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

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.