eke, when I hear that stupid parson H---
God's house with ev'ry nonsense fill,
And then with blasphemy each sentence cramm'd;
And when I hear th' impostor cry,

‘I've news, you raggamuffins, from the sky;
I'm come to tell ye, that you'll all be damn'd;
I'm come from God, ye strumpets—come from God—
I'm God Almighty's servant—hear my voice.’—
Which if it were so would be vastly odd,
Since Heav'n would show bad judgment in the choice:

Dead all his money-loving soul's desires,
When subtle Hawkesb'ry talks of patriot fires,
And yielding places up to save the nation;
When of importance braggeth simple Leeds;
When Gloster's far-fam'd wife for meekness pleads;
And Gloster's duke breathes war and desolation;

When Brudenell talks of elegance and ease;
When Thurlow turns the first of devotees,
And, to astound the million, builds a church;
When royal folks of purest friendship boast,
Make generosity their constant toast,
Yet leave poor pining merit in the lurch;

When wonders through his spy-glass Marlb'rough views,
And sends to Banks the great, th' important news,
Fresh from his cranium's philosophic fogs;
When Dick descants on any thing but croute,
When Thompson aught performs beyond a scout,
And Mawbey talks of any thing but hogs:
Sweet Patience, sooth me with thy saint-like note,
Or, driv'n to madness, I shall cut my throat!

TO A NEST OF LORDS.

BED-CHAMBER utensils, you seem distress'd,
And swear with horror that my rhimes molest

Of certain folks so great the sweet repose;
Running about with horrors, groans and sighs,
And floods, produc'd by onions, in your eyes,
So strong your friendship, and so vast your woes!

Dear humming lords, on friendship bray no more,
Nor thus the bard's depravity deplore;
Lo! like yourselves each man his trumpet bears,
In tame credulity's wide-gaping ears,
Of friendship the sublimity to sound—
Friendship! in dictionaries only found!

Perchaunce, my lords, in foreign parts you've been—
Perchaunce your optics fair Versailles have seen;
Likewise the Vatican with all its state,
And eke th' Escurial, pride of Spain confest;
But, 'midst those scenes, did e'er your eye-balls blest
See a pig hanging in a gate?

If e'er you did this last great sight behold,
You need not, lords, so sapient, to be told
What most untuneful notes the pris'ner makes:
Indeed the hog his mouth and lungs employs
In raising such ear-crucifying noise,
As if he really was transfix'd with stakes.

Now near him should there happen to be hogs
Passing their happy hours among the bogs,
Grunting soft things to their own flesh and blood;
That is, unto their sweethearts and their brides,
Lying like ancient Romans on their sides,
And dining on the dainties of the mud;

Forgetting love, and dainty mud so fatt'ning,
In which they had been batt'ning,
Up leaps the herd of swine for his protection;
Just like the herd that had the devil,
Away they scamper, all so civil,
Resolving or to free him or to die—
Such is of swine the friendly quality,
Although proverbial for brutality!

But when at Newgate to be hung,
A Christian pours a dying song,
I grant that numbers hasten to the wretch,
Most pig-like—but, alas! lift not a hand
To keep him longer in the land,
And snatch him from the talons of Jack Ketch.

No; on the contrary, so fond their eyes
Of seeing how a brother dies,
I, from the bottom of my soul believe,
They would not wish him a reprieve.

Thus, were your good friend Pitt condemn'd to swing—
Nay, ev'n were greater people I could name,
For whom with goodly zeal you seem to flame—
I don't believe you'd wish to cut the string,
Were you but tolerably sure
The next in pow'r would give you sixpence more.

Learn, then, my lords, though with contempt you treat 'em,
Friendship from hogs, as well as eat 'em.

At length my Subjects end, and now
To folly let me make my best court bow—
O goddess, still monopolise the great:
Then oft, to please the palate of the times,
The Muse shall ride to market with her rhimes,
And thrive upon her Helicon estate.