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

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.